Chapter 11
I’m out of the Institute the second class ends. I don’t even know where I’m going, only that I need to get away from my stupid portrait. And Leo. Right now, Carnevale isn’t magical. It’s in the way. I want to stomp up to the loch in the hills behind our flat and be completely alone.
Instead, rows of schoolkids are sprawled across the paving, watching a mime in a stripy top and white-painted face.
He chooses that exact moment to single me out, sending them howling with laughter as he copies my hunched shoulders and downturned mouth, then exaggerates the awkward way I step around backpacks and little legs.
‘Evie!’
I groan at Leo’s unmistakably posh tone. Clearly this day isn’t done humiliating me.
‘Please leave me alone,’ I beg.
‘OK, but … the Accademia’s that way.’
I stop and turn on him. ‘Look, da Vinci. I might need an art teacher, but I don’t need a babysitter. I’ll find it myself.’
‘Calm down. My mum told me to take you.’
‘And you always do what your mamma tells you,’ I snipe.
His ears redden and I feel the tiniest stab of satisfaction.
‘Not always. Look, I just wanted to say your painting isn’t—’
‘Stop.’ I hold up a hand. ‘No need to spell it out.’
‘But it’s not you, OK? It’s the school … it’s not for everyone—’ He winces when he realizes how he sounds.
‘Whatever,’ I say. I should’ve picked science after all. Did I actually think art could be my future? I’m not like Leo. Art’s his future. It’s not for someone like me.
He drags a hand through his hair. ‘Let me help you.’
‘What, are you going to slip your arms through mine and paint for me? Pretend it’s all my work?’
Leo’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a laugh. ‘No. I meant take you to the Accademia.’ He looks like he’s about to cup my elbow, then thinks better of it.
I follow, grateful in spite of myself as he leads us away from the chaos with a few sharp turns, and Carnevale fades to a distant drum and a muffled burst of applause.
The art museum rises ahead of us, all chalky white walls and tall columns, a large scarlet banner stretched over the entrance.
It swallows us into a cavernous hall with a polished, chequered marble floor.
My footsteps echo so sharply I hear them falter when I spot the ticket desk.
Not free like Scotland, then. I fish out the bank card Mum gave me for emergencies and block Leo when he tries to pay for me.
My pride’s already taken a battering today. I don’t need his pity-kindness on top.
Leo moves ahead without even hesitating, like he’s been here a hundred times and knows exactly where to go. Museums like this with their high ceilings and gilded frames are probably just rainy-day activities for him.
He names artists and movements the way boys back home reel off football stats. I’m meant to be learning how to tell the paintings apart – this brush-stroke, that palette, a signature I should recognize – but all I can see is how easy it is for him, and how impossible it is for me.
As one gallery leads to another, the never-ending parade of gloomy saints, angels and nobles all start to blur together.
Is this what I’m aiming for? To mould myself into a style? A school? Learn to be like everyone else?
I’m searching for the exit when Leo steps into my path.
‘My mum was right, you know.’
Oh no. Here comes the lecture. Too emotional, too messy, not brushstrokey enough.
But he motions towards a nearby painting instead. It’s a portrait of a young woman with glowing skin and elaborate hair. La Bella, the plaque underneath reads.
It’s the Titian painting Veronica said looked like me. Back when I was the shiny new arrival. Still full of hope. Was that really only four days ago?
‘Yeah, I remember. Complicated hair and rosy cheeks, right?’
Leo actually looks a bit sheepish.
Then I spot the painting next to her. Lippi’s Portrait of a Youth.
Oh.
The resemblance is ridiculous. Same straight eyebrows in a solemn, too-serious face. Same curls, even.
Yep. I’m staring at a Renaissance version of Leo.
‘You could nick it for your showcase,’ I say. ‘Probably your great ancestor anyway, right? I mean, it’s you. Framed.’
Leo clutches his chest. ‘Trapped in a gallery forever.’ He’s convincingly tragic – a little too convincing – and for a second I’m not sure it’s just a performance.
I can’t bear to be here any more. What’s the point? Staring at masterpieces isn’t going to make me any better at painting one. All it’s doing is making me wish I could go back in time and accept that science placement.
It’s raining when we leave, a dreich grey drizzle that makes me long for home.
Embarrassingly, Jacopo’s mum’s cleaning my room as well as Leo’s when we get back, like I’m a guest in a hotel.
I duck into the living room in an effort to ditch him …
only to find it’s way too fancy to relax in.
There isn’t even a TV. I try to picture Mum and Dad chucking ours out – the one Dad swears he’ll be paying off for the rest of his natural life – and nope.
My imagination doesn’t stretch that far.
The leather couches are stiff and uncomfortable, probably to stop people dozing off in the TV-less room while they discuss cultural affairs.
Although, there is an iPad on the coffee table – one of the newer ones with the little camera that sticks out.
Way more storage than mine, probably, and twice the resolution too.
Not that it matters. I haven’t opened Procreate since the airport.
Not sure I want to draw anything again after today.
So much for surprising Rebel with something new.
Leo appears in the doorway. ‘What are you up to?’
I grab my phone. ‘Messages. I suppose you’ve got someone who does that for you.’
‘Ha ha.’ He drops on to the couch opposite and pulls out his own phone. ‘Nope. Look, I can even type all by myself.’
A second later my phone buzzes. My brain jumps ahead of itself and I half-expect to see Leo’s name on my screen – then I remember we haven’t swapped numbers.
It’s Rebel.
@RenaissanceRebel: Hey, did the blank brigade ban your new post? Can’t see it on your feed.
I want to make an excuse, tell him the dog ate it. But I’ve never lied to him.
@TotallySketchy: Sorry. Having second thoughts.
@RenaissanceRebel: About … paper?
I almost laugh.
@TotallySketchy: About art.
There. Not a lie. The truth.
His typing bubbles appear, vanish, then reappear like he’s trying to find the right words.
@RenaissanceRebel: Watch this space, Sketchy. I’m going to inspire you.
@TotallySketchy: Yeah, about time you did some of the heavy lifting.
Across the room, Leo’s screen lights up again. I’m hyper-aware of the buzz-ping rhythm of our phones, like a volley in a tennis match. Who even texts him? His mum?
He turns to me, brow furrowed, then scoots to the edge of his seat.
‘Evie … This might sound crazy, but—’
Almost immediately, my phone buzzes again. Leo lets out a faint laugh and shakes his head.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ He nods at my phone. ‘Go on.’
I glance down, expecting it to be Rebel.
But it’s not.
It’s Griselda’s friend Paola, chasing me for a reply to her unanswered text. If I don’t deal with this, Florence is going to come looking for me.