Chapter 32
Before class starts, Silvia asks me to hang back at break time to ‘chat about some extra admin bits’.
I vibrate with tension for a whole three hours as she makes her way around the room, jotting notes in our project folders and taking photos of everyone in front of their portraits with a Polaroid camera.
The showcase is only two days away. I can’t bear the idea of it all falling apart now.
When the others start putting their coats on, Leo stays by my side.
‘Ah, Evie,’ Silvia says, joining me at my desk. ‘Thank you for waiting. I expect our chat may take a little longer than the others.’
I swallow hard. ‘Why is that?’
‘The paperwork mostly.’
My skin goes cold and clammy.
‘It’s the placement funding, of course, and the fact this is a new strand and you’re our only international student. The forms are never-ending.’ She fans herself with a stack of papers as if to illustrate.
‘Oh … is that all?’
‘Was there something you wanted to ask?’
‘The certificate,’ I blurt. ‘How do we actually get it? I mean … do we get it here, or does it get sent home?’
I can’t remember how Griselda got hers, only that it’s framed over the mantelpiece, like it grew out of the wall.
I need to get my hands on mine before Mum and Dad do, so I can prepare them for the word art instead of science.
‘You should be able to take it with you.’ Silvia reaches for something that looks like a checklist. ‘Now, let’s hear how this experience is going.’
Veronica materializes at my side. ‘Surprisingly well, considering the mix-up.’
‘Mix-up?’ Silvia looks up from the form.
‘Raeburn Academy, Raeburn the painter,’ Veronica explains. ‘You thought Evie’s school was connected to the Scottish portrait artist.’
My shoulders draw in. I took a place meant for someone else. For someone better.
Silvia’s brows knit for a second. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’ She turns to me instead. ‘Evie, do you feel you’ve benefited from the experience?’
Oh God – she’s literally asking if I’ve learnt anything. ‘Yes,’ I say. Then, because it doesn’t sound like it’s enough, ‘Definitely. It’s been brilliant working alongside Veronica. And with Leo.’ He snorts and I shoot him a look. ‘No, really. I’ve learnt loads.’
She positions me for my photo, and I sneak a peek at my portrait, wondering if she can tell I’m a fraud just by looking at it. The brushwork is cleaner than anything I could’ve managed a few weeks ago. The proportions make sense, too. It looks … competent. But it’s neat when it should be alive.
When everyone breaks for lunch, Leo and I hang back together.
‘What if there wasn’t a mix-up?’ Leo says quietly.
I wrinkle my nose. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What if my mum’s wrong, and Silvia really did hand-pick you? You heard her – she had no idea about the Henry Raeburn thing.’
I sweep an arm at my classmates’ Baroque-style masterpieces. ‘Nah, my digital collages don’t compare to this.’
‘And maybe that’s why she chose you.’
He’s looking into my eyes, telling me he truly believes that. Not because he likes me. He likes what I create. It’s what drew us together in the first place – my digital drawings, his street art.
I turn back to my portrait. ‘I thought I wanted to be good at this. Then I look at your dad’s stuff and you know what I feel?’
Leo watches me closely.
‘Impressed, mostly. And I don’t want to feel that way about my art.
Is impressed even a feeling? I only started doing digital stuff because I had to – no more art room, no money for supplies, and it was easier to hide how much time I spent on it from my sister.
It was a back-up. But now. It’s me. And this painting … isn’t.’
‘You want to add antlers and pixels, don’t you?’ Leo deadpans.
‘Ha ha!’ I zap his side. ‘Like you don’t want to take a spray can to yours.’
We laugh, then fall silent as the idea lands between us.
That telepathy thing again.
I plant my hands on my hips. ‘I’m not letting you take a spray can to your masterpiece.’
‘Just hear me out.’
He grabs a loose sheet and a stick of charcoal, then roughs out an outline of our floats, portraits and all. He draws himself as a stick figure holding a canister, his face one big, happy grin.
‘Your turn.’
I take the charcoal and add a second stick figure engulfed in flames.
Leo peers at it. ‘What’s that?’
‘Your dad combusting on the sidelines.’
‘Very funny. Come on. What would you really do?’
With a huff, I scribble a few reeds in La Bella’s hair and a horse tail flicking out of the frame. I mean to stop there, but end up adding a trail of wet hoofprints, some watery ripples and—
Leo’s laugh interrupts me. ‘See? You’re totally getting into it.’
I push the paper away. ‘I am. But I need that certificate. I’ve taken so many risks already. I can’t throw it all away.’
He slips an arm around my shoulders, squeezing gently. ‘You’re right, Nessie,’ he murmurs. ‘This can just be our little secret.’
A slow clap breaks the moment.
Fulvio saunters back into the studio.
‘Well played, Evie. The teacher’s son, eh? It all makes sense now.’
‘Just go, Fulvio,’ Leo says, tired.
Fulvio comes closer instead. ‘Hardly fair she gets special treatment. The rest of us pay good money to be here. We should be in on any secrets too.’ He leans in and snatches our sketch, holding it high as he scans the page.
‘Basta!’ Leo’s on his feet in seconds, fists clenched.
Enough.
The Italian throws me. Leo’s usually so careful to stick to English around me. But it’s not just the language. It’s his tone.
Fulvio’s smirk falters, and he tosses the paper back on to our desk.
‘Relax. You can keep your little scribbles.’
I’m tempted to shout basta too, when the afternoon drags on and Fulvio continues to needle us from the desk behind. Silvia makes us stay even later than usual to fine-tune parade logistics – timings, routes and who’s going first.
‘You’ve worked hard on Veronica’s brief,’ she says finally. ‘And I know the committee are looking forward to the show. I’d love to see more of your individual styles one day, but for now, you’ve earned a break – you should celebrate!’
‘Sì!’ Alessandra punches the air. ‘Class night out. Who’s in?’
‘I am,’ Fulvio says quickly. ‘We should catch up properly. Discuss how everyone’s really getting on.’
A few people exchange looks.
‘Rialto?’ someone says, prompting a back and forth about who has a boat and which bacaro to try.
‘You can ask Jacopo to come,’ Nadia whispers on our way out. ‘I tried to chat to him at the ball, but he was very shy. Maybe if you and Leo are there … ?’
Yeah. Not sure what to make of that.