I watch in disbelief as he strolls back across The Yard toward the Bates building. What’s that supposed to mean? I race inside my classroom, take a seat, and pull out my phone. I pull up Instagram and look at my notifications. Connor has liked two of my posts. My most recent one, a picture of me and Lily at the beach a couple of weekends ago, and one from sophomore year’s National Honor Society’s induction ceremony.
I’m not sure what this means. There’s no way we could ever be friends, but I’m starting to wonder if there might be more to him. Maybe he’s not as evil as I thought. It’s too early to say for sure, but my opinion of him is morphing into something new. Something I can’t quite figure out.
I go back to Connor’s page and like the Banff post again. Might as well at this point. But when I put my phone away, I realize I’m smiling.
14
MOST ARTISTIC
David thoughtI was going to be mad when I found out that Ella joined theater. I know I should have been, but I just don’t feel angry.
For one, David asked me first. He made sure I knew that right away. He gave me the opportunity to be a stagehand, and I turned it down. The theater department needed people. It’s not fair to hold a grudge against David or any of the other students because Ella agreed.
But there’s another reason I’m not angry, a closely guarded secret I refuse to tell anyone. I get to see Ellabecauseshe’s a stagehand—something I look forward to everyday.
It all started when my mother’s car was in the shop, and she needed to use David’s. I was responsible for bringing my brother home after school and hung out in the auditorium during play practice. At first, I would take a seat in the back and work on my homeworkthe entire time. I would occasionally catch a glimpse of Ella or accidentally bump into her.
Once I realized what she was doing while everyone else went over their lines, I started a new routine, one much less conducive to keeping my grades up. A routine that continued even after David got his car back.
When I enter the auditorium, practice has already started. There’s a door toward the back that leads to a staging room that holds props and costumes. When I walk inside, Ella’s standing in front of a wall on wheels—which I now know is called a flat thanks to too much time with the theater kids. Her head tilts as she stares at the scribble marks all over it.
I set my backpack on the ground. “Is this one of those magic pictures where you have to blur your vision to see the hidden image?”
She turns toward me just long enough that I can see her roll her eyes before she looks back at the blank canvas before her. “It’s a stained glass window set in a stone wall.”
I already knew that—even though Ella didn’t magically transform into an artist overnight, it was obvious the second I got close enough to see the pencil marks—but I can’t resist the opportunity to mess with her. “You want me to help you fix it?”
“It doesn’t need fixing.”
“Are you sure?” I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth. “Whoever drew this obviously has never seen a stained glass window in their life.”
“I drew it,” she says, deadpan. “And I’ve seen plenty of windows.”
I feign shock, then say with the most insincere voice I can muster, “Right, and what I meant was it’s…beautiful.”
She pushes her shoulders back. “I know it is.”
I fight the smile that tugs at my lips and keep my expression serious. “And that’s why you were staring at it in defeat when I walked in.”
“That wasn’t defeat. I was trying to decide what colors the window should be.” She puts a hand on her hip. “Now, you can keep criticizing this masterpiece, or you can help me.”
“I’d better help so that it doesn’t end up looking like total garbage.” I sigh. “For David’s sake.”
“Your devotion to your brother is unmatched.” She snorts then points to her backpack. “By the way, I brought snacks today.”
My stomach growls at the mention of food. I enjoy staying after school, but it makes for a long day. I’m always hungry when I get here, and I always complain to Ella. It was surprisingly considerate for her to bring something. Her care makes me uncomfortable until I unzip her bag and I see what’s inside.
“Are you serious?” I lift the small bag. “Chessman cookies?”
She keeps finding ways to tease me relentlessly about chess club—but only chess club. Ella doesn’t mention student government anymore. She never says anything about French club or even science club. As careful as I’vebeen to not broadcast my involvement, I think she somehow knows I’ve been on the chess team since freshman year, but she’s never come out and said it.
She shrugs. “I thought you might like them since you’re such a nerd.”
I tear open the packaging. “Nerd? I’m not the one with the top GPA in the entire school.”
Ella busies herself with some nearby paintbrushes. “Yeah, about that.”
I drop the bag of cookies. “Did I finally beat you?” Even though we don’t have class ranks anymore, it’s still possible to see our GPAs online. Those of us who have cared about grades our entire high school career still check them from time to time even though we won’t technically have a valedictorian this year. The thought of being top of the class isn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be. Maybe it’s because it doesn't matter anymore for Citrus Scholar. Maybe it’s because I don’t hate Ella. Either way, I hope she knows I’m not gloating with my question. I’m genuinely confused about how it happened. I stopped trying so hard, and my GPA isn’t as high as I want it to be. “I’m top of the class?”
