The art department buzzed with news of the Spring Arts Showcase, a high-stakes event that hung over the room like a storm cloud. Ms. Abernathy announced it in class, her eyes bright with conviction. "Visual arts, performance—dance, music, theater—all are welcome," she said, her voice carrying a challenge. "One student will win a scholarship to a summer intensive, the Linden Gallery for artists, or partnered programs for performers. But the judges are tough. They want truth, not just skill."
Charles's pencil pressed harder against his paper at the word dance, a subtle tell Amber now recognized, her eyes catching the faint tightening of his jaw. She pretended not to notice, focusing on her sketch, but Lena, sitting closer now, leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "You should enter, Amber. Your cityscapes are solid. Better than Ethan Stewart's, anyway."
Ethan Stewart, the senior art star, sat across the room, his photorealistic portrait drawing murmurs of admiration from passing students. Amber had barely spoken to him, but his reputation—regional awards, college scouts trailing him—preceded him like a shadow. "He's good," she said neutrally, her pencil shading a rooftop.
Lena smirked, her dark eyes glinting. "Too good. Thinks he's untouchable." Her tone held a bitter edge, gone before Amber could question it, replaced by a casual flip of her sketchbook.
After class, Amber lingered, watching Charles pack up, his movements quick, guarded. Their truce had held, but he was still a fortress, his thoughts locked away. She wanted to bridge the gap, to work together beyond the confines of class. "Are you entering the showcase?" she asked, her voice tentative, her bag slung over her shoulder.
He shrugged, zipping his bag with a sharp tug. "Maybe art. Not sure." A pause, his eyes flicking to hers, wary but considering. "You?"
"I want to," she said, her words careful. "But I don't know what to submit. Too many ideas, not enough… truth, I guess." She took a breath, the air heavy with turpentine. "Maybe we could brainstorm together? Like, outside class? At the library, Saturday?"
Charles's eyes held hers, searching for something—deception, maybe, or sincerity. "Library's good," he said finally, his voice soft but firm. "Noon?"
"Perfect," Amber said, relief warming her chest, a small victory. As he left, she noticed Lena watching from the doorway, her smile tight, her paint-stained fingers drumming on her bag.
"Library date, huh?" Lena said, falling into step beside Amber as they left the room. "Careful. Charles is… complicated."
Amber frowned, her steps slowing. "It's just art."
"Sure," Lena said, her eyes glinting with something unspoken, her smile a mask. They passed the critique wall, and Amber's heart stuttered. A new note, in sharp red ink: Don't trust the quiet ones. It felt personal, pointed, a needle under her skin. Was Lena warning her about Charles? Or was someone else pulling strings, waiting for them to unravel?