By the time we break apart, there’s a plan: meet at the studio early tomorrow morning, each of us ready to make our artwork truly our own.
Jacopo’s already waiting outside when we finish breakfast on Saturday morning. His mum gives me and Leo a look as she climbs out ofCatrìn; like she knows we’re up to something she wouldn’t approve of.
The huge box wedged into the boat is a bit of a giveaway. I lift one of the cardboard flaps as we squeeze around it and spot a tangle of cables and other electrical kit. I pull out a small projector. ‘Remind me, Jacopo, how many Venetians are left in the city exactly?’
He sighs. ‘Under 50,000. That’s seventy per cent less than there used to be.’
Another lucky dip gets me a portable speaker. ‘And does every single one of them owe you a favour?’
Jacopo smirks. ‘Sì. Even the babies.’
He brings us close to the studio and even has a fold-up trolley to wheel the box the rest of the way. We didn’t have to steal the keys to get in either – Leo’s parents handed them over when we said myportrait needed more work. Totally believable, clearly. And not entirely untrue. Twisting the truth to my own family is one thing … but fooling Leo’s? What if this blows back on him, causes a rift with his parents? Would he even be doing this if I weren’t here?
He’s reading my mind as usual, because he squeezes my hand and murmurs into my hair, ‘It’s the right thing. For both of us.’
The others arrive soon after with armfuls of supplies. And while I’m usually pretty quiet in class, too busy playing catch-up, I move to the front and signal for their attention.
‘Listen. Before we start, you need to think hard about this. My family are miles away in a whole different country. But yours … yours will see this in real time, and there’s every chance going off-piste like this will have consequences.’
What I don’t say is that I’ll be dealing with the fallout too. Just later. When I go home without the InterSTEAM science certificate everyone expects … and maybe nothing to prove art was the right call, after this.
I just hope Silvia meant it when she encouraged us to explore more personal takes, because it doesn’t get more personal than this.
Alessandra waves a dismissive hand. ‘I’ve preparedour defence. People thought Tintoretto was breaking all the rules when he started painting with fast, wild brushstrokes. But now we call it genius. Maybe this is just our turn.’
We work together at first, passing sketches around, testing and scrapping ideas until everyone has a plan. Jacopo – who’s brought a radio for some tunes – helps out in his ever-practical way, and we only take breaks when hunger forces us to.
It’s late when we admit we’ve done what we can and promise to meet early tomorrow for last-minute tweaks. The parade is less than a day away.
Jacopo offers to take Nadia home, and as Leo locks up, I run my fingers over the mural of San Marco, tracing the splayed wings.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask … the art that was here before, the one your mum made you paint over – that was your dad, wasn’t it? Weren’t you afraid he would recognize himself? Or that your mum would recognize him?’
Leo scoffs. ‘That would mean them actually looking at street art instead of rushing to paint over it.’
He pockets the key then reaches for my hand, pausing to blow hot air over my frozen fingers. The temperature has dropped with the sun and I’m already freezing in my flimsy blazer.
‘How come you never shared it on the Art Exchange?’ I ask.
His grip tightens around my fingers. ‘That was my space. Our space. I didn’t want him there. That mural was my little rebellion, I suppose.’
‘What we’re doing now … it’s a pretty big rebellion. A very public one, too.’ I swallow hard. How did I ever think Leo had nothing to lose? His pressures are just different to mine. He has to uphold his family name, continue the legacy. ‘We’re really going through with it?’ I ask.
‘I think the minute you showed up here, it was meant to be. I wouldn’t change anything about what we’re doing, no matter the consequences.’ There’s a smile in his voice now, and I know he means he wouldn’t change anything about us or our plan. ‘Things aren’t great with my dad anyway, so …’
I wrap an arm around his waist and squeeze.
‘You’re just after my warmth, aren’t you?’ he teases.
‘Nope. I’m trying to comfort you. You know, like a good girlfriend.’
The word’s out before I even realize I’ve said it. Natural. Easy. Like it’s always been true.
‘Is that what you are?’
I stammer for a reply …
‘Because that’s what I want you to be.’ He unzipshis fancy coat and opens it wide, inviting me under, and my relief bursts out as laughter.
