Chapter Seven
Mrs. Brown gave me three options for my elective class.
Considering Advanced Mandarin would be impossible and Robotics sounded like my own personal nightmare, I went with Art.
How hard can it be to paint and create stuff?
Plus, Mom used to call herself an artist before she drowned her creativity in vodka.
Taking this art class will make me feel closer to the best version of Mom.
The one I adore and miss the most. The one I haven’t seen in a long time.
I make my way to the arts building with hurried steps, though I’m not sure why.
I’m already late to class, thanks to my meeting with Mrs. Brown.
I shift my backpack strap on my shoulder as I head up the steps, wincing at how heavy it is.
The yearbook and dossier add unnecessary weight, and I can’t wait to get rid of them.
Won’t be until after class, though, and I have no idea where I’m going to hide them, considering I can’t trust anyone around here.
The moment I make my way into the building, the door slams shut behind me, cutting off outdoor noise.
The entire south wall is lined with massive windows, letting in plenty of early-afternoon light.
After yesterday’s drizzle, today’s weather has been pleasant, though far from warm.
It’s cold around here, and I’m thankful for the cardigan Whitney loaned me this morning.
I stutter-step to a halt as realization washes over me.
Why would Whitney have uniform pieces in the closet in her office?
She certainly never has to wear them. But a mother whose daughter has to wear a uniform to school every day might very well stash a few spare items in her office on campus, just in case.
My mind ricochets back to the moment earlier today when Whitney held me at arm’s length and smoothed the cardigan over my shoulders.
It was such a tender gesture … but I have to wonder if it was meant for me or Isla.
Because I’d bet all the money Doug shoved into my hands the last time I saw him that this sweater belongs to my sister.
The fabric seems to grow warmer against my skin, like it’s not just a poly-wool blend—it’s a hug, too.
If Isla and I had never been separated by divorce and an ocean, we probably would have shared clothes all the time.
Maybe it would have become so commonplace to borrow without asking that I would have gotten annoyed with her—would have yelled at her to stay out of my closet.
What does it say about my life that the thought of having a spat with my little sister over something as trivial as clothes feels like the stuff of daydreams?
Because it’s true—I’d give anything to hear Isla’s voice again, let alone argue with her.
I’ve wasted so much time being jealous and letting the jealousy hide behind anger.
What wouldn’t I give to go back in time and tell myself to get my head out of my ass?
To yell at myself to wake up and pay attention, cherish Isla at every opportunity, and stop being salty about our very different lives?
None of it was ever Isla’s fault. Or mine.
Like most revelations, this one comes too late to be useful. There’s no going back in time. All I can do is move forward. Find the truth. Bring Isla justice, even if she may never know I was here, fighting for her.
I swallow down the lump in my throat and run a finger under my eyes, expecting moisture but finding none.
While my brain was spiraling into memory and regret, my body remained rock-steady.
Maybe that’s the secret to falling apart—you never let yourself go 100 percent.
You hold back the pieces of yourself the world will see, and keep the devastation inside, where it can belong to you alone.
I pull the sleeve of Isla’s cardigan over my hand until it covers my fingers, then curl the fabric into my palm. It’s as close as I can get to holding her hand right now, so I’ll take what I can get.
I come to a stop in front of room thirteen and peek inside the open doorway.
There’s no one in the classroom save for one boy with his back to me, sitting at an easel.
In front of him, a large piece of paper is taped to a paint-splattered board.
I can’t really make out details from this distance, but the picture taking shape in front of him is dark and … lonely.
I clear my throat as I enter the room, not wanting to startle him, but I do anyway. His head jerks, and he glances over his shoulder. My breath catches in my throat.
Connor Wells.
He frowns the moment he spots me, then turns to face his easel once more.
His fingertips are smudged with charcoal, but when he touches the stick to the paper, the line he produces is slim and delicate.
I force my eyes away from his confident hand and take a few steps forward so I have a better view of the picture taking shape.
It’s a dark forest with a lone cabin receding into the background.
A gray curl of smoke rises from a chimney.
Though the picture is entirely done in black and white, Connor has managed to capture warm light in the cabin’s windows.
