Chapter 5
The Ballarin Institute is down a street so narrow it’s definitely a calle.
I even have to brush chalky plaster off the shoulders of my thrifted velvet blazer.
The building itself is wrapped in scaffolding, its facade hidden behind plywood hoardings.
Someone’s bombed the boards with spray paint: a brooding, old-fashioned portrait that tickles my memory, like I’ve seen it before.
Only instead of robes or ruffles, the man’s wearing a suit that’s far too modern for the rest of him.
I stop, breath catching. It’s exactly the kind of thing Rebel would love. I reach for my phone to snap a pic, but stop when I hear Veronica’s heavy sigh.
‘It’s always worse during Carnevale. Everything’s temporary, so people decide the rules are too. We clear one piece of graffiti and a new one appears.’
I choke back my admiring words. ‘Right. Yeah. Terrible.’
I sneak a glance at Leo to see if he noticed me backtracking, but he’s hurrying inside, clearly keen to get away from me. I put my phone away.
It’s stupid, I know. But by pretending not to like street art, I feel as though I just betrayed Rebel. I should have told Veronica that’s what it is. Art, not a scribbled tag. The fact she doesn’t know the difference worries me. I mean … what kind of art school is this?
I stay quiet. Because I need this exchange to work. Proper training. Real skills. A certificate to convince my parents science isn’t the only path, that I’m good at something too.
The reminder helps as I step into the long, bright studio. Tall windows run down one side and a neat grid of workstations fills the space – each with a desk, an easel and a metal stool. It’s miles nicer than the lino-floored art room back at Raeburn Academy.
Veronica’s silky balloon sleeve billows as she gestures to a desk set against the wall at the front. ‘You can sit here, Evie.’
I drape my blazer over my seat and tug at the cuffs of my charity shop shirt as another ten or so students fan out across the studio.
The shirt’s colourful postcard print tricked me into thinking it would be perfect for my trip, but it looks tacky next to all the other students’ quality fabrics and ironed clothes.
I catch a few openly curious stares as they unpack sketchpads, brushes and fancy tools I can’t even name.
Leo’s on the other side of the room, admiring a soft leather roll someone’s untying, and I slump forward a little.
Will I have to buy my own art supplies? In Venice.
I mean … that won’t be cheap, right? And it’s not like I could afford much back home, either.
I only have my iPad, so I take it out just to have something there.
I hear a snort, then the words: ‘Molto vintage.’
An angular boy with wild dark hair and stylish clothes is sitting behind me. Wulver, is my first thought – he’d be perfect as one of the Shetland wolf-men who leave salmon on doorsteps.
At first, I think he means my shirt. Then I realize it’s my iPad he’s smirking at.
I flip it face-down to hide the home button – a dead giveaway to its age.
Heat blooms under my collar. I read somewhere that the Ballarin Institute is basically a conservatoire, specializing in portraiture instead of ballet or classical music.
I’m beginning to suspect I wouldn’t get a look-in without this placement.
Leo reluctantly takes the spot next to me at Veronica’s insistence.
When the chatter settles, she raises a hand.
‘Class! Please welcome Evie Douglas. As you all know, Evie is joining us through the InterSTEAM project and has come to Venice early to be here for Silvia’s briefing later this morning. Now I’m sure—’
The wulver boy’s hand shoots up. ‘Perché parli in inglese?’
Veronica smiles. ‘Why English? Excellent question, Fulvio. One of the main aims of the project is to connect young people right across Europe. We’re trialling our first course in English to make it easier to work together now … and in the future. Please do ask for support if you need it.’
A collective groan rumbles through the room. Great. Not even five minutes in, and I’ve managed to make an entire class wish I weren’t here.
Veronica doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Evie was selected by Silvia Rossetti herself, so I’m very excited to see her work.’
Leo goes from an eye roll to a scowl, like it’s a practised gymnastics routine. Honestly, what is his problem?
‘Now, we were scheduled to paint a life model this morning,’ Veronica says, crossing to the windows to allow more light in. ‘But Carnevale has got in the way as usual and our sitter had to cancel.’
As she pauses to adjust the shutter slats, a girl with an edgy pixie cut pats her chest and whispers to me in hesitant English, ‘I am Nadia. Sorry. My English is … not great.’
‘Il mio italiano è …’ I grimace and turn my thumb down.
We share a look of understanding, and I think I’ve just made friends with my first classmate. Not one I can actually talk to – but it’s a start.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to pair up and draw each other instead,’ Veronica continues, turning to face the class.
