Chapter 16
It’s not until I’m at my workstation, the shock of seeing Rebel’s mural wearing off, that I realize Leo didn’t react at all.
He walked straight past it like he expected it to be there.
He must’ve guessed Jacopo would paint another one after he joked about it being a blank canvas yesterday.
It’s the kind of needling and hint-dropping Jacopo loves.
But not Rebel, a little voice whispers. Only … what do I actually know about Rebel?
Maybe that’s the bit I’ve been getting wrong. Online, people can sound exactly how you want them to. Thoughtful. Funny. Safe. Like Rebel.
Jacopo’s the opposite. He’s loud and flirty and always half-joking. Can someone be both? I’ve resisted Jacopo’s outrageous comments and invitations in real life, but have I fallen for his charm in a different format?
I try to tune back into the room. We’re supposed to be working on mock-ups today, which mostly means a lot of heated discussion about which Venetian painters we’re ‘drawing inspiration from’.
‘We should do La Bella and Portrait of a Youth.’ Leo’s fingers brush against mine as he spreads out the plans for the float. It’s nothing, but my brain notices.
‘Filippino Lippi isn’t Venetian,’ I counter.
Leo’s eyebrows lift in surprise.
‘What?’ I snap. ‘I’m not supposed to know that?’
The truth is, I’ve googled Portrait of a Youth. More than once. I don’t want to admit to myself exactly why. I mean, research obviously. Just that. Nothing more.
Leo only shrugs. ‘I’ll make it work.’
That’s it. No risk. No fear. He can bend the rules whenever he likes because there’ll always be someone to back him up.
‘Fine,’ I mutter. What does it matter anyway? I’m basically the assistant, filling in the colour wash. But when it’s time to start sketching, Leo pushes the paper towards me.
‘You should do yours.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Why? So you can scroll while I mess it up? Must be nice, knowing your art career’s sorted.’
He’s already checking his phone, like he’s waiting for a text. He barely even looks up when he says, ‘Yesterday you said your parents don’t believe in you. Maybe it’s you who doesn’t believe in yourself.’
I shove the sketchpad back across the table.
‘Nope.’ He puts his phone down, slides the sketchpad towards me again, and grabs a fresh sheet for himself. ‘Follow what I do.’
I grip the pencil, trying not to notice how his straight-line brows dip as he focuses. I should be thinking about Jacopo. About Rebel. That’s the puzzle I need to solve, not … whatever this is.
The silence stretches, then I blurt, ‘So … you and Jacopo have known each other for ages, huh?’
Leo glances at me, cautious. ‘Yeah.’
‘Did he ever study art?’
He snorts. ‘Jacopo?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Right. Because his work doesn’t count as that, does it?’
Leo frowns. ‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ I say quickly, my grip tightening on the pencil. Of course Leo, with his fancy artist dad and posh school, wouldn’t think street art counts.
‘We went to the same school until we were thirteen,’ he says, ‘then to different high schools. I moved again when my parents opened this place.’
Instead of sounding thrilled about it, he sounds ungrateful and entitled. As usual.
‘Jacopo chose languages instead.’
‘Languages?’
‘He pretends it’s so he can chat up more girls, but really it’s for tourism, when he takes over his dad’s gondolier licence.’
The way he says it – fond, not mocking – tugs me off balance.
I look at him properly, and behind the bored Leo and the intense Leo, I catch a flash of something warmer.
A quiet kind of loyalty. For a second I’m back on the boat, learning to row, the light reflecting in the canal, that strange sense of newness and possibility.
Back when I was starting to see him differently. Silly me.
‘Does Jacopo …’ I trail off, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Does he have a girlfriend, then? Or … maybe someone online? Or long-distance?’
Leo lets out a short laugh. ‘Knowing Jacopo? All of the above.’ Then, more flatly: ‘He can be pretty secretive when he wants to be … but you might not want to trust him with your own.’
I wriggle uncomfortably. ‘Who says I have secrets?’
He shrugs. ‘Most people do.’
As far as I know, Jacopo has no idea I’m Sketchy – aka the person he’s been messaging every day for the past year. At least – I don’t think he does.
I need to change that.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I mumble something about needing the loo and head for the bathroom. I’m not Leo. I don’t get to scroll through my phone in class like it’s an extension of my hand. The rules are different for me.
Inside the tiny, tiled space, I lean against the sink, pull out my phone, and open the Art Exchange. My fingers hover for a second, then I type:
@TotallySketchy: I’m in Venice too.
I hit send.
For half a second, it hangs there. Then—
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