I approach slowly, stopping just behind him.
“You’re … amazing.” I sound breathless and a little starstruck, and I shake my head once, silently berating myself.
Connor grabs a short stick of what looks like tightly rolled paper. He smudges a shadow into the ground under the cabin. And he doesn’t acknowledge me, the jerk.
I remain quiet, and so does he, as he adds highlights to the moonlit sides of trees and roughs in additional details around the cabin. The start of a woodpile, maybe. An overturned wheelbarrow.
“You don’t belong here.”
Alarm races down my spine, leaving me ice-cold.
I want to stutter a defense—of course I belong at Wickham!
Just another rich private school student, reporting for duty!
—but I swallow down the panic and let Belinda’s confidence take center stage.
“You’re always telling me where I shouldn’t be,” I say.
“Any ideas about where I should be?” I raise my eyebrows in a way I hope looks suggestive.
I don’t have the backbone to eye his lap, like maybe that’s where I should take a seat, but part of me wishes I did. I’d like to see Connor squirm.
“You don’t belong in this class,” he clarifies, and I exhale softly. I thought he could tell I don’t belong at Wickham at all, and he’d be right. “As you can see, no one is in here.”
I glance around the empty classroom before I return my gaze to his. “Art elective field trip day?”
He doesn’t so much as crack a smile. “No. There are a few students who are actually enrolled, but no one sticks around. There’s no supervision for this elective because the instructor was awarded a residency at the Louvre. It’s almost always just me.”
Once again, he turns his broad back to me as he reaches for another slim stick of charcoal.
“Mrs. Brown added me to the class,” I tell him.
His shoulders slump. “This must be a joke.”
“No joke.” My voice is knife-sharp. Connor might be gorgeous, but he’s annoying me in a way that renders his beauty moot. Almost. How dismissive he is, how freaking mysterious, feels like an act. One I want to rip down so I can call him out as a total fraud.
Takes one to know one.
“Are you an artist?” he asks, not bothering to turn around.
“I dabble,” I hedge. The truth is, I don’t have a fraction of the artistic talent my mother has in her pinkie finger. But like everything else in my life lately, I guess this is one more lie I’ll have to spin into the truth.
“What’s your preferred medium?”
I glance around the room, my brain spinning as I try to come up with an answer. Hanging on a wall labeled STUDENT GALLERY, I spot some abstract-looking blobs of sheer color on thick, creamy-looking paper. “Watercolor.”
“Hmph.” I never realized a single sound could capture so much disappointment.
“I guess I’ll just … find some supplies,” I say, turning toward the supply closet I spy in the corner.
“What’s your name?”
“Billie.” I wince at my mistake. “Well, Belinda.”
This seems to pique his interest at last. He turns fully in my direction, his head cocked at an inquisitive angle. “Which is it? Billie or Belinda?”
Nice going, Billie. First the yearbook, now this. I can probably cross “undercover detective” off my list of potential careers. I feel my shoulders starting to hunch and force myself to stand ramrod straight. Belinda Winters persona activated.
“My friends back home call me Billie. You can call me Belinda,” I tell him, infusing as much snobbery as possible into my tone.
A long beat of silence stretches between us. The cold steel of Connor’s gray gaze melts a little, and he presses his lips together like … like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Well, Billie, you can use that easel over there.” He pulls his gaze away from mine, waving a hand toward an easel across the room. “And just to let you know, I prefer to work in complete silence.”
He says nothing else, and for a moment I remain quiet, too. Is he for real right now?
His continuing silence tells me yes. Yes, he is.
“What are you, the artist in residence at Wickham?”
His expression doesn’t shift at my sarcastic question. “Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”
When it’s clear that this conversation is over, I straighten my shoulders and head toward the supply closet, which is much larger than I thought it would be.
It’s filled with shelves stacked high with art supplies, and there’s a short countertop and cabinets with a sink to the right of the closet.
I take stock of my options, deciding to grab a pad of watercolor paper and a set of paints, along with some brushes.
I set all of my supplies on the counter, ready to fill a glass jar with water to dip the brushes in when I spot a stack of stretched canvases in the farthest corner of the room. An idea blooms.