Leo’s mucking about on his phone as if all this is beneath him. If I didn’t already dislike him, this would seal the deal. He has no idea how lucky he is to grow up with all this, when people like me have to rely on free programmes and opportunities. And, in my case, lies.
The others drag their stools into position – clearly this isn’t new to them.
Fulvio leans over to tap Leo’s shoulder. ‘Io e te?’
Veronica shakes her head. ‘English please, Fulvio. And I think Leonardo and Evie should work together.’
I swallow my protest. Me? Paint Leo? What happened to coming early just for the briefing? I haven’t picked up a real paintbrush in ages. I thought I’d be eased into this – basic techniques and building from there. Not thrown into a live portrait. That’s the big finale, not the warm-up.
I shove my iPad into my bag before Leo notices the cracks spidering across the screen, then splay my empty hands. ‘I’ve got nothing with me.’
He jerks his chin towards the back of the room. ‘The cupboard. You can borrow stuff there.’
I hover uncertainly over the shelves, grabbing a bit of everything – brushes, paints, charcoals, inks. It’s half nerves, half the thrill of touching real materials again. Then I carry the pile back, sit opposite Leo and wait for more instructions.
But everyone’s starting, and Veronica’s busy powering up her laptop.
‘Umm … what does your mum want to see, exactly?’
‘A portrait,’ he says, dismissive, as though it’s impossible for him to imagine messing this up.
‘Right. Thanks for nothing,’ I mutter, setting everything down.
His head snaps up. ‘Silvia hand-picked you, didn’t she? You know the drill.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘You’re actually worried I’m competition, aren’t you? Like your pal Jacopo said.’
‘Jacopo doesn’t know what he’s talking about.’
A grin creeps across my face. ‘Could you hold that scowl for me?’
He blinks, thrown, but I’ve already dipped a brush and gone in. The bristles feel clumsy compared to my stylus, and the paint doesn’t move like the layers on my screen. It drags and gloops and refuses to blend. Frustrated, I switch to a palette knife, scraping and smearing instead.
I’m aiming for a shoulder-up portrait. But after the whole shirtless-in-the-bathroom incident, I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze, which is kind of an issue when it comes to painting his eyes. They’re a million shades of blue and green, forcing me to rinse and reload the brush again and again.
I remind myself this is a warm-up, that it’s not going to affect my result.
I finally relax and get caught up in the process.
As I do, a faint golden crown appears around Leo’s head – faerie-prince style – then I catch myself and scrub it out.
I exaggerate his nose instead. Just for my own satisfaction.
We work in silence, a total contrast to Nadia and her partner – a tall girl called Alessandra who’s painting in a tailored co-ord.
Leo keeps checking his phone, like he’s waiting for a message.
I don’t dare do the same, even though Rebel’s probably wondering where I’ve got to. I’m not the teacher’s son.
By morning break, I’m flushed and breathless and a tiny bit exhilarated. Once I stopped overthinking, it was actually fun. I don’t even hate the result. But when Leo swivels his easel towards the wall to hide his work, I do the same … nerves creeping in as I come back down to earth.
Nadia invites me to join her and Alessandra at something called a bacaro. ‘For cicchetti. Small bites.’ She mimes eating with a hopeful smile.
I wish I could say yes. My stomach’s growling, but I can’t risk blowing all my cash on juice and snacks. And I still haven’t checked in with Rebel.
‘I, um … need to find a piccolo … shop,’ I say slowly. ‘And message a friend …’
I fish my phone out as the others drift off, already planning what to say.
Leo’s zipping up his coat when Veronica stops him. Between her gestures and the little Italian I understand, I think she wants him to paint over the graffiti. Now.
Sighing, he picks up his phone and heads to the supply cupboard.
I can’t resist a little jab on my way out. ‘What’s up, da Vinci? Do you only paint masterpieces?’
His shoulders stiffen and I slip through the door before he can reply. Almost instantly, my phone buzzes.
@RenaissanceRebel: Still waiting for a new masterpiece!
Ha! See? Telepathy. I literally just said the word ‘masterpiece’ out loud.
@TotallySketchy: I have one! But … drum roll … it’s on paper for once. I’ll take a pic and send it later. What about you? You promised, remember?
There’s a pause. Then:
@RenaissanceRebel: Sorry, stuck inside doing stuff I can’t get out of.
I know that trapped feeling. I wonder again if I’m right about his family situation – if he’s dealing with the sort of changes where money decides everything.
@TotallySketchy: No rush. I’m here when you’re ready.
@RenaissanceRebel: That’s what I blank about you, Sketchy. You never push. You just … understand.
My heart shimmies behind my ribcage.
Blank is definitely love.