CHAPTER ONE
AVON
Anxiety twistsmy stomach as Mr Simmons, my art teacher, examines my latest canvas. It’s almost finished, and I crave validation but in his short silence I’ve already imagined him shake his head in disappointment, the metallic taste of failure heavy on my tongue.
I force my attention to the work instead and my eyes pick out the thousand and one things I want to change. The dozens of glaring mistakes.
“This is incredible,” he says in a voice laden with admiration and I exhale in relief, heart resuming its standard beat. “How much longer until it’s complete?”
“Early next week. I’d like to submit it for the Matthewson Art College scholarship.” An application whose second round will be due in late November if I make the cut next month, and my second painting is barely started.
He turns, raising an eyebrow, then nods. “An excellent idea. I’m sure they’ll be as blown away by your talent as I am.” He steps closer to the canvas, tilting his head to follow the line ofmy brush strokes. “The attention to detail is exquisite. How long until the next round deadline?”
“Four months.”
I chew on my knuckle, nerves getting the best of me. Other applicants will have been working on their pieces for the past year or longer. To even think about competing with them is a challenge. To get something good enough within that time crunch, even harder.
“And you’re working on these in your study periods, right?” He turns and gives me an assessing glance. “Do you think you’ll be able to maintain that on top of your other subjects?”
“I’ll skip every other class if it helps.”
Mr Simmons laughs, sweeping his thinning hair back from his forehead. At forty-eight, he’s one of my older teachers, but he packed a fine art career into the decades before he retrained and has a wealth of experience in the field, meaning he gets it in a way most instructors can’t.
He rests his clammy hand on my shoulder, the thumb stroking the back of my neck. I subtly shift away from his touch on the pretence of examining a smudge. Even for a creative, he’s overly handsy.
But the rest of his assessment makes me shiver with delight.
Back in Auckland, I’d given up my art, pushing away the thought of turning it from a schoolgirl hobby into a career.
Even now, with my teacher’s compliment ringing in my ears, I’m uncertain. The New Zealand art scene is tiny; to gain a foothold here will take more than hard work. It will require singular sustained focus, perhaps for decades, always with the knowledge I might never get where I want to be.
But a scholarship to the leading art school in the country would bring the dream close enough to taste.
“You have such a mature eye.” He falls back to stand beside me again. “With a painting this advanced, I’d be honoured to write a letter to support your next submission.”
A recommendation I haven’t yet dared to ask for yet, here he is, handing it to me. Another sign I’m finally on the right path.
“Mr Simmons! I can’t…” I shake my head, unable to give voice to my deep appreciation.
“Please. Call me Lionel. With work this talented, you’re more like one of my peers than one of my students.”
The praise for my painting causes a deep blush. I’ve never been able to keep my emotions under wraps. I burst into tears at soppy tv commercials, laugh uproariously at the stupidest dad jokes of all time.
Until his death, my father used to call me his mood ring.
Mr Simmon’s hand lightly brushes my lower back, then Miss Murewa, the department head, knocks on the door and he leaps away to answer while I fail to keep my broad smile contained, bouncing on the balls of my feet.
I love Tiaki Academy. Love, love, LOVE it. Back at my old high school in Auckland, I never fit in, never felt understood.
But here?
Here I’m valued.
It also helps that they’re funded well beyond any public school I’ve previously attended. The lake and beautiful quays that branch off from Tiaki’s main river sport some of the country’s wealthiest mansions, complete with stunning water views.
Five percent of the parents donate ninety-nine percent of the funds. There’s not enough population to warrant building a private school, so they turned the public high school into the highest decile academy in the country.
I might be firmly in the ninety-five percent, but I’m happy to reap the benefits of attending an institution funded bybillionaires.
