I retrieve a pad of drawing paper and sit at the desk, some sticks of charcoal at the ready. “Someone set a timer for two minutes.”
“That’s it?”
“Believe it or not, I’m here to teach a class. So yeah, two minutes.”
Someone says, “Aaand go,” and a thrill courses through me like an electric shock. I don’t have a subject or pose or anything in mind, which terrifies me—especially with a captive audience of teenagers—but the moment the willow charcoal hits the page, I tune the world out. My muscles work on their own, and everystroke lights up another part of my brain. Everything looks clearer, like I’ve replaced a light bulb in a room where I didn’t know it had burned out. Drawing is meditation—heightened senses but inner calm. I reach a point of total relaxation, even though my hand continues to move as my fingers deftly smooth and blend.
The timer buzzes, snapping me back to my body and the space. Every student has gathered around my desk—some of them recording on their phones, others simply staring with slack jaws.
“Whoa,” Xander whispers.
“You’re, like,reallygood!”
Satisfied, I rub my hands together to get rid of some of the gritty crumbs and charcoal dust.
“Who is that?”
On the paper, a familiar face stares back. Freckles, long, wavy hair, and a coy gleam in her eyes.
“A friend of mine.”
“She’s pretty,” Zoë says.
“Will you teach us how to do that?” Xander asks.
“Maybe.” I admire the half-circle of them, each kid so energetic and eager. “If we can get the syllabus out of the way first.”
We go through the lessons, and I detail my plans from Van Gogh to Frida Kahlo, plus a sprinkling of some of the most notable art movements. “On the final page,” I say, “you’ll find the grade breakdown. Your end-of-summer project is a portfolio, so as long as you keep up, you’ll be well on your way to passing, and you’ll have exactly what you need to apply to schools and art programs, or to get your work into an exhibit.”
“Tons of those happening around here,” Xander mutters under his breath.
“You have to have a portfolio if you want to submit your stuff anywhere,” Zoë says, snapping at him.
“Don’t you, uh…” I flip through the papers Eleanor gave me this morning. “Isn’t there some kind of showcase?”
“They stopped doing those in the summer like two years ago. Now it’s only for the fall and spring semesters.”
“Okay. Well, then you’ll have that locked down once the next semester starts.”
Some shrugs, some nods. I get where they’re coming from—the showcases are a big deal. Having to wait a few extra months until the fall semester one takes place must feel like an eternity for a sixteen-year-old. While most of the enthusiasm comes from supportive friends and parents, the event holds weight for students since art exhibits aren’t a regular occurrence in Harlow.
And then something clicks.
If I want to guarantee I’m first in line for the job at Tate, then I know exactly what I need to do—and who I need to talk to.
When Daisy opens the door to her casita, her eyes have a glossy, pinkish haze that makes every muscle in my body stiffen. The eight years apart vanish, and on instinct, I step forward to wrap my arms around her and examine the sorrow in her face.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” she says with a sniffle. “What’s up?”
“You’re not fine.”
“What did you wanna ask me?”
“Hey.” I can’t think about anything, including what I came here to ask her, until she’s okay. Seeing her upset guts me. “Talk to me. What happened?”
She folds into my embrace, and my lips brush her forehead, firing a shot of warmth through me.
