There is an interactive whiteboard projection screen at one end and a counter full of art supplies, everything from pencils and markers to sketchbooks and scratchboards at the other. It’s like playtime for graphic designers. Everything we could possibly want or need to unleash our creativity. I feel inspired just walking into the room.
Almost all of the seats are already filled, and a tall woman with shiny black hair and purple-framed glasses is writing something on the whiteboard.
15 minutes free sketch
I nod to myself. This, I can do. No matter how much things change, how upside-down my life feels, how far from home I really am, it can always come back to the art.
I slip into the last open chair next to a girl with shoulder-length brown hair who is studiously drawing circles in a sketch book. Seconds later, I have my stylus in one hand and my tablet open to a drawing app.
“Mrs. K likes us to warm up with traditional materials,” the girl next to me says. She points to the art supply bar at the back of the class. “There are sketchbooks in the lower left cabinet.”
With a sigh, I put my tablet away and fetch the old-school tools.
As I slide back into my seat, I say, “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
She keeps sketching circles, and the more she adds the more it’s starting to look like a wormhole or something.
“I’m Jenna,” she says, not looking up from her circles.
I pull the cap off a red marker. “Sloane.”
“You’re new.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Did you just move here?”
I study the paper for a second, try to come up with a concept, and then just go for it, swiping red across the page in a swooping curl. “Yep,” I say. “From New York.”
New York. The Big Apple. There’s my inspiration.
I follow up my first swoop with another in the opposite direction. With an idea to follow, I lose myself in the design. Shiny red skin. Green and black stem. Some shading. A long shadow stretching across the—
“Time,” Mrs. K calls. “Supplies down, everyone.”
I lean back and evaluate my little apple. Not bad for a fifteen-minute free sketch.
“Welcome to the first day of advanced graphic design. I’m Mrs. K,” she says, “and I see a lot of familiar faces here, and a few new ones. For those of you who are new to NextGen or new to me, I like to start each class with a free sketch, followed by a presentation.” She looks at Circle Girl. “Jenna, can you start?”
Jenna holds up her drawing, swinging it in an arc so the entire class can see. “I’m Jenna Nash.”
“Very nice,” Mrs. K says. “I like your use of repeating shapes.”
Jenna sits back down, beaming.
Mrs. K shifts her gaze to me.
I stand and hold up my apple drawing on display. “Sloane Whitaker. New Yorker.”
The teacher takes a step closer, like she’s trying to get a better look. “Very nice.” She squints. “I like the texture in your shading. And the bold color choices.” She smiles and looks at me. “You like Rothko?”
I nod. “But I like Kandinsky more.”
“So do I.” Her face cracks into a smile. “Welcome to NextGen.”
As she turns her attention to the next student—a boy with flaming orange hair he wasn’t born with and a piercing in every possible location—I sink back into my seat. Well, if I’m going to be stuck in Nowheresville for the time being, at least I have a design teacher with taste.
After AGD, I have lunch and free period. NextGen is a closed campus, which means I can’t leave to find food. Since it’s the first day of school and I don’t have any work to actually work on or friends to sit with—and I’m not looking to make any on this temporary detour—I decide to find a quiet corner where I work on finishing up the sketches for the next Graphic Grrl set while I eat. I was prepared for Austin to be a hellish pit of heat and humidity—it is Texas, after all—but amazingly enough the climate is not that different from New York in summer. And, if I’m being honest, it smells better.
So grabbing a lunch to go—an egg salad sandwich from the cafeteria and an apple juice from the vending machine by the front office—I head outside. I know exactly where I want to work.
At the center of the big geometric web-work of sidewalks is a giant sculpture. I can’t tell exactly what it’s supposed to be. It looks like someone dipped a Pokémon in stainless steel and set it on a square granite base. Still, it’s pretty cool. And since it’s after noon, there’s a bit of a shadow on the east side.
As I approach, I sling my backpack onto the ground and then drop to the grass. The base of the statue is still warm from the passing sun. It feels good on my back.
