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One more line snags my attention.

Judges will select the top three photographers who best capture their vision of the week’s theme and represent who they are as people.

Over and over I read this sentence. Only three get selected out of how many contestants? Still, there’s a fire burning within me. It roots for me to win so I can take classes with my hero. Aprilette was only this motivated when it came to school, staying up all night to revise her essays, or reciting whatever notes were on the back of her flashcards. My eyes drift back to one line on the sign-up form.

Jansen School of Arts wants photographers who are not only creative but distinctive.

What does that even mean?

On my phone, I google Jansen School of Arts’ official website and browse through it. It’s different from the universities my parents recommended. Their majors include photography, writing, filmmaking, painting, and other artsy subjects. I can imagine everyone I saw at Blossoms today attending this school. Their classes have a connection to your major, like writing about photography, or the history of Surrealism. Our senior capstone is a project that we design ourselves—a book, a photograph portfolio, a sculpture, and so on.

I’ve always thought college was an extension of high school but with a heavier workload, the difficulty level much higher. And that all four years would consist of studying for midterms and finals, along with homework that takes more time to finish. You have to study at Jansen, too, but you craft all your projects with your artistic talent and skills. There’s one image of Lalaine Bautista with a photography PowerPoint, and beneath it is information on how Jansen teaches students not only the craft but also the history, business, and deeper meaning of their major.

Without hesitation, I scrawl through the sign-up sheet. Once I fill everything out, all I need to do is sign at the bottom and submit the form to Blossoms before closing time.

Should I do this?

I read the form again, and my eyes lock on to another line. They are looking for images that motivate them to visit that particular city or town and, most importantly, let them know who the photographer really is.

I step out into the hall, and though it’s a prism of black, every detail cloaked in darkness, I know my parents’ bedroom is across mine. Knots tighten in my stomach.

I pray to God, asking for forgiveness.

“Please understand I have to try,” I whisper after praying.

I reach Blossoms with ten minutes to spare. The barista with the comic tattoos finishes ringing up a redhaired girl.

My hands are clammy clutching the sign-up sheet. I can feel my sweat dampen the edges.

The barista glances at me and asks, “Need anything?”

I give her my sheet with a shaky hand. I read her name tag, the letters printed in Calibri font—Jaya.

“Last contestant of the day,” Jaya says. “Best of luck! The theme is right there on the chalkboard.”

I follow the direction she’s pointing, and on the chalkboard, above the illustration of a waving flower drawn in pink chalk, is the theme.—Friendship. I thank her and head out before I can change my mind, focusing only on the theme instead of the secret I have to keep from my parents.

Chapter Four

“You know we’ve been walking around for the last twenty minutes, right?” the man growls as I lead him down the hospital hallway. His arms cross over his chest like an X. I’m supposed to be leading him to the waiting area by the recovery room where his brother is located, but I can’t find it.

My ponytail whips left to right as I look from room to room, simultaneously searching for a directory, but I only find signs about emergencies. Nurses wearing mint scrubs rush past us. Should I ask for help? But everyone looks so busy.

My shoes squeak as I scurry further down the hallway, the ceiling lights shining square glints across the floor. The white doors blur from the corner of my eyes. There are signs that say LIFT and CH4, but not Waiting Room.

The man groans and shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” I whimper. A gulp plummets down my throat.

The head nurse Grace darts a look our way and splits from her original direction, her blonde bun coming loose as she walks over.

“Do you need any help?” Grace asks him.

“Where’s the Waiting Room? The one by the recovery room?” the man asks.

“Follow me.” Grace gives me a how-could-you-not-figure-it-out stare that pierces through me. She whips back around and leads the way for him.

My shoulders slump. It’s my first day here, and I can’t even lead somebody to one room. I stop where I am and check the time on my phone. Suddenly, a shoulder rams into mine. I startle as a volunteer jerks her head my way, her lemon-blonde hair whipping past her face.