Luke looked up from his textbook, genuinely surprised at the invitation, his eyes small and inquiring. Was Drake sincere? Since he had come home for his spring break, he had spent almost all his time with his older friends.
"Well, I. ." Luke looked to me. "I had to study for this unit test," Luke explained quickly, "and I thought while Annie was painting me . . ."
"Sure, sure, I understand, Einstein. Einstein," Drake repeated, gesturing toward Luke, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's not all books, you know," he said, spinning to face him again. This time his face was serious. "A lot of it has to do with getting to know people, getting them to like you, respect you. That's the secret of success. More executives are coming of the playing fields than out of the classrooms," he lectured, waving his long, right forefinger. Luke said nothing in response. He ran his fingers through his hair and fixed that stoical, yet piercing, analytical gaze on Drake, something Drake couldn't stand. "Ah, why I am wasting my breath?"
Drake turned to my painting again.
"I told you that Farthy was gray, not blue," he corrected softly.
"You were only five at the time you were there and you said yourself, you were hardly there. Maybe you forgot," Luke said, quickly coming to my defense.
"You don't forget the color of a building as big as that!" Drake exclaimed, pulling in the corners of his mouth. "No matter how young you are at the time or how short you stay."
"Well, you once told us there were two outside pools and then Logan finally corrected that, telling us there was only one outside, but one indoors," Luke continued.
When it came to Farthy, both he and I were as exacting as we could be, cherishing whatever small details and truths we knew. So little had been given to us about it.
"Is that so, Sherlock Holmes?" Drake replied, his eyes growing smaller, colder. He didn't like being corrected, especially by Luke. "Well, I never said there were two outside pools; I just said there were two pools. You just don't listen when I tell you something. It amazes me you're doing so well in school. What'dya do, cheat?"
"Drake, please!" I exclaimed, grasping his wrist and squeezing softly.
"Well, he doesn't listen. Unless it's you who does the talking," he added, smiling, content because he had struck a sensitive spot. Luke blushed, his blue eyes swinging my way briefly before he turned away, his face turning sad.
I looked beyond him, just over the first rise in the Willies at a wisp of a cloud that the wind had molded into the shape of a tear. Suddenly I felt like crying myself and it wasn't only because of the conflict between Drake and Luke. It wasn't the first time this melancholy mood had come over me like a dark cloud passing over the sun. What I did realize was that the sad feelings often stimulated my desire to paint. Painting brought me relief, a sense of balance and peace. I was creating the world I wanted, the world I saw with inner eyes. I could make it forever spring or make winter dazzling and beautiful. I felt like a magician, conjuring something special in my mind and then bringing it to life on the empty canvas. While I was sketching in my latest image of Farthy, I felt my heart grow lighter and the world around me grow warmer and warmer, as if I were lifting a shadow off myself. Now because Drake had really interrupted the mood, my sadness returned.
I realized Drake and Luke were both staring at me, their faces troubled by my gray expression. I fought back the urge to cry, and smiled through the shadow over my face.
"Maybe each of my paintings of Farthinggale Manor are different because it changes," I finally said in a voice barely above a whisper. Luke's eyes widened and a smile rippled across his soft lips. He knew what that tone in my voice meant. We were about to play the fantasy game, to let our imaginations wander recklessly about and be unafraid to say what other seventeen- and eighteen-year-old teenagers would find silly.
But the game was more than that. When we played it, we could say things to each other that we were afraid to say otherwise. I could be his princess and he my prince. We could tell each other what we felt in our hearts, pretending it wasn't us but
imaginary people who were speaking. Neither of us blushed or looked away.
Drake shook his head. He, too, knew what was coming. "Oh no," he said, "you two don't still do this." He covered his face in mock embarrassment.
I ignored him, stepped away and continued.
"Maybe Farthy is like the seasons--gray and dismal in the winter and bright blue and warm in the summer." I was looking up as if everything I thought was suggested to me by the patch of blue sky. Then I shifted my eyes toward Luke.
"Or maybe it becomes whatever you want it to become," Luke said picking up the thread. "If I want it to be made of sugar and maple, it will be."
"Sugar and maple?" Drake smirked.
"And if I want it to be a magnificent castle with lords and ladies-in-waiting and a sad prince moping about, longing for his princess to return, it will be," I responded, lifting my voice above his.
"May I be the prince?" Luke asked quickly and stood up. "Waiting for you to come?" Our eyes seemed to touch and my heart began to pound as he stepped closer.
He took my hand, his fingers soft and warm, and stood up, his face only inches from me.
"My Princess Annie," he whispered. His hands were on my shoulders. My heart pounded. He was going to kiss me.
"Not so fast, Twinkle Toes," Drake suddenly said, leaning over and pulling up his shoulders to make himself look like a hunchback. He folded his fingers into claws and came toward me. "I'm Tony Tatterton," he whispered in a low, sinister tone, "and I've come to steal the princess from you, Sir Luke. I live in the darkest, deepest bowels of the castle Farthy and she will come with me and be forever shut up in my world to become the princess of the darkness." He pealed off an evil-sounding laugh.
Both Luke and I stared at him. The look of surprise on both our faces made Drake self-conscious. He straightened up quickly.
"What drivel," Drake said. "You've even got me doing it." He laughed.
"It's not drivel. Our fantasies and our dreams are what make us creative. That's what Miss