It’s a hydrangea petal, pale blue fading to lavender at the edges, perfectly flattened. She handles it like it’s precious, which to her it probably is.
“Pretty,” I say.
“Right? The color is so delicate.”
I bet she’ll add it to her collection, which is close to legendary status at this point. It’s pressed flowers from every season, every walk, every moment she deemed worth preserving. She keeps them in large shadow boxes in her dorm room. I’ve always thought she should use them in her art somehow, incorporate them into mixed media pieces or at least photograph them. The way she arranges them shows a real eye for composition. But whenever I suggest it, she brushes me off. I don’t push, but it seems like a waste of something beautiful, just hiding it in a box.
Art is meant to be shared.
She tucks the petal back into her notebook and then it seems to disappear from her mind. She leans forward with her elbows on the table, eyes widening. “Oh, I wanted to tell you. Have you heard?”
I laugh. “Heard what? You’re being a bit vague.”
She smiles and blushes. “Oh, yeah. Got ahead of myself.” Her voice drops like this is top secret information. “Nancy, um… shoot what’s her last name? She was in the same gallery showcase as you. She does photography. I think it was bridges?”
“Uh, okay. I can’t think of her last name but I know who you’re talking about. She was dating some guy in his forties, right?”
“Yeah, but everyone knows that.” She bounces a little like this gossip is just too juicy. “Well, there’s a rumor that she bought her portfolio.”
I sip my latte, feeling a little lost. Sometimes Cinna gets so excited she doesn’t communicate clearly. “Bought? You mean someone boughtherportfolio of work?”
“No, no. Like, shepaidsomeone else to take the photos and then passed them off as hers.” She leans in, voice dropping evenlower though no one around us is listening. “It’s all over the group chats.”
“That’s insane. No, I don’t believe that. I saw some of her work last year and it was the same style.”
“So?”
I frown at my latte. “So… you’re saying she’s been using someone else’s work this whole time? Why would she even do that? Why get into art school just to use someone else’s art?”
Cinna finally leans back, satisfied she passed on the gossip. “I’m not sure. Her parents are rich so maybe she doesn’t want to disappoint them? Image can be everything in some circles. Everyone’s dissecting her socials trying to find proof. It’s brutal.” She shakes her head, looking genuinely troubled with tension lines marring her porcelain skin. “I feel bad for her. Even if it’s not true, people are going to remember this. You know how rumors stick.”
“Who even started it?”
“No idea. You know how it is. Someone says something to someone, and suddenly it’s everywhere.” She sighs. “This campus is so toxic sometimes.”
I nod, thinking about Nancy, who I’ve only spoken to a handful of times but who seemed genuine about her work. The idea of someone just deciding to destroy her reputation makes my stomach turn.
“People suck,” I say.
“They really do.”
After finishing our drinks, chatting some more and splitting a pastry, we gather our things and step back out onto the cobblestone path. The clock tower on Founder’s Hall chimes the half-hour, its deep tone resonating across campus. Cinna walks close enough that our shoulders occasionally brush, and she’s telling me about something a group of women in her dorm building did last night.
“Hey.”
I look over to find where that voice came from. A guy is crossing the path toward us, hands in the pockets of a paint-stained army jacket, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. Tyler. He’s in my watercolor class, the one I don’t share with Cinna or anyone in my circle. He has brown skin, close-cropped hair, and a smile that arrives slowly, like he’s deciding whether you’ve earned it.
“Hey,” I say back.
Cinna goes quiet beside me. I can feel her watching with fascination.
Tyler stops in front of us and tilts his head. “You thought about what you want to paint for our assignment?”
“Not yet. You?”
“No. But I was thinking we could go to the botanical garden, try to get some inspiration.”
A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. “Yeah. Okay, maybe.”
