Sketch’s first day at Northbridge was the same as mine, with one notable exception.

  After the testing and the tour, Ms. Cho had him signed up for Art Club.

  He told me about it over dinner on the lawn.

  We were under the “study tree,” a pizza box open between us, cold sodas sweating in the grass. The light was doing that late?day thing it liked to do here—soft, gold edges on the buildings, long shadows on the perfect grass. People streamed past on the paths, but it felt like we were in our own little bubble.

  “So it was still life,” he said, around a bite of sausage?and?mushroom. “Nothing exciting, just a bowl of fruit. But it’s great to practice the basics: color, shape, texture, composition.” His hands shaped the air as he talked, like he was framing an invisible canvas.

  “Bowl of fruit,” I said. “Truly, the cutting edge of danger.”

  He snorted. “Hey, you laugh, but getting the shine on an apple right is harder than stabbing a Greenway Frill. Probably.”

  I believed him.

  “Well, anyway,” he went on, “there was this kid next to me. Looked like he’d had all the color leeched out of him. Hardly smiled, too, but you could tell he loved it.”

  He wiped his fingers on a napkin, getting into story mode.

  “Wasn’t very good, if I’m honest,” he said. “I mean, his lines were wobbly, and his shading was…optimistic. But you could feel his intensity. Passion. Like he was trying to will the fruit to cooperate through sheer force.”

  I tried to imagine Sketch deeming someone “not very good” and still liking them. It said a lot.

  “We started talking while we worked,” he said. “He really knew his stuff. Like, full?on art history. Not just stuff from books, either—like he’d been marinating in it since he was five.”

  He took a sip of soda, eyes going a little distant with the memory.

  “He told me about this painter I’ve never even heard of,” Sketch said. “Some guy who hid in an empty wine barrel to escape the Inquisition. Got himself smuggled out to Austria. Claimed the guy was a distant relative.” He shook his head, half amused, half impressed. “He had opinions, too. Why one artist had that particular relationship with light, and how another one…saw things

  “Said it wasn’t lead poisoning, which is the common belief.”

  He glanced at me to see if I was tracking. I wasn’t, but I liked listening to him be excited.

  “He…hinted at, you know, stuff,” Sketch said, lowering his voice a notch. “Didn’t cross the line into ‘stuff that must not be said,’ but he got close. Then veered off into brush techniques.”

  I watched him, hands moving as he talked, eyes bright. He looked…happy. In his element. For a second I had the weird thought that he fit in here more than I did.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “So, what was the kid’s name?” I asked. “I might know him.”

  He frowned, searching his memory. “Um. Artem…something. Strange name.”

  I blinked.

  Artem. Pale hair, pale eyes, shaking on the grass. Every muscle tensed like he was waiting to be hit. The description tracked—color leeched out, hardly smiling—but I couldn’t quite mash that image up with a boy gabbing about art history and arguing brushwork over a bowl of fruit.

  “So, um,” I said slowly, “are you guys…friends now?”

  He thought about it for a moment, actually tilted his head like he was testing the word.

  “Yeah,” he said at last. “I guess so.” A small, disbelieving smile tugged at his mouth. “Huh. Go figure. My first day in a new school and I already have a friend. Who would guess that?”

  ***

  Monday at lunch, the Saturday crowd had unofficially claimed a table.

  It had become a thing—grabbing food and regrouping to talk about the last session: what we’d learned, what we’d messed up, what we needed to work on next time. Vinh usually steered the conversation, and Theo always had an opinion.

  We were in our usual spot—one of the long tables along the side, under a bank of windows. Trays and notebooks and a couple of battered practice swords (Theo’s and Luis’s, because of course they’d brought them) cluttered the surface. Vinh was explaining something about foot placement to Luis using salt shakers; the twins were arguing about whether you could swim after doing a heavy leg day; Hana and Rebecca were half?listening, half comparing notes about a chem lab.

  “Next time,” Jamal was saying, “I am not sprinting that last hill. You could have warned me about the mud.”

  “I thought you liked mud,” Maya said. “You’re always falling in it.”

  I was halfway through my sandwich, only sort of tracking the conversation, when the temperature around the table dipped a couple of degrees.

  Janessa glided past.

  Her orbit trailed her—two girls from student council, a guy from debate, someone from yearbook. They shifted around her like they’d practiced it, clearing her path without her ever having to look down.

  Theo’s head came up.

  “Oh—hey, Janessa,” he called, a little louder than necessary. “I just realized I never said thank you.”

  She slowed, tilting her head in that way that made the light catch her hair just so. Her eyes slid to him, haughty by default.

  “For what?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Setting me up with Lily. The extra lessons. The patrols.”

  Something in her face eased. Just a little. The field around her—soft background pressure I could feel at the edge of my skin—warmed a notch.

  “Of course, cousin,” she said. “I know how important that is to you.”

  She reached out and ruffled his hair in a move that I never would’ve expected from her. Then she swept off with her flock, the crowd opening and closing around her like a mouth.

  I stared after her, the word snagging in my brain.

  “Cousin?” I said.

  Theo looked…sheepish. It was a new look on him.

  “Sure,” he said. “Can’t you see the resemblance?”

  I studied his scruffy hair, the crooked tie, the way he slouched next to our pile of swords and soda cans. Then I pictured Janessa, all polished edges and campaign?poster posture.

  “No,” I said flatly.

  He beamed. “Good.”

  The whole table burst out laughing. Jamal had just finished reenacting his wipeout on the muddy hill, complete with flailing limbs and sound effects, and I was wiping tears from my eyes when a shadow fell over my tray.

  Patrick stood there, lanyard neat, expression polite.

  My heart sank. What now?

  “Ms. Sinclair,” he said, and I was surprised at how soft his voice was. “Dean Cho would like to see you.”

  Of course she would.