Page 52 of Sinister

“Yes, Miss . . . ?”

Shit, shit, shit, why did I do that? What if I fuck this up?

Ms. Matthews is still waiting for me, one elegant eyebrow arched in question, so I say, “Valentine, err-Petra Valentine. Umm,” I fumble around with my iPad before resuming in a firmer voice. “It’s the vanishing point. He-he positions Jesus in such a way that the viewer experiences an illusion of depth. Our eyes are sort of guided toward the center. And that was quite unique for his time . . .”

Here, my voice trails away as everybody looks back at Ms. Matthews, waiting to see her reaction. To my greatest relief, she beams at me. “Well put, Ms. Valentine, very well put.”

A warm glow of pride flares in my chest. For the first time in a while, I feel competent, like I truly belong here. I catch a glimpse of Sin out of the corner of my eye again, but this time, he offers me a subtle nod of approval.

It’s not as unnerving as earlier, but I still can’t shake the feeling that his attention is sharper, more directed than anyone else’s.

“And this is why it’s so important to understand the fundamentals of art history,” Ms. Matthews continues, her eyes twinkling. “If you don’t understand the rules, you won’t be able to break them.”

A murmur of agreement ripples through the class, and I relax back into my seat. The lesson transitions into a hands-on analysis, and everyone is tasked with jotting down their interpretation of the different principles of perspective in painting.

As I get lost in my drawing, the class around me feels almost distant. Yet, the times I do glance up, Sin’s eyes find mine too easily.

With half an hour to spare before the final bell, Ms. Matthews packs away the projector and turns on the lights.

“All right, everyone, before you go,” she calls out over the sudden hum of students stretching their limbs and starting to gather their things. “I’d like to discuss our mid-term project. If you know anything about me, it’s that I value continuous testing. You’ve gotta be on. Your. Toes.” She underscores the last three words with three snaps of her fingers. “So, our mid-term assignment will be big. It will be fifty percent of your grade, to be exact.”

Urgent murmurs ripple through the room. The studious ones look smug, while the jocks who had joined thinking that this was going to be an easy class start looking anxious.

Even I feel a pang of apprehension.

Fifty percent of our grade means this project could make or break my grade in this class.

Cool, cool, cool, no pressure at all.

“Now, I’ve taken the liberty of pairing you up with partners,” Ms. Matthews continues, glancing down at a sheet of paper. “And before you come at me, know that I don’t change my mind once I’ve made it up. Cheers!”

My heart sinks a bit. The last thing I need is to be tied up to someone else’s work habits and preferences, especially given my current mix of nerves and . . . secrets.

“Let’s see . . . Claire and Eric,” Ms. Matthews starts reading off the list. I hear the girl called Claire groan a little next to me. Thank God Ms. Matthews didn’t partner me with that airhead.

I have celebrated too soon because she reads out, “Petra and Sinclair,” next.

My head snaps up so quickly I almost crick my neck.

I must have misheard her.

This can’t be happening.

But Sin is already looking at me, a smile playing on his lips, and Ms. Matthews has finished reading from the list.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Right then, class dismissed,” says Ms. Matthews. “We will be discussing the finer details about the project in the next class. In the meantime, get to know your partners, and feel free to come to me with any questions.”

The classroom empties quickly after that. I take my time zipping up my bag so I can compose myself before the inevitable encounter with Sin.

“Get to know your partners,” Ms. Matthews had said, and that’s what we have to do.

“Hey, Petra,” Sin’s voice jolts me out of my buzzing thoughts.

I turn to look at him, trying to appear more collected than I felt. “Hey, Sin. Did you want to talk about the project⁠—”

“Meet me after class,” he cuts me off rather abruptly, and the way he quotes my own words from the note shocks me into silence. “In the gardener’s shed.”