Monday's art class felt heavier, the air thick with turpentine and unspoken tensions. The critique wall, a scarred easel in the room's corner, bore a new note in red ink: Talent hides weakness. Amber tried to ignore it, but it felt personal, aimed at her or Charles—or both, a silent jab from an unseen hand.
Ms. Abernathy stood at the front, her voice cutting through the morning's haze. "We have a new student today," she said, gesturing to a tall, lean boy with a dancer's grace and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Marcus Reed, transferring from Lincoln High. He's joining our art and dance programs."
Charles's pencil stopped mid-stroke, his face paling, his fingers tightening on his sketchbook. Amber caught his reaction, puzzled, her eyes flicking between him and the newcomer. Marcus's gaze swept the room, landing on Charles with a flicker of recognition, a nod so subtle it might have been missed. He took a seat near Ethan Stewart, who greeted him with a too-friendly clap on the shoulder, their laughter sharp, exclusive.
At their table, Charles was silent, his sketchbook closed, a rare stillness in his hands. Amber leaned closer, her voice low. "You know him?"
"Old dance studio," Charles muttered, his eyes on the table, his voice barely audible. "Not friends."
She wanted to ask more, but Lena slid into a nearby seat, her sketchbook open to a chaotic swirl of reds, her eyes darting to Marcus. "New guy's hot," she whispered to Amber, her tone playful but edged. "Bet he's trouble."
Amber ignored her, focusing on her hand study, still struggling with proportions, her pencil faltering. Charles's hands, she noticed, were steady despite his tension, tapping a faint rhythm—plié, extend, hold—a dancer's instinct he couldn't hide. She wondered what Marcus's arrival meant, what history lingered between them, a shadow she couldn't see.
After class, Marcus approached Charles in the hallway, his voice low but carrying, his posture casual but predatory. "Been a while, Chen," he said, his smile sharp, a challenge. "Still quitting things?"
Charles's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "I'm here, aren't I?"
"Barely," Marcus said, his gaze flicking to Amber, appraising. "You his keeper now?"
"She's my partner," Charles said, his voice steady but cold, his hand gripping his bag. "Leave it."
Marcus laughed, a low, mocking sound, and walked away, his steps light, deliberate. Amber touched Charles's arm, a tentative gesture, but he pulled back, his eyes distant. "It's nothing," he said, but his fingers clenched his sketchbook, betraying the lie.
Lena, lingering nearby, watched with a raised eyebrow, her smile sly. "Drama already," she said to Amber, her voice dripping with amusement. "Told you Charles is complicated."
Amber didn't respond, her mind spinning. As they passed the critique wall, a new note caught her eye, scrawled in black ink: Old wounds bleed fresh. Her stomach twisted, a chill settling in her bones. Was Marcus targeting Charles? Or was Lena stirring the pot, her smile hiding more than it revealed? The art room's murals seemed to pulse, their swirls tightening, as if the walls themselves were closing in.