I hauled out my own school bag and folders, as well as Ellen’s, and carried them in. Ellen had brought a large art folder with her work from the school year. She had written “Ellen” in large cursive and then outlined it over and over in different colors, extending outward in a psychedelic flourish with flowers and patterns, like a Cream album cover. I opened her folder and spread the pictures out on the lower trundle bed where she slept. There were color wheels and pencil drawings, still lifes of fruit and flowers. There was a family portrait with just five figures; she hadn’t included Dad or Mom, just us. She made Marie the largest, even though Thomas and I both towered over her. In the middle of the pile was a self-portrait, done with wax and oil pastels. She’d used all blues, purples, and black. It wasn’t meant to be realistic, but it captured something about Ellen, her large blue eyes, the dark lashes and brows, how her eyes always looked hollowed out, with slight streaks of purple beneath them, the parting on the side of her head. Her face didn’t have a clear outline; it seemed to float out of the dusky shapes. There was a note on the back of the folder, done in green felt-tip:

“A beautiful and expressionistic portfolio, Ellen. Great work all year and so artistic. I’ve left a set of oil pastels inside the folder with information about the art camp and a reference. I’ve put a green circle on the back of work I think you should submit with the application. While you are young, I have no doubt that you would be accepted. Miss LeBlanc.”

I reached back in and pulled out the large envelope. Inside was a brochure for Chestnut Grove Art Academy Summer Camp and a smaller sealed envelope with “Recommendation for Ellen Gallagher” typed across the front. Ellen hadn’t mentioned the gift, the note, or the recommendation earlier in the car. I put all the pictures back inside the folder and left the envelope on my bed. I had to get ready for babysitting.

Every Friday night, I sat for Mrs. Boucher’s two small boys. She was the only divorced person I knew other than my mother, except she made it look glamorous. Marie said that was the difference social class made. If you had money and social status, it was acceptable to break the rules. Mrs. Boucher wore fitted black dresses, turquoise necklaces, and large hoop earrings. She had raven-black hair that she wore down when she went out. She told me that she was part American Indian and that her hair was Shawnee, from her grandmother’s people. She was a lawyer and lived in what my mom would call a contemporary house, deep in the woods, with walls of glass that reflected the trees all around them. She called it her tree house.