I close my eyes and let my spine connect with the warm stone. If I imagine hard enough, maybe I can make myself believe I’m sitting on the roof of SODA with Tash or against the arch in Washington Square Park. Only without the smell of pee and body odor.
Though I’m tempted to take a nap—everything about this spot feels nice and relaxing—I need to make progress on my sketches. Once I started publishing regularly, every Sunday, my fans started getting pretty rabid about it. If I’m even a few hours late they start hounding Graphic Grrl on her social media accounts. So I unwrap my sandwich, pull out my tablet, and get to work.
I lose myself in the process. The collection of shapes that create Graphic Grrl have become part of my physical memory. My hand goes on autopilot. I’ve been drawing her since the seventh grade, in one form or another.
Freshman year I showed some of my strips to Tash. Before that they were my secret, the hidden art I had never shown anyone. She convinced me to start publishing them anonymously online. It’s been our secret ever since.
Mom and Dad don’t know. Even Dylan doesn’t.
I’d been on the verge of telling Brice, but, well, that all went to hell in an instant, so I’m glad I didn’t. What a nightmare that would have been.
Graphic Grrl and I have been through a lot. Bad breakups. Fights with Tash. The Incident.
And now, the fallout.
As much as I miss home right now, as long as I have Graphic Grrl in my pocket then I think I will get through things all right.
“The last girl who sat under this statue died in a grisly axe murder,” Tru’s voice says from behind me.
I immediately click out of my drawing app, hiding Graphic Grrl safely away and swapping her for my class schedule, which I had captured in a pic and then tossed in the nearest recycling bin.
Austin apparently loves its recycling. Three big bins—blue for paper, green for glass, and red for plastic—are at practically every corner. And each building also has extra bins outside for cardboard, metal, and compost.
I’m all for saving the planet, but I don’t think I’ve seen a real trash can.
Tru’s shadow moves over me. “They say she still haunts the school.”
“Too bad for her I don’t believe in ghosts,” I toss back.
“She’ll haunt you for that.”
I ignore him. My next—and last, thank heaven for small miracles—class of the day starts in ten minutes: 3D rendering in Building F. I have plenty of time to hit the girls’ room first and dump my lunch containers in the recycle bins on the way.
I start across the lawn toward Building F. Tru falls in step beside me.
“Is there a reason you’re following me?”
“Two, actually.”
He doesn’t elaborate and I really don’t want to ask, but I can’t help myself. “And those reasons are?”
“One,” he says with a big grin, “if you recall, I am your official campus guide for the day.”
“My official campus guide who ditched me at the first opportunity,” I throw back.
“And two,” he says with a chiding tone, like he’s annoyed by my interruption, “I happen to also have class in Building F next period.”
He flashes me a smile that I’m sure he thinks is charming-as-hell. All I see is a flash
ing sign that says Danger. Whether or not I actually believe he’s reformed, nothing about Tru Dorsey is anything but trouble for me. Trouble in the form of Mom canceling our deal. Trouble in the form of repeating the Brice-induced heartbreak. Trouble in the form of an attachment in a place I don’t intend to be for any longer than absolutely necessary.
I walk faster. With any luck, the class will go by quickly so I can get home and back to Graphic Grrl.
Chapter Four
Tense commute, the sequel.
Mom was more than half an hour late to pick me up. She sent me a bunch of running late and sorry be there soon and almost there messages.
Like I was in a hurry to spend another awkwardly silent car ride. I probably could have walked home in the time it took her to get there. But instead, I worked. I got more than half of my Graphic Grrl sketches done.
I’m used to waiting on Mom. Work and errands and appointments always seem to take ten times longer than she expects. At least back home I didn’t need her to get me from school.
What am I, in kindergarten?
Whatever, bygones. I survived. Now I’m in my room, sprawled on my bed, finishing the last of my initial sketches. This new mattress doesn’t creak like my one back home. Normally that would be a plus, but it’s become part of my process, my creative soundtrack, to listen to the rhythmic squeak as I bounce my feet on the bed.
