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So much for a connection.
Mason Finnick seemed to be determined to keep me as far away as possible. Too bad for him, I’d added his name to my vision board this morning.
And the vision board was law.
Chapter Three
It’s true what they say: one’s man trash is another man’s treasure. In this case, the pile of twisted, warped, and rusting metal on the floor of the art closet in front of me was my personal gold mine. Already, I could see the pieces starting to come together. With a little welding magic, it was going to be a beautiful and abstract piece that would make my senior class proud.
All I needed to do was begin. My fingers already had that itch.
“Wait, Frye, don’t even think about touching that!” called a voice behind me.
Despite the fact that my fingertips were only inches away from the precious material, I dropped my hand and turned to see Mrs. Drew hustling toward me.
She was, without a doubt, the coolest teacher at Rock Valley High. Her stick-straight brown hair, suede tan skirts, and knee-high boots kind of gave her a hippy vibe. She painted amazing murals in the hallways and loved classic rock music. Fresh out of college and standing at only five feet tall, sometimes it was hard to tell her apart from the students.
“Mrs. D, I watched all of those YouTube videos you sent me about welding,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “I girl scout promise I won’t light my hair on fire. Can’t I get started?”
“Absolutely not.” She grabbed an armful of paint from a nearby shelf, nearly dropping one of the bottles of royal blue. “Principal Styles sent me an email over lunch that said you’re no longer in my class. Something about a scheduling issue. You’re supposed to report to the library for an independent study instead.”
My jaw dropped. She couldn’t be serious. It was my first day of Advanced Art class and already there was a kink in the plan. The statue was never going to get done like this. It was like the universe was plotting against me.
Mrs. Drew didn’t seem to share my concern as she flittered about the closet, grabbing supplies haphazardly. I followed her out of the closet and into her classroom, where a room full of wide-eyed freshmen sat ready for their first Art I class. Their gazes trailed me around the room as I stuttered.
“Y-y-you’ve got to be kidding me? This is my independent study. Advanced Art. I can’t do that in the library. All those books will turn into kindling the moment I light up my welding torch. It’s a fire hazard.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, sister.” Mrs. Drew dropped a bottle of paint on each table of students. She blew a strand of hair out of her face and looked about the room as if she’d forgotten something. “I tried to call Principal Styles back the moment I got the email, but he’s in a meeting for the next two hours. I’m afraid we’ll just have to wait until later to straighten this mess out. Until then, don’t even think about touching those materials. I know I won’t be able to pry you away from it if you get your hands on them.”
I hung my head and pouted. She was right. After failing my mission to find Mason after lunch, I’d been fully ready to dive into this project without a safety net. Whatever had happened with my schedule had to be a mistake.
Computers made errors all the time. My ancient iPhone liked to post gibberish Facebook posts occasionally. Maybe the school’s computers were on the fritz. That had to be it.
“Are you sure I can’t stay?” I asked, putting on my sweetest voice. “I could demonstrate how to use stippling in a landscape painting for the new kids.”
For the first time, Mrs. Drew looked up at me, her frown softening. She placed a hand on my elbow and squeezed. “Listen, sweetie, I’m sure this is all just a mistake. Go to the library today and we’ll figure all of this out before your next class. One missed day won’t be the end of the world. And that’ll give me just enough time to get this class in line so that I can devote more time to helping you. Goodness knows, you can’t just pick up a blow torch without some proper training. Trust me — that’s how I got the wicked scar on my arm.”
My shoulders drooped and I sighed in acceptance. She was right. One hour in the library wasn’t going to kill me. My project would have to wait for another day.
With a reluctant glance over my shoulder, I dragged my backpack out of the room and down the hall toward the library. I’d spent enough time in there that the librarian, Mr. Arnold, actually remembered my name. Which was a miracle, considering the man was about a hundred years old and spent most of his time falling asleep in his chair with a stack of books under his arms. He waved me over when I walked in and I crossed the room toward his desk as if I were walking toward the gallows.
“Ms. Frye,” he said in a gravelly voice, looking down at a paper in front of him, “I received a notification that you will be joining us for Research Methods 101. College dual credit. Is that correct?”
Suddenly, alarms went off in the back of my head. Research Methods was exactly the kind of class my parents would want me to take for Pre-Med. Something smelled fishy.
“Does my mom and dad know about this?” I asked, gripping the edge of his desk. Desperation leaked into my voice.
I wanted him to tell me I was wrong. That this was only an error. Not that my parents had just mercilessly kicked me out of the only class I was looking forward to this entire semester. They couldn’t have. It wasn’t possible.
“That, I can’t tell you, young lady,” he said, peering over his thick glasses at me. “But the class is all on the in-ter-web, so I expect you two to need very little supervision.”
Ignoring the fact that Mr. Arnold obviously knew nothing about the internet or how online classes worked, two little words in his speech made me stand up straight.
“You two?” I squinted at the sheet in front of Mr. Arnold, although the scrawled writing was too messy to make out. “Who else is in the class?”
“Why, Mr. Finnick over there.” He pointed a gnarled finger to his left. “He’s just begun. You may join him at his table. The extra textbook has been filed in the reference section.”
My gaze sped across the room and landed on Mason Finnick sitting at one of the beat up old oak tables in the corner of the library. He had a laptop sitting open in front of him, a short stack of books to his right, and his dark eyes trained squarely on me. The look on his face was sour, as if I’d just spat in his Honey Nut Cheerios. I managed a wimpy smile in his direction, but inside my stomach was churning.
