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 tobe 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 figureengulfed 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 inLa 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.
