My fingers freeze over the virtual keyboard and blood starts throbbing in my ears.

Artzfeed is a super popular art blog, practically required reading for artists and art students everywhere. Graphic Grrl has been mentioned a couple of times before, included in lists of art-related webcomics. My site always saw a spike in new subscribers afterward.

But there’s never been an entire post about her.

“It was epic,” Aimeigh says, jumping in. “I totally agree that the creator must be female.”

“No way could a girl write her,” the other guy says. “She kicks too much ass.”

“You’ve obviously never met my sister,” the first guy says with a laugh.

“Plus,” the first idiot says, “she never wears makeup. A chick would always put her in makeup.”

“Are you listening to yourself?” the other boy says.

Aimeigh scoffs. “Could you be any more sexist?”

“Not being sexist,” the idiot counters. “Just factual. Graphic Grrl is too good to be created by a girl.”

My cheeks feel like they are going to burst into flames. Either because I can’t believe they’re talking about my webcomic—mine—or because the one idiot is, well, such an idiot. I force myself to take a calming breath. I need to be under control if I want to keep my identity as Graphic Grrl’s creator a secret.

“Actually,” I say, tapping away on my tablet, “it’s the dudes who usually sex up the female comic heroes. Not the ladies.”

“What?” The idiot sounds like some California surfer.

“Exactly, man,” the other boy says.

“And besides,” I continue, “women created Green Fury, Ms. Marvel, and Titan.” I look up at the idiot with a falsely pleasant smile on my face. “I think they kick more ass than any ten heroes.”

“Right on, Sloane,” Aimeigh says, applauding my tirade. “She shut you down, Clay.”

“And the greatest argument against Graphic Grrl’s creator being a dude?” She’s me. I laugh at the secret knowledge, at the idea of totally blowing these guys’ minds. “No dude would be able to sit by and not take credit.”

Aimeigh laughs out loud.

The second guy kind of shrugs and nods.

Clay’s jaw drops.

He’s about to reply with some kind of lame argument when the classroom door shuts abruptly behind us. “Okay, class,” the teacher, Mr. Danziger, says as he walks to the front of the room. “Let’s start by assigning lab partners.”

Aimeigh and I exchange a look. Yep, she totally called it.

Maybe by the end of class my heart rate will return to normal.

“Hey, Sloane, wait up.”

I stop to let Aimeigh catch up with me on my way to the cafeteria.

“So Tru tells me that you have mad skill with that tablet of yours.”

Mad skill?

“And I’ve already seen your talent in AGD.”

“Thanks,” I say, not sure where this is heading.

“Join ArtSquad.”

“What?” I remember her mentioning ArtSquad yesterday, that she’s captain of something like an art decathlon.

“ArtSquad,” she repeats. “It’s the best extracurricular around. We study art history and design terminology, practice a huge variety of art techniques. It’ll make you the most well-rounded artist around.”

“It sounds like fun,” I say, trying to find a nice way to say no thanks. The last thing I want is to get involved in anything more than I have to while I’m stuck here in Austin. “But I’m not—”

“I just found out one of our team members is taking a year off from school to travel through South America by bicycle.” She flashes me a big smile. “You would really save my life if you took his spot.”

“Aimeigh, I just don’t think—”

“The commitment is minimal,” she insists, practically begs. “We meet for practice a couple times a week, compete in informal matches against other Texas art schools throughout the year, and there’s a big tournament over spring break.”

She hands me a business card.

Aimeigh Anderson

ArtSquad Team Captain

Austin NextGen Academy

austinnextgen.com/artsquad

“We have a lot of fun.” She practically bounces along next to me. “I mean, of course it’s a lot of work and sometimes it’s a lot of pressure, but it looks great on admissions applications.”

It actually sounds like something that would be a ton of fun. I love learning more about the art world, anything and everything, because I think it helps make me a better artist. Plus, I’m all for anything that looks good on admissions applications. But ArtSquad sounds like a year-long commitment. If I play all my cards right, I’ll be back at SODA by the end of the quarter.

I would only be letting Aimeigh and the team down in the long run.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to hand back the card. “But I’m not planning on being here for very long.”

“It’s cool, keep it.” She pushes my hand away. “Check out the link to see what we’re about. You might change your mind.”

“Welcome to senior seminar.”

Our teacher, Oliver—who insists we call him that and not Mr. Wendell—stands at the head of the huge table that fills the room, his hands braced on the end and leaning in like he’s pretty sure this class is going to be the most exciting thing that has ever happened to us.

I’ll keep an open mind, but that seems like a pretty high expectation.

I look around the table and see a few familiar faces from my other classes. Jenna is directly to Oliver’s right. The boy who’d been talking about Graphic Grrl with that idiot in my chemistry class is halfway down on the other side. A couple of the students walked here from trig with me. There is one face that is distinctly missing, though. Tru.

When he dropped me off—and then drove away—this morning, he said he’d see me in this class. Now that I think about it, I haven’t spotted him around all day. That could be just because this is a big campus. I wouldn’t necessarily cross the path of anyone I didn’t have a class with. But what if he hadn’t come back from his errand?

“Now I know you all have heard what seminar has been like in the past—”

Oliver freezes mid pep talk as the classroom door swings open.

Tru, looking even more carelessly rumpled than he did earlier, bursts into the room. His plaid shirt is half tucked in and buttoned up, and I think the buttons are off by one. Like he tried to make himself look a little more pulled together but failed.

“Ah, Truman,” Oliver says, an oblivious smile on his face. “Better late than never.”

Tru grins, his smile a bit lopsided. “That’s what I always say.”

He spies me across the table and, rather than take any of the open seats between the door and me, he circles the room and plops into the seat right next to mine.

“Now, as I was saying,” Oliver continues, “you’ve probably heard what seminar has been like in the past, but this year we’re going to do things a little differently. Shake things up.”

Tru leans over to me, whispers in my ear, “Sorry I’m late.”

He smells like he ate an entire tin of Altoids.

I’m not sure if it’s the freshness of the mint or the way his breath whooshes over my neck, but my entire body shivers in reaction.

I frown at him, at my reaction to him. “Whatever.”

Seriously, what’s his deal? It’s nothing to me if he shows up late. It’s nothing to me if he sits so close that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.

“First, we’re changing the way we do senior projects,” Oliver says, and I swear the entire class groans.

“Oliver—”

“But what if we—”

“I worked all summer—”

Oliver holds up a hand. “I know, I know. You’ve spent three years waiting for this class.”

Not me.

“That’s exactly why we’re changing it up.” He starts moving around the table, stopping at each student as he walks. “Senior seminar is supposed to be about self-exploration, self-analysis, and—most of all—self-experimentation.”