I reach into my bag, but Veronica stops me.
‘Allow me. It’s your first day.’
I don’t argue, but I can’t do this every morning – take handouts or splash out on cafes. My breakfast sits heavy in my stomach as I think about how much this trip’s already cost Mum and Dad. ‘Fully funded’ doesn’t mean free – there was the passport (not cheap!), travel insurance, extra phone data, plug adaptors, travel-sized everything, emergency euros. If they knew it was really for art and not science … yeah, I’d probably choke on the rest of this bun.
The Ballarin Institute is down a street so narrow it’s definitely acalle. I even have to brush chalky plaster off the shoulders of my thrifted velvet blazer. The building itself is wrapped in scaffolding, its façade hidden behind plywood hoardings. Someone’s bombed the boards with spray paint: a brooding, old-fashioned portrait that tickles my memory, like I’ve seen it before. Only instead of robes or ruffles, the man’s wearing a suit that’s far too modern for the rest of him.
I stop, breath catching. It’s exactly the kind of thing Rebel would love. I reach for my phone to snap a pic, but stop when I hear Veronica’s heavy sigh.
‘It’s always worse during Carnevale. Everything’s temporary, so people decide the rules are too. We clear one piece of graffiti and a new one appears.’
I choke back my admiring words. ‘Right. Yeah. Terrible.’
I sneak a glance at Leo to see if he noticed me backtracking, but he’s hurrying inside, clearly keen toget away from me. I put my phone away.
It’s stupid, I know. But by pretending not to like street art, I feel as though I just betrayed Rebel. I should have told Veronica that’s what it is. Art, not a scribbled tag. The fact she doesn’t know the difference worries me. I mean … what kind of art school is this?
I stay quiet. Because I need this exchange to work. Proper training. Real skills. A certificate to convince my parents science isn’t the only path, that I’m good at something too.
The reminder helps as I step into the long, bright studio. Tall windows run down one side and a neat grid of workstations fills the space – each with a desk, an easel and a metal stool. It’s miles nicer than the lino-floored art room back at Raeburn Academy.
Veronica’s silky balloon sleeve billows as she gestures to a desk set against the wall at the front. ‘You can sit here, Evie.’
I drape my blazer over my seat and tug at the cuffs of my charity shop shirt as another ten or so students fan out across the studio. The shirt’s colourful postcard print tricked me into thinking it would be perfect for my trip, but it looks tacky next to all the other students’ quality fabrics and ironed clothes. I catch a few openly curious stares as they unpack sketchpads,brushes and fancy tools I can’t even name. Leo’s on the other side of the room, admiring a soft leather roll someone’s untying, and I slump forward a little. Will I have to buy my own art supplies? In Venice. I mean … that won’t be cheap, right? And it’s not like I could afford much back home, either. I only have my iPad, so I take it out just to have something there.
I hear a snort, then the words: ‘Moltovintage.’
An angular boy with wild dark hair and stylish clothes is sitting behind me. Wulver, is my first thought – he’d be perfect as one of the Shetland wolf-men who leave salmon on doorsteps.
At first, I think he means my shirt. Then I realize it’s my iPad he’s smirking at.
I flip it face-down to hide the home button – a dead giveaway to its age. Heat blooms under my collar. I read somewhere that the Ballarin Institute is basically a conservatoire, specializing in portraiture instead of ballet or classical music. I’m beginning to suspect I wouldn’t get a look-in without this placement.
Leo reluctantly takes the spot next to me at Veronica’s insistence. When the chatter settles, she raises a hand. ‘Class! Please welcome Evie Douglas. As you all know, Evie is joining us through the InterSTEAM project and has come to Venice early to be here forSilvia’s briefing later this morning. Now I’m sure—’
The wulver boy’s hand shoots up. ‘Perché parli in inglese?’
Veronica smiles. ‘Why English? Excellent question, Fulvio. One of the main aims of the project is to connect young people right across Europe. We’re trialling our first course in English to make it easier to work together now … and in the future. Please do ask for support if you need it.’
A collective groan rumbles through the room. Great. Not even five minutes in, and I’ve managed to make an entire class wish I weren’t here.
Veronica doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Evie was selected by Silvia Rossetti herself, so I’m very excited to see her work.’
Leo goes from an eye roll to a scowl, like it’s a practised gymnastics routine. Honestly, what is his problem?
‘Now, we were scheduled to paint a life model this morning,’ Veronica says, crossing to the windows to allow more light in. ‘But Carnevale has got in the way as usual and our sitter had to cancel.’
As she pauses to adjust the shutter slats, a girl with an edgy pixie cut pats her chest and whispers to me in hesitant English, ‘I am Nadia. Sorry. My English is … not great.’
‘Il mio italiano è…’ I grimace and turn my thumb down.
We share a look of understanding, and I think I’ve just made friends with my first classmate. Not one I can actually talk to – but it’s a start.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to pair up and draw each other instead,’ Veronica continues, turning to face the class.
Leo’s mucking about on his phone as if all this is beneath him. If I didn’t already dislike him, this would seal the deal. He has no idea how lucky he is to grow up with all this, when people like me have to rely on free programmes and opportunities. And, in my case, lies.
The others drag their stools into position – clearly this isn’t new to them.
