Evie in Venice

Chapter 1

It’s a good thing lying is more of an art than a science.

Chemistry didn’t help me fake my boarding pass, but a steady hand and some colourmatching skills did.

Dad believed it. He’s even swapped shifts and taken two buses and a tram to see me off at Edinburgh Airport. And now I can’t quite meet his eye.

‘Sure you’ve got enough cash for the next couple of weeks?’ He pats down his work fleece like he might find a roll of euros in one of the pockets. ‘Your mum and I can probably scrape together a bit more if you end up needing your own Bunsen burner in Florence—’

‘No!’ I interrupt. ‘No need,’ I add, softer. ‘Pretty sure fire hazards are included.’

I mean, paintbrush cleaner is flammable, right?

We stop just short of the security gate – the bit where I scan my real boarding pass – for a signature Dad hug, the kind where he pulls me in tight and rocks me side to side. Over his shoulder, I spot a familiar, frowning face weaving towards us.

‘You didn’t tell me Griselda was coming,’ I say, already bracing.

‘Evie,’ Dad warns gently. ‘Don’t call your sister that. You know your mum hates it.’

He steps back as Griselda swoops in, already in scolding mode. ‘You didn’t need to bring her, Dad. You know I’m at uni here.’

Wow. She actually waited till her second sentence to mention university. Griselda’s the first in our family to go, thanks to the InterSTEAM science placement in Florence, and an award-winning plastic bag she made out of seaweed. It’s her origin story. And they think it’s about to be mine too.

Only … I won’t be going anywhere near a lab. Or Florence.

After cobbling a portfolio together in record time, I switched to their brand-new art strand instead.

In Venice.

I didn’t really think I’d get in, not when digital pieces were all I had to offer. My prehistoric iPad’s the only thing I’ve had to work with lately, so I’m guessing the box-ticking helped.

Eligible for free school meals? Tick.

Sixteen at the time of travel? Barely – but tick.

Nat 5 or equivalent in the host country’s language? Tick.

My high school in the Scottish Borders is one of the few that offers Italian – a subject Griselda pushed hard for me to take so I could follow in her footsteps, even though it meant dropping art and losing access to the materials.

According to her, ‘drawing stuff’ won’t do a thing for my UCAS form.

Mum and Dad both left school at sixteen, so she’s the expert.

Apparently. Not even my art teacher saying I have a distinctive style and a talent for blending the real and imagined made any difference.

So I came up with a plan of my own.

I folded the forms so Mum and Dad only saw the InterSTEAM logo when they signed, then I set up a new inbox and handled the rest myself. Sometimes it pays to be an underestimated teenager.

Griselda grips my shoulders and I feel a pep talk coming on.

‘This is a huge opportunity, Eves.’

‘Yes, Gri— Grace. I know, Grace,’ I reply obediently.

And I do. This is the closest I’ll get to an art qualification that counts. Especially when I won’t be coming home with anything scientific to my name.

She hesitates, like she might hug me, then leans in: ‘Don’t waste it chatting to weirdos online, OK?’

I bite back a sigh. She means the boy I’ve been talking to on the Art Exchange for the past year – an app my art teacher set me up on to keep me practising.

Griselda made me prove you can only join through a participating school, with a teacher signing off your profile, before she was satisfied it wasn’t some dodgy free-for-all.

But she has no idea how important it’s become. How important he’s become.

Dad gives me a thumbs up as I sling my bag over my shoulder and join the security queue. Griselda doesn’t let a glass partition stop her. ‘Message me, OK? And keep any receipts. You might be able to claim money back!’

I work out where I’m supposed to go and sit at my gate. I’m early – first-time flyer nerves – so I take out my iPad and open Procreate, another art teacher tip. It’s a cheap(ish) one-off payment with no subscription nonsense, and even copes with clunky hardware and zero storage.

A businesswoman with an interesting face is typing on her laptop a few seats away.

I rough in her shape with a chunky brush, then start building a collage from the world around me: warped reflections on the metal side table, the glowing digital lines of the departures board, the marble-effect floor tiles.

Slowly, she begins to form. Then I do what I do with all my digital portraits: add a touch of Scottish mythology.

Her large, seal-like eyes remind me of selkies, so I sketch a folded sealskin over the arm of her chair instead of her jacket, as if she’s just stepped out of the sea and changed into her human form.

When I’m done, I scroll through the Art Exchange, liking and commenting here and there, then bring up my own page by tapping on my profile pic: a digital self-portrait, similar to the one I’m about to upload.

My face is built from fragments of the loch near town, my hair a mane of tangled reeds; part girl, part kelpie – a dangerous horse-like water spirit.

The new piece loads and hearts start blinking almost immediately. A couple of comments stack underneath.

@PixelQueen: teach meee

@NeonInk: how did you do the glow?

They’re always the first to react. I have almost a thousand followers now, but only twenty or so interact regularly. I’m smiling at the screen when a DM slides in.

A thrill zips through me before I even read it. I know the avatar as well as my own – a boy in rich velvet from another era, spray-can raised, blasting paint at the viewer so we only see half his face.

@RenaissanceRebel: Totally blank the way you’ve blanked the blank on your latest blank.

My snort-laugh turns a few heads. Blank has become our code word for how annoying it is to talk on the app. Anything remotely personal morphs into a string of black boxes.

This trip, for example. I was dying to tell him about it. Not just because it’s art stuff, but because I’ve had to keep it from everybody. Even my friends. Mum works at the tiny Spar on our estate and everything gets back to her.

I’d just typed I got on to an art course in Venice, it’s— when the words started vanishing, and long black boxes blanked everything out.

I got a virtual wrist-slap and a three-day ban for sharing personal info and/or location details.

Three whole days of not talking to Rebel. It was agony.

@RenaissanceRebel: Scared to ask in case the SWAT team crashes through my screen but … is today your blank trip?

@TotallySketchy: Yeah.

I’m thinking about a reply that won’t trigger the mods when another message appears.

@RenaissanceRebel: Hope you’ll have Wi-Fi … or I’m going to miss this.

My insides go all toasty. This could mean my sketches.

Or it could mean our chats. I hope it’s both, but compliments about my art are hard to believe now it’s just me, my iPad and whatever I can teach myself.

If it weren’t for Rebel, I’m not sure I’d have stuck at it, what with school and exams and my cinema job.

It’s mad, really. My own family doesn’t get it, but he does.

I don’t even know his real name or where he lives, only that he’s somewhere in Europe, because the app only links European schools.

His English is perfect if a bit formal, which makes me think Germany or the Netherlands.

Sometimes clues from his posts back that up, too.

A mural beside a road with a Volkswagen driving on the right.

Another on a concrete wall next to a tulip-lined cycle path.

But even if I’m right, he might not be there any more.

He’s already had to switch schools this year.

@TotallySketchy: You haven’t posted anything new in ages.

@RenaissanceRebel: I know. School’s been intense because of family stuff. Promise I’ll make it up to you. Keep the masterpieces coming.

With the app in the way, all I can do is guess at his problems. Maybe it’s the same thing my friend’s going through. Her parents split before Christmas and everything unravelled fast. Less money. A move. A new school. She’s still getting used to it all.

The tannoy announces my flight is boarding.

@TotallySketchy: Got to go.

@RenaissanceRebel: OK. Blank you.

@TotallySketchy: Blank you too.

We’ve been signing off like this for two months now, and it still makes me giddy. We used to say blank you later – but later has fallen away, leaving something bigger in its place.