To fill the void, I pull on my headphones and rock out to Carman Ten’s latest album. My stylus flies across the screen, leaving a trail of pixels in its wake. The faster the beat of the music, the faster my fingers fly.
I’m just putting the finishing touches on the last cell when my door swings open.
“Mom!” I shout, yanking off my headphones and leaping off the bed.
I make sure to toss my tablet face down.
She looks totally unapologetic. “I knocked three times.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to barge in.”
This never used to happen. Before The Incident my privacy was sacred. Mom and Dad wanted to be the kind of “cool” parents who didn’t dig into their kids’ personal stuff. They gave me as much freedom and independence—with school, friends, life—as I wanted.
Getting arrested has a way of erasing trust.
“What?” I demand when she just scowls at me.
“We’re late,” she says.
I frown back at her. “For what?”
“Dinner.” She turns away. “At the Dorseys’.”
“Great,” I mutter. I’d totally forgotten.
“You have five minutes,” Mom says as she disappears down the stairs.
I give the idea of changing clothes a total of three seconds and then dismiss it completely. We’re not going to a fancy restaurant. My school clothes are totally suitable.
A breeze wafts in through my open window, and I decide to add a black hoodie to my mourning clothes. I give myself two minutes in the bathroom to run a brush through my hair and swipe on some intense red lip gloss, mostly because I think it will bother Mom. And maybe partly because I’m hoping it will bother Tru.
I’m ahead of deadline, but drag my feet a few more minutes, just to make her wait. Turnabout’s fair play.
I don’t emerge until she’s called my name twice.
“Coming,” I shout as I thunder down the stairs. “Let’s get this o—” I freeze when I see a casserole dish in her hands. “What is that?”
“Peach cobbler.”
“Did you buy it?”
“No, I made it,” she says, as if her baking is an everyday occurrence.
I can count the number of times she’s baked back home on zero hands. Mom’s idea of home cooking is eating takeout in the dining room. Since when does she know how to do more with an oven than reheat leftovers?
I spend the short walk next door inhaling the alluring smell of peaches and sugar and throwing sidelong glances at the stranger next to me. Who is this woman and what has she done with my never-met-a-takeout-menu-she-didn’t-love mother?
Mom doesn’t bother knocking, just pushes open the door and calls out, “We’re here. Sorry we’re late.”
Mrs. Dorsey comes bustling into the front. “Lizzie,” she cries, pulling my mom into a huge hug.
Mrs. Dorsey hasn’t changed since the time she and her husband came to New York when I was like seven. Still tiny and intense, with blunt bangs, perfect skin, and a rough voice that is totally at odds with her delicate appearance.
“Oh Miko,” Mom says, “it’s so good to see you.”
They hug for longer than a normal, good to see you greeting. When Mom pulls away, Mrs. Dorsey’s eyes glisten with emotion.
She turns to me. “Sloane?” Her gaze takes me in from head to toe. “No way.”
I shrug. What? I’m supposed to say, Yes way?
I’m not that cliché.
“Hey Mrs. Dorsey.”
“Mrs. Dorsey?” She makes a hissing sound with her teeth. “You call me Miko.”
She wraps me in just as tight a hug as she did Mom. I awkwardly hug her back. I am momentarily transported by the smell of orange blossoms.
“Come in, come in,” she says, waving us inside. She takes the cobbler from Mom. “David is grilling out back.”
We follow her down the hall, into the kitchen, where she sets the cobbler on the counter. The thing that stands out to me as we walk through the house is how it looks just as clean and perfect as ours next door. Only we’ve lived in ours for just a few days and we don’t have a teen boy with us. No dust, no scuffs, not even a stray pair of shoes by the front door. The Dorsey house is like a showroom.
“Truman!” she shouts.
When there is no immediate response, she yells his name again.
Still nothing.
