Chapter 14 Most Artistic
MOST ARTISTIC
David thought I was going to be mad when I found out that Ella joined theater. I know I should have been, but I just don’t feel angry.
For one, David asked me first. He made sure I knew that right away. He gave me the opportunity to be a stagehand, and I turned it down. The theater department needed people. It’s not fair to hold a grudge against David or any of the other students because Ella agreed.
But there’s another reason I’m not angry, a closely guarded secret I refuse to tell anyone. I get to see Ella because she’s a stagehand—something I look forward to everyday.
It all started when my mother’s car was in the shop, and she needed to use David’s.
I was responsible for bringing my brother home after school and hung out in the auditorium during play practice.
At first, I would take a seat in the back and work on my homework the entire time.
I would occasionally catch a glimpse of Ella or accidentally bump into her.
Once I realized what she was doing while everyone else went over their lines, I started a new routine, one much less conducive to keeping my grades up. A routine that continued even after David got his car back.
When I enter the auditorium, practice has already started.
There’s a door toward the back that leads to a staging room that holds props and costumes.
When I walk inside, Ella’s standing in front of a wall on wheels—which I now know is called a flat thanks to too much time with the theater kids.
Her head tilts as she stares at the scribble marks all over it.
I set my backpack on the ground. “Is this one of those magic pictures where you have to blur your vision to see the hidden image?”
She turns toward me just long enough that I can see her roll her eyes before she looks back at the blank canvas before her. “It’s a stained glass window set in a stone wall.”
I already knew that—even though Ella didn’t magically transform into an artist overnight, it was obvious the second I got close enough to see the pencil marks—but I can’t resist the opportunity to mess with her. “You want me to help you fix it?”
“It doesn’t need fixing.”
“Are you sure?” I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth. “Whoever drew this obviously has never seen a stained glass window in their life.”
“I drew it,” she says, deadpan. “And I’ve seen plenty of windows.”
I feign shock, then say with the most insincere voice I can muster, “Right, and what I meant was it’s…beautiful.”
She pushes her shoulders back. “I know it is.”
I fight the smile that tugs at my lips and keep my expression serious. “And that’s why you were staring at it in defeat when I walked in.”
“That wasn’t defeat. I was trying to decide what colors the window should be.” She puts a hand on her hip. “Now, you can keep criticizing this masterpiece, or you can help me.”
“I’d better help so that it doesn’t end up looking like total garbage.” I sigh. “For David’s sake.”
“Your devotion to your brother is unmatched.” She snorts then points to her backpack. “By the way, I brought snacks today.”
My stomach growls at the mention of food.
I enjoy staying after school, but it makes for a long day.
I’m always hungry when I get here, and I always complain to Ella.
It was surprisingly considerate for her to bring something.
Her care makes me uncomfortable until I unzip her bag and I see what’s inside.
“Are you serious?” I lift the small bag. “Chessman cookies?”
She keeps finding ways to tease me relentlessly about chess club—but only chess club.
Ella doesn’t mention student government anymore.
She never says anything about French club or even science club.
As careful as I’ve been to not broadcast my involvement, I think she somehow knows I’ve been on the chess team since freshman year, but she’s never come out and said it.
She shrugs. “I thought you might like them since you’re such a nerd.”
I tear open the packaging. “Nerd? I’m not the one with the top GPA in the entire school.”
Ella busies herself with some nearby paintbrushes. “Yeah, about that.”
I drop the bag of cookies. “Did I finally beat you?” Even though we don’t have class ranks anymore, it’s still possible to see our GPAs online.
Those of us who have cared about grades our entire high school career still check them from time to time even though we won’t technically have a valedictorian this year.
The thought of being top of the class isn’t as satisfying as I thought it would be.
Maybe it’s because it doesn't matter anymore for Citrus Scholar. Maybe it’s because I don’t hate Ella.
Either way, I hope she knows I’m not gloating with my question.
I’m genuinely confused about how it happened.
I stopped trying so hard, and my GPA isn’t as high as I want it to be. “I’m top of the class?”
“Nope.” She shakes her head. “It’s not either of us.”
