At the Edge of Summer by Jessica Brockmole

you?”
    I ignored that. “Your papa, he gave me some lessons.”
    “Let me guess.” He poked his pencil in his book to mark his page. “Fruit?”
    “Far too much fruit.” I frowned down at the page. Monsieur Crépet’s slow, patient lessons were about shapes, lines, shadows, highlights. The little table in the rose garden was always set out with fruit bowls overflowing. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look an orange in the eye again.”
    “Well, then.” He took an apricot from the fruit dish. “Here.” He tossed it. “Draw that.”
    “Really?” I gave him a flat stare. “More fruit?”
    “You must be an expert by now.” He leaned back on his elbows, his book forgotten. “Show me.”
    “This is ridiculous. I already told you, I’m tired of—”
    He waved off the rest of my complaint. “Clare, just try.”
    It was only a circle; it shouldn’t have been too hard. If there was one thing Monsieur Crépet was insistent on, it was circles.
    Yet Luc was not as patient as his father, not nearly as forgiving. For every one I drew, he found some fault. “Too lopsided.” “Too regular.” “Too shadowed.” “Clare, where is the fuzz? Where is the stem? Look closer.” For ages I drew sphere after sphere, shading and stumping. “Try the cross-hatching,” he’d say or “Use the flat of your pencil.”
    Finally I threw my pencil across the grass in disgust. “I don’t want to draw an apricot. I want to draw an orchard full of apricots. I want to draw wagons and ladders and girls in striped skirts filling baskets with them.”
    He retrieved my pencil. “Monsieur Monet didn’t wake up one morning to paint Fontainebleau Forest.”
    I rolled my shoulders. “He might have.”
    Luc recited with the air of someone who had heard it all before. “Monsieur Monet studied for many years to learn how to hold his brush, how to turn his hand to make a leaf, how to blend colors to dapple a forest floor.” He sat back down and stretched out his legs. “And he never threw his pencil.”
    I crossed my eyes at him.
    He ignored that. “Papa started me on fruit, too. You learn so much about shape.”
    “Now I can see why you decided to be a tennis player instead,” I grumbled. “There’s no passion in shape.”
    “Then tell me.” He held up a finger. “What do you want to draw?”
    “I told you, I only know how to—”
    “Not ‘can.’ ” He sat up. “Want to.” He leaned forward. The sunshine filtering through the leaves sent shards of gold across his face. “If you could draw anything in the world right now, what would it be?”
    The cicadas sang.
    “You,” I said softly.
    He froze. I wondered what answer he’d been expecting.
    But of course it was him. Though I knew he was older, a man to my mere decade and a half, I couldn’t help but think of him when I fell asleep each night and when I woke in the morning. I’d look out my window as the sun exploded over the horizon, just on the chance that he was down there playing tennis. I wanted to begin my day with a glimpse of his face.
    I wouldn’t be at Mille Mots forever. Soon someone would come to get me, I knew it. Mother, I hoped, or maybe Grandfather. When I left, I wanted a reminder of Luc to take with me.
    But here he sat, frozen, almost fearful.
    I read once that in some corners of the world, where tribes lived untouched by modern life, it was forbidden to take someone’s likeness. Either drawing or photographing, to capture someone’s face, you might accidentally capture their soul.
    I sharpened my pencil. “I’ve never done this, you know. You could end up looking like a Martian.”
    This seemed to make him nervous. He wiped his brow. “When drawing a face, the shapes are the most important.” He cleared his throat. “It’s like a skeleton. If you have it right underneath, the rest will follow.”
    I turned to a fresh page in my sketch pad. “You don’t always have to be a teacher. Sometimes you can just be a