Chapter 4

It feels weird asking for his number, but we won't have enough time to complete the project if we only have fifteen minutes in class. There will have to be some outside of school time. I look at him, waiting for him to initiate the information exchange. When he doesn't, I realize it's on me. Again. I reach for my phone. "Do you want to swap numbers? Screennames? What?"

He motions to the device in my hand.

I pass it over, and he starts pressing buttons. I'm slightly nervous that he's changing the language settings, but when he gives it back, I find my Contacts list displayed, along with the newest addition which simply reads Alex.

It's strange having his number, but at least I have a way to contact him. Not that I'd ever call. I'll probably just text. Or Instant Message.

"Are you on AIM?"

"Yeah."

"Screen name?"

"Send me yours."

I shoot him a text with the handle I've been going by for years - Paintress87. Not terribly original, but whatever. My phone buzzes and I look down.

Alex: Wolfboy16

"One more minute," Mr. Mitchell calls, "and then we start today's lesson. Wrap up what you need to and get that contact information if you haven't yet."

I slip my phone into my bag and pick up my pen. Tapping it along the edge of my paper, I look over our notes one final time. "What do you think? Do we have enough for today?"

He shrugs.

"The basics are covered." I take a breath, ready to list it. "We're broke as hell, and you knocked me up - thanks for that. We both need solid jobs that we cannot leave and oh," I lean back and fold my arms at my final point, "you're asking more per show. Twenty-five. At least. I mean, Alex," I put on my best serious-face, "we're going to have a baby."

Then it happens.

The corner of his mouth lifts.

It isn't fully a smile, but the ghost of one, like too much history keeps the expression from appearing. He jots something down on his notebook. "I'll ask for more."

"Thank you."

"Alright," Mr. Mitchell announces, "time is up. If we can get our desks back in order please - it's time to start class."

Alex and I stare at each other a second longer. It's like I want to say something, reward us for getting over this hurdle, but that seems stupid. We just carried on a conversation like two normal people - it'd only be awkward to bring attention to the fact that we might not be. When it's clear Alex is done talking, I stand up and gather my things.

Returning to my desk, I try to push the last fifteen minutes from my head and concentrate on what Mr. Mitchell is saying.

Somehow, I don't think that's going to happen.

***

I always liked Mrs. Harper.

She never knows what's going on except that she has to get to the art studio right away. Maybe that's why I like her. We have similar goals.

In another flowy gown, she's coordinated her green-rimmed glasses with the color on her dress, her brown locks unwilling to be combed into submission. But it doesn't matter. Mrs. Harper - like the rest of us - is preoccupied with her own project, her focus on the canvas in front of her. If she could, I think she'd even take our class time to paint. It's another reason why I like her. That, and the fact that she stays after school most days, leaving the studio open for people who want to work a little more. People like me.

"That reminds me!" She turns abruptly, addressing the silent six of us in the room. "Don't forget about the Frida Kahlo Competition. I want you all to enter!"

The school talent contest seems to be on every teacher's lips, but this is the one I'm really focused on. The one that actually matters.

The Frida Kahlo Competition is a nationally recognized contest that features the best young artists. Winning this would drastically improve my chances of getting into SCAD or NYU or the Art Institute of Chicago, but they only give out five first prizes. And only one goes to the Painting category.

"All entries are due next week!"

I think about my picture at home. I'm almost done with it, but something's not right. It's been bugging me for days because I want to make it better, but I'm not sure how to do that if I can't pinpoint what I don't like.

The thought distracts me, and I end up frowning at my current piece, my creative energy draining. Maybe I'll refill my paints.

Bringing my pallet to the prep-station, I slow as I pass the Open Wall - a place to display finished pieces. Most of the area is covered with paintings and pencil sketches, but speckled among them like little masterpieces, are gorgeous works of charcoal.

I never noticed how many there are. And they're all ridiculously good. My stomach tightens as I lean in, finding myself face to face with a sketch of the buses lined up, students walking and chatting around them. That's it. A snapshot of a moment at the end of the day. It's kind of beautiful in its honesty, though I'm not sure what it's trying to say.

Another one catches my eye. It depicts a pair of Converse on a skateboard, the background a blur. A small A.W. marks the corner of the piece, and I step back to admire it. The variations of gray in the shoes and background have me envious of his technique. Maybe the reason I've avoided these works isn't because they're his, but because they're so amazing and because I don't think my painting is up to the level of his charcoal.

"Tell me it's true." Savvy bursts into the art studio, both doors thrown back at her arrival.

Oh, great.

Here we go.