I start layering in textures, using photos I’ve taken around Venice – palazzos reflected in the water, crumbling plaster, and even the shadow of a gondola oar. The hours slide by as I blend, sketch and erase, my hand aching and my spine glued to the headboard. But when I’m done, my head feels clearer than it has in days.
I finally know what to do about Jacopo. I’ve drafted a million messages and never once hit send … because words aren’t my thing. Pictures are. And what better way to tell him I know who he really is? Plus I’m still suspended on Art Exchange, so sending the image straight from my phone to his will say morethan I could ever write. I screenshot the collage and fire it off before I can change my mind.
My phone buzzes almost immediately. Then again, as a rush of messages flood the screen.
Jacopo:Urca!This is insane.
Jacopo: I did not expect this.
Jacopo: You totally got me.
I’ve been breathing in with every new message, lungs full to bursting with excitement. This is confirmation, right? Jacopo is Rebel.
Another ping.
Jacopo: I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. Be ready.
I sink back against the pillows, caught between dread and something that feels a lot like hope.
I’m up with the pigeons on Saturday morning, sitting on a kitchen stool in my last clean tee and my favourite jeans, psyching myself up before Jacopo gets here. This is it – the day Rebel and I go on an actual date.
Because once we confess our identities face to face, the feelings will come rushing in. They have to. Ineedthem to.
‘Buongiorno, Evie.’ Jacopo’s mum pats my cheek on the way past, before parking hercarrelloin its usual spot.
Jacopo saunters in behind her and I hold my breath. Any second now, our eyes will meet, and I’ll see it. That spark of recognition. A look that saysit’s you. But all I get is his usual grin as he opens the fridge.
‘So.’ I shuffle closer, leaning against the wall like it’s no big deal. ‘You came.’
He tips his head. ‘Missed me?’
I frown. Is this an act?
‘Umm. You got my message last night, right?’
‘Sì.’ He sets the milk on the table, then glances back at me. ‘It was a nice surprise.’
Nice? I wait for more. Was he surprised I’m Sketchy? That I know he’s Rebel? This is so not how I imagined Sketchy and Rebel meeting in real life. I expected more … soulmate stuff.
Before I can press him, Leo drifts in wearing his version of pyjamas – a boxy T-shirt and baggy joggers that would be scruffy on anyone else. On him, though, they look unfairly good. Poster good.
I shut the image down fast as the boys clap each other on the shoulder, easy as anything.
‘Bon, you have seen what Evie did?’ Jacopo pulls out his phone and turns the screen towards Leo. ‘It’s me!’
What? Noooo!
I yank Jacopo’s arm away, but it’s too late. Leo’s eyes are bugging out.
‘OK, let’s go!’ I shove Jacopo towards the door, faking urgency.
He digs his heels in. ‘Aspetta– wait! I haven’t had breakfast yet.’
‘No time! Come on, we’ll be late!’ I practically frogmarch him out of the palazzo into the morning crowds. Oh God. Why would he show Leo, of allpeople? He’ll think I’m so weird, taking photos of the school graffiti and drawing my own version in my spare time.
Unless … unless Jacopo isn’t really Rebel at all.
‘What’s the hurry?’ Jacopo protests. ‘I want to see all the beautiful girls too, but—’
