I finish chewing and carefully swallow my salad before I elbow him in the ribs. “Not interested.”

“You’d be saving my life,” he says, rubbing at what is hopefully a bruised rib. “I literally will not survive a year with Grandig.”

“I won’t be here that long,” I explain. “I’m out at the end of the quarter.”

He frowns. “That’s not what my mom says.”

I don’t care what Mrs. Dorsey says. Mom promised.

“My mom and I have a deal.” And she doesn’t back out of deals. “I keep my nose clean this quarter and I can go home for the rest of senior year.”

“Why?” Aimeigh asks.

Why what? Why return to New York? What kind of obvious question is that?

“Because it’s my home,” I say. “It’s where I belong.”

“No.” She breaks off a piece of her breadstick. “Why do you have to keep your nose clean?”

I open my mouth, ready to give some bratty answer about Mom being strict for no reason, but something about the earnest look in her eyes and Tru’s makes me want to tell the truth. These two are the closest things I have to friends in this town. For however long I’m here. I can’t just outright lie to them.

“I screwed up,” I say, hedging. “Big time.”

“How big?” she asks.

“Five hundred hours of community service.”

Basically my entire summer vacation.

Tru whistles, and I’m not sure if it’s shock or respect. Despite all of his supposed delinquent tendencies, as far as I know he hasn’t actually been arrested yet.

I win the blue ribbon for that one. Yay me.

Everyone eats quietly for a few minutes. I chomp on my salad, the crunch of lettuce and croutons deafening in my own ears. Maybe they’re going to let it go at that, without any of the juicy details.

It’s not that I’m not supposed to tell anyone about The Incident—that’s Rule Two. But more that I’m… What, embarrassed? Ashamed? Maybe both.

I’d gladly trade the blue ribbon for a time machine. But unlike my drawing app, life has no undo button.

I’m just downing the last of my juice when Aimeigh drops her fork.

“Oh my God,” she says. “It was the Midtown Tower, wasn’t it?”

My breath catches in my throat.

“The what?” Tru asks.

Aimeigh turns to him. “It was in all the papers last year. That teenager in New York broke into a construction site and spelled out the words Art Saves Lives in red sheet plastic.”

“That was epic,” Tru says. “That was you?”

My eyes are on my now-empty salad box as I push one soggy piece of carrot around in a circle. My heart rate speeds up, and I have to force myself to keep my breathing calm.

“Well,” Aimeigh prods, “was it?”

I take a deep breath, look her straight in the eye as I say, “Yes.”

“I knew it!” She gives herself a high-five.

“New York,” Tru says with a smile in his voice. “I have new respect.”

I drop my gaze to my salad.

I haven’t talked about The Incident with anyone. I haven’t even told anyone before now. And despite the thrill in Aimeigh’s eyes and the respect in Tru’s, I can’t help but feel a wave of embarrassment wash over me.

They only read the headlines, so they don’t know the full story. They don’t know about the lives that have been affected in the aftermath. Not just mine and my family’s, but people who had nothing to do with The Incident. Innocent bystanders.

Mom may not think that I’ve learned anything from the mistake, but I have. I think about those consequences every day.

“I had respect before,” Tru argues, as if I were reacting to his words and not my shame. “I just have more now.”

Aimeigh pushes the remains of her lunch aside. “Look, ArtSquad doesn’t have to be a full-time commitment,” she says. “Even if you only practice with us for the rest of the quarter, your experience will help the team a lot.”

And just like that, they’re back to normal. I wish my life could switch back so easily.

Tru presses his palms together, begging. “Please. Save me from Grandig.”

Between the two of them, even my steel-coated heart softens.

“Okay, okay,” I finally relent. “I’ll do it.”

“Awesome,” Aimeigh cheers.

Tru grins. “My savior.”

Then, before I can even react, he leans forward a presses a kiss to my cheek. Lips that I had once described as too full brand a perfect pucker into my skin. It feels…just right.

I’m not used to being around a guy who is so comfortable flirting and touching. I like it more than I should.

“My mission here is done.” He climbs to his feet. “See you lovelies in seminar.”

“Don’t forget,” Aimeigh calls out to him as he struts away, “we meet before school on art days. First practice is on Tuesday!”

He waves at her over his shoulder.

My cheek is still warm from his kiss, and I have the strangest urge to reach up and cover it with my palm. I force myself to gather my trash instead.

“On the plus side,” I say to Aimeigh as we head for the recycle bins, “this will probably make the time I’m stuck here go by faster.”

Aimeigh smiles. “It’s not so bad, you know. There are actually a lot of really cool people—”

Jenna steps out of nowhere into our path. “Mrs. K wants to see us.”

She turns awkwardly and starts for Building C. Aimeigh leans over to me, whispers, “She isn’t one of them.”

There is definitely something off about Jenna. Maybe I’m being generous, but I’m just chalking it up to social awkwardness or maybe mild Asperger’s. I’m not going to judge.

I’ve known way weirder people than her.

When we get into the AGD classroom, there are several other girls from our class standing around Mrs. K’s desk.

“Oh good, you found them,” she says to Jenna.

“What’s up, Mrs. K?” Aimeigh asks.

“I’ve just received an email about a new scholarship opportunity,” she explains, “specifically for women in graphic arts and design. Because they are short on entries, they have opened it up to a wider applicant pool.”

“Cool.”

“Great.”

Aimeigh moves closer to the desk so she can read over Mrs. K’s shoulder.

Jenna stands up straighter, which I didn’t believe was even possible.

“Since you are all seniors,” Mrs. K continues, “I wanted to make sure you saw this as soon as possible. It requires some extensive portfolio preparation, so the more time you have to work on it the better.”

She hands each of us a paper containing the competition information. The application deadline is just before Christmas, so there’s plenty of time. But I can see what she means about it being time intensive. It requires a twenty-four-page portfolio, showcasing as many different techniques, media, and scope as possible. There are several levels of prizes, with the granddaddy being a whopping $10,000 renewable scholarship to the school of the winner’s choice.

That’s definitely worth putting in the effort.

“I will be available during free periods and before and after school for anyone who wants extra help.” Mrs. K gives us a big smile. “You are all talented and motivated. I am confident that one or more of the winners will come from NextGen.”

“Awesome, Mrs. K,” Aimeigh says.

As the other girls say thank you and begin to filter away, Jenna steps up to the desk. “I’d like to schedule my first session for Monday morning.”

Aimeigh shakes her head as we turn away. “Kiss-up,” she mutters under her breath.

I fold the paper in half and swing my backpack around so I can slip it inside.

“I need to go check something out in the library before trig,” I tell Aimeigh. “I’ll catch you later.”

As I break off and head for the library in Building A, I’m already starting to think about what pieces I might want to include in my portfolio.

On my way to meet Tru in the parking lot, I check my phone and find a voicemail from Tash. That’s weird. She’s almost exclusively a texter.

“If it isn’t my savior!” Tru calls out.