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THREE
The encounter with Brandon in the hallway plagues my mind throughout my classes.
He seemed irritated when I declined to show him my sketchbook. As if who would dare to refuse the prince. Well, I hope he enjoys that sweet slice of humble pie.
Still, his presence affected my body in an unusual manner. Back in the hallway, I told my legs to move, but they only wanted to lessen the space between us.
Thankfully, the bell snapped me out of it.
I need to rid my mind of that arrogant guy, just as I’m ignoring the smug glances at my mini paint kit for the second class in a row.
Everyone has large bottles that’ll last them a few weeks.
Charleston’s art program will be costly. While tuition is covered, supplies aren’t.
“Ready to express yourselves through color?” Ms. Jung gushes. I’m beginning to realize it’s her daily one-liner to uplift us.
I like her.
Not only is she a graduate of my dream school, Pratt Institute, but she’s beyond skillful.
I’m sure I’ll improve a great deal by the time I’m ready to send in my portfolio.
Following her detailed instructions, everyone launches into the class assignment for today.
My mind is free of distractions as I glide across the canvas in careful brushstrokes, blending colors intricately as ideas bleed from my soul.
There are no words to describe my love for art, and oil painting is especially my favorite. I wish I could bring home the expensive easel provided by the school so I could practice more.
“Impressive, Kayla,” Ms. Jung praises while looking over my artwork. She bobs at me before walking to another student.
Chest high, I smile through a wave of accomplishment that washes over me. It simmers a bit when I glimpse snobbish eye-rolls from the girls next to me.
What?
Didn’t they expect a scholarship student from West Heights to be that good?
At the end of the final period, I set out from school. Sam has a drama club meeting and won’t be able to drive me to the bus stop like yesterday.
I need to fall into the habit of walking from the academy, anyway. People already deem me as a charity case. I even heard some girls whisper it in classes.
Whatever. I won’t let cattiness kill my spirit.
Gripping my painting under my arm, I continue walking until I reach the curb.
A black Mercedes slows down next to me before I cross the street. My stomach jumps when the window lowers, and I see it’s Brandon.
“Get in,” he says as if we’re buddies.
“What?” I blurt. “I don’t think so.”
“I’m not asking. You want your senior year to be peaceful, right?” The dark gleam in his eyes triggers a frightening yet naughty chill. What the hell?
The bus stop is far, though. Accepting the ride will save my legs from muscle aches later.
Ugh. Forget my pride.
“Fine.” I open the door and slide onto the comfy leather seat, setting my artwork in the back. “Thanks,” I mutter while buckling my seatbelt.
