Next week in hell （chapter 1） #2
Maybe that is why stepping into the art wing feels a little like finally coming up for air.And when I finally reach my classroom, my attention drifts toward the polished brass plaque beside the door.
Warm sunlight streams through the glass panel, illuminating rows of easels and large canvases.
Even from where I stand, I can smell traces of paint, charcoal and paper, and something inside me relaxes almost immediately.
It is such a simple thing. Such a ridiculous thing.
Yet after two weeks of feeling like I don't belong anywhere, standing outside that classroom is the first moment that feels remotely familiar.
Which is probably why I become so distracted that I don't notice someone approaching until a voice speaks behind me.
"You know, the door won't open itself no matter how long you keep staring at it."
The sound startles me so badly that I nearly drop my things for the second time. Spinning around, I find myself face to face with a blond boy whose amused expression suggests he has been watching me stand there for considerably longer than I would have liked.
"Oh my God," I mutter, laughing awkwardly as I push a strand of hair behind my ear. "Was I really standing here that long?"
His grin widens.
"Long enough for me to start wondering whether you were planning to go inside or spend the entire lesson admiring the door."
Despite myself, a laugh escapes me. And somehow, after the morning I have had, that simple exchange feels like the nicest conversation I have experienced since arriving at Weststar.
"Excuse us, sir," he says smoothly as we step inside, as though arriving late is something he does on a daily basis. "I was showing our new student around."
A few quiet laughs drift through the room, and heat creeps immediately into my cheeks.
Near the large windows at the front, a tall man with silver-streaked hair looks up from the desk where he has been sorting through sketchbooks.
Paint stains the cuff of his dark shirt, and a pair of reading glasses rests low on the bridge of his nose, giving him the slightly distracted appearance of someone whose thoughts are usually occupied by ideas rather than schedules.
His gaze moves from James to me in a calm and attentive way .
"Very thoughtful of you Mr Blackwell " he says.
James responds with an innocent smile before slipping toward an empty seat with the effortless confidence of someone who has spent years in this room and knows exactly where he belongs.
I remain standing a moment longer than necessary, clutching my book and bag as the attention of the class settles on me.
"Everyone," Mr. Albert announces, "this is our new student."
"I'm Sophia Miller." I force what I hope looks like a normal smile.
"It's nice to meet you." The response is exactly what I might have expected.
A few students nod politely. One girl offers a small smile before returning to her sketchbook.
Several others look at me briefly, decide I am not interesting enough and return to whatever they had been doing before.
Oddly enough, I prefer that reaction. Being ignored feels significantly less intimidating than being judged.
From across the room, James catches my eye and gives me an encouraging nod. And to my supries it helps more than I want to admit.
"Thank you Miss Miller " Mr. Albert says while pointing to an empty seat "You may take the seat by the window."
I move quickly toward the empty seat, grateful to escape the spotlight.
Warm sunlight spills across the desk as I sit down, and for the first time since entering the room, I breathe properly.
The seat beside the window offers a perfect view of the courtyard below where students crossing the grounds in small groups, sunlight softening the academy's imposing stone buildings.
For a brief moment, I find myself wondering whether my mother would have loved this place.
The thought arrives the way they always do unexpectedly, through something small and ordinary.
A painting, a song, a classroom filled with art supplies.
Grief has a way of weaving itself into everyday moments when I least expect it.
It never truly disappears. It simply learns how to stay quiet until something invites it back into the light.
"Since you've joined us in the middle of the year," Mr. Albert continues, drawing my attention back to the front, "I don't expect perfection immediately. Weststar's art program is considerably more advanced than most, so there will naturally be some adjustments."
My hand pauses halfway through opening my sketchbook.
Something about the comment settles uncomfortably inside me.
Not the words exactly more the assumption hidden beneath them.
The idea that talent flourishes more easily when accompanied by expensive tuition fees.
That students from public schools start several steps behind and are expected to stay there.
Maybe I am imagining it. Maybe I am being overly sensitive.
But after two weeks surrounded by people who seem determined to measure value through wealth, those subtle distinctions are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
I know I should stay quiet. I genuinely do.But the words slip out before I can stop myself.
"Sir," I say.
"Yes, Miss Miller?"
I swallow.
Just stay calm Sophi now it's to late anyway.
"I don't think talent has much to do with where somebody comes from."
The words linger in the air. Several students look up.
Some appear surprised. Others look amused.
James seems particularly interested in how this is going to unfold.
Silence stretches across the room for a few long seconds and I can practically hear my own heartbeat. Eventually I force myself to continue.
"I'm sure I'll catch up quickly."
A faint smile appears on Mr. Albert's face.
Not mocking. Not irritated. Intrigued before he says "Then I look forward to seeing your work, Miss Miller."
And Relief washes through me so suddenly that I almost laugh.
I nod and lower my gaze to my sketchbook as brief whispers spread through the room before fading away again.
Apparently I have survived. Barely.