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 mumblesomething 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—
A grey warning banner flashes up.
Your message has been flagged for review.
Your account has been temporarily restricted.
The warning banner loops in my head for the rest of the morning. It’s still there when Silvia collects us for the mask-making workshop, reminding me how badly I messed up.
I barely notice the walk. I’m too busy drafting and deleting messages in my head. There’s no avoiding it now. I’m going to have to text Jacopo directly and get it over with.
But right now Silvia’s knocking on a skinny brown door, wedged between a glassware shop and a greengrocer with crates of oranges and cauliflowers stacked outside.
A bony man with wiry grey hair sprouting from his head and jaw looms over us. He reminds me of the Big Grey Man of Ben MacDhui, only armed with a tiny takeaway espresso instead of a warning bell. I really need to stop slotting people into myths and folktales. That’s not helping any more.
He grunts at Silvia before stepping back to usher us inside.
It’s like entering another world. Delicate masks, in every stage of completion, hang overhead – gleaming, glinting and glowering. I spot the usual ones from market stalls – long-nosed plague doctors, harlequins, pretty flowered half-masks – except these aren’t cheap plastic imitations. They’re works of art.