She shakes her head. “That boy. Come, let’s see what David has cooking.”
I eagerly follow outside, wanting to escape this eerily perfect house. But the back porch, a mirror image of ours next door, smells like burning meat. My stomach rolls. I wish I could bury my nose back in Mrs. Dorsey’s orange blossom scent.
“It smells delicious,” Mom says.
Mr. Dorsey turns at the sound of her voice. “Elizabeth,” he says with a warm smile. “You made it.”
He is older than I remember. Then again, I haven’t seen the Dorseys in more than a decade. But where Mrs. Dorsey looks exactly the same, Mr. Dorsey has a lot more gray in his hair and crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. He still has the stiffest, straightest posture I have ever seen. If I were one to be self-conscious, I would un-slump a little.
Thank goodness I’m not.
I look past him to the grill and see rows of thick steaks. Only steaks. Great. Looks like side dishes for dinner.
Mr. Dorsey turns his attention to me. “Sloane, you’re all—” He stops, glances over his shoulder at the grill, and then back at me. “Something wrong?”
“Um, no,” I say, trying not to sound totally rude. “It’s just…I’m a vegetarian.”
“Since when?” Mom asks.
Is she kidding? “Since the eighth grade.”
She stares at me, unblinking, like she’s never seen me before. God, if she doesn’t even know I’m a vegetarian, then maybe she hasn’t.
And here I thought we had a good relationship before The Incident.
“I just thought you really liked vegetables,” she finally says.
I bite back whatever accusations I want to throw her way. Embarrassing her in front of her friends won’t win me any Mom points, which means it won’t get me any closer to closing our deal. It won’t get me any closer to home.
“I think I have some portobello steaks in the garage,” Mrs. Dorsey says. “I’ll go get them.”
She’s gone for a couple minutes, and I stand silent as Mom and Mr. Dorsey make it’s-been-so-long small talk.
In these kinds of awkward gatherings, I usually have Dylan to joke around with. He and Dad should be here. No, Mom and I should be back home, but, barring that, Dyla
n and Dad should be here. But where Mom could take a leave of absence from the firm, Dad couldn’t leave his job for this long.
Which gives me even more motivation to satisfy the requirements of Mom’s deal. It’s not just my life that’s been torn apart by this move. It’s my entire family’s.
By the time Mrs. Dorsey returns with the mushrooms, I’ve actually resorted to hoping Tru will show up. Anything to distract me from this soul-crushing tedium.
“Sloane,” she says after handing them to her husband, “we have pink lemonade in the kitchen. Would you go pour glasses for everyone?”
“Sure,” I say, thankful for the excuse to escape.
I slip inside. It takes me all of a few seconds to fill the six glasses, but the last thing I want is to go back out on the porch. Between the small talk and the smell of burning meat, it’s like the seventh circle of hell. So I grab a glass of lemonade and lean back against the counter in a spot where they can’t see me from the porch.
I should have brought my tablet. At least then the night wouldn’t have been a total waste. I upend my glass and gulp the contents.
“Slow down, New York. No one wants to see that pink lemonade again.”
I finish my chug before lowering the cup and throwing my best panhandler-repelling glare.
Like me, he’s still got on his school clothes. But he’s ditched the blazer and wrapped his tie around his wrist like a layered bracelet. The cool black-and-white palette is broken up by the spots of smooth, golden tan skin where his shirtsleeves are rolled up and where his top three buttons are undone.
It’s almost impossible to hold a glare in the face of such appealing dishevelment. Almost, but I manage.
“Dinner at the Dorseys’,” he says, dripping with disdain. “You’re in for a treat.”
He looks through the glass pane of the back door to where our parents—correction, his parents and my mom—are gathered. There is something angry in Tru’s look. Almost resentful.
I wouldn’t want to be on the other end of those kinds of feelings from Tru.
No, I shouldn’t want to be on the other end of any feelings from Tru.
“I think I’ll survive,” I say, trying to lighten the tension.