“What?” Now, I’m really confused. I bend down and pick up the cookies. If it's not me, and it’s not Ella…
“Taylor.”
My eyes widen, and I drop the bag again. “No.”
She presses her lips together and nods until her features become strained.
Ella’s face reddens, and her chest shakes.
When she covers her face with her hands, concern bubbles in my chest. Ella is strong, but Taylor taking the spot she worked so hard for the last three and a half years? It might be too much.
I take a step toward her to reassure her that everything is going to be okay.
Before I get the chance, she drops her hands and bursts into a fit of giggles.
My brows lower. Why is she laughing? Ella is the only other person who cares about being top of the class as much as me. Maybe she’s officially lost it.
“Ella,” I say slowly. “Are you okay?”
“Taylor Brown is going to be valedictorian,” she manages to say through her laughter.
“Technically, we won’t have a valedictorian.”
“But if we did have one, it’s her.”
I stare at her unblinking.
Her laughter slows. “Oh, come on. It’s no fun if you don’t laugh with me.”
“What’s there to laugh about?”
She points her finger back and forth between us. “All these years of going back and forth, and Taylor Brown is top of the class.”
A chuckle escapes the back of my throat. There’s some irony in someone else getting the very thing Ella and I have been battling over all throughout high school, but it’s not nearly as hilarious to warrant this reaction. “Okay.”
“What if Taylor does the graduation speech.” She lifts her brows and slowly nods her head, willing me to understand.
My mouth falls open in realization.
Taylor can’t even make it through a classroom presentation without mentioning some bizarre conspiracy she believes is true.
Aliens, the Illuminati. I once overheard her saying we were all trapped in a simulation and that swallowing a piece of gum every seven years was the only way to make sure we weren't swapped out with a new body—or something like that.
Honestly, I was too busy trying to stop myself from laughing that I stopped paying attention.
I can’t imagine what off-the-wall topic she’ll come up with for graduation.
Ella gestures animatedly at me. “You see it now.”
“Unfortunately.” I start laughing and rub my hands over my face. This is an absolute disaster. “We can’t let her get away with that. What are we going to do?”
Ella shrugs. “I don’t know, but I don’t have any free time between theater and tutoring to do extra credit assignments. I don’t think I can do it.”
“I can’t either. I’m working with Ava on prom stuff when I’m not busy with chess club or helping your sorry butt with set design.”
“I never asked you to help.”
“I know. It’s because I’m so altruistic and couldn't stand to watch you crash and burn. Can you imagine David up there with ugly sets?”
She lifts a brow. “So you’re saying you come here every day for David?”
There’s no insecurity or longing in her tone. This is a challenge, one I won’t let her win. “Oh, did you think I was coming here for you?” I pick up the cookies from the ground and pop a broken piece in my mouth. “I’m just here for the snacks.”
“Is that why you kept dropping them? Clammy hands from being so excited?”
“You caught me. There’s nothing I love more than chess…” She leans forward. “...man cookies.”
She shakes her head and leaves me to grab some half gallon cans of paint.
I shove a few more cookies in my mouth while she sets up.
After a few instructions from Ella, we both take seats on the hard cement and start painting.
She’s working on the window, only painting the green panels, while I busy myself with painting the gray base for the stone.
“But really, are we going to let Taylor win?” I say, sliding my paintbrush against the blank background.
Ella doesn’t look away from her work. “I think we might. Like you said, we’re both busy with everything else, and now that grades don’t matter for…”
Her voice trails off. This is the closest we’ve gotten to discussing Citrus Scholar since our newfound truce.
It would be easier to let the words disappear and then move onto another subject, but we can only avoid this topic for so long.
We’re almost halfway through the year. One of us is going to be awarded the scholarship whether or not we talk about it.
But not talking about it? It might ruin whatever is happening here.
I set my paintbrush down. “Why do you want to be Citrus Scholar so badly?’
Her head snaps toward me. Wariness fills her narrowed eyes. I get it. Our history is rocky between lifelong competition and family drama. We have to tread lightly every time we hang out. I don’t fault her for being suspicious.
“I’ll go first,” I say. “Part of it was beating you. I don’t know why you get under my skin, but you do. Even now.”