We turn a corner, and we have arrived at our destination.

I don’t know what I expected the school to look like, but this image would never have entered my mind. All shiny glass and angular steel. Geometric shapes and colorful panels in primary colors. Like a Mondrian painting. All modern, new, and contemporary.

How is anyone supposed to feel creative in such a clean, soulless building?

When Mom pulls into the visitor parking by the front entrance, I reach for the handle, ready to jump out while the car is still rolling to a stop. But the door is locked and before I can find the unlock button, Mom has the car in park and places a hand on my shoulder to stop me.

“Sloane.” She closes her eyes, like she’s composing herself. “Honey, I know this isn’t how you planned to spend your senior year.”

Really? I want to shout, This is as far from how I should be spending my senior year as I am from home right now!

I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of starting a shouting match, so I bite my lower lip to keep from screaming.

“But after the stunt you pulled, your father and I agreed that you needed some time away from New York,” she said, as if deciding my entire future had been no big deal.

There were fights. All summer there were fights. Huge, endless arguments between him and Mom, them and me, even, at one point, between Dylan and me. But of anyone in this family, my brother is the least to blame.

The fights had been pointless. At least from my side, anyway. No one listened to anything I had to say. I made one bad decision, and suddenly my opinion didn’t matter anymore. They figured it out for themselves and then presented me with the result. And a one-way ticket to Austin.

I cross my arms over my chest.

“Look at it this way,” she continues. “You always say that art is inspired by experience. Think of this as a whole new experience for you to draw from. Your art will benefit.”

“My art,” I say, carefully keeping my tone even, “is inspired by the city.”

She smiles. “Maybe you will find new inspiration here.”

As if. As. If.

“I know this is hard for you.” She starts to reach for me but drops her hand back into her lap. “But I want you to give it a real shot. Go in with an open mind. Just…try.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she parrots.

I turn to face her. “What’s in it for me? I go in with an open mind, give it a shot… And what do I get? To go home? To get back to my friends and the school I love?”

I’ll tell you what: zilch. My prize will be to continue my punishment indefinitely.

The parents, on the other hand, can pat themselves on the back for making the right decision, Dad gets me out of his hair for a while, and Mom is able to spend quality time reliving the college days with Mrs. Dorsey. They’re the winners. But what about the kids? Dylan has to spend an entire year without his big sister to back him up, and I have to stay spread out on the rock with an eagle pecking away at my liver every single day. Awesome for them, not so great for us. No thank you.

Mom stares at her hands.

I reach for my backpack and the door handle.

“Okay,” she says, “we’ll make a deal.”

Great. A deal. That’s what she’s best at. Litigation attorneys are paid big bucks to negotiate huge deals for their clients. Settlements, accidents, wrongful death… She’s one of the best in the world at getting big payouts for whomever is covering her fee.

Too bad in this case I’m her opposing counsel.

“If you give Austin NextGen a real chance,” she offers. “A real chance. Make it through the first quarter with decent grades and no trouble with your teachers or the administration, and we can revisit the idea of you going back to New York to finish out your school year.”

I don’t blink, don’t breathe, don’t dare do anything that might make her take it back. This is it. This is exactly what I want. Exactly what I have been fighting for ever since I learned about The Plan.

It takes me a second to get my racing hope under control.

“Do you mean it?” I ask.

Mom is an attorney and a litigator. Twisting the truth is practically a job requirement.

She nods. “Of course.”

I look up at her, knowing that I’ll be able to tell if she’s lying. “Promise?”

She hesitates only the merest fraction of a second before saying, “Promise.”

I hold her gaze for a beat longer, daring her to look away and expose a lie. My heart thundering, my lungs fighting the control I’m forcing over my breathing. My entire body is dying to celebrate, but I don’t want to show any weakness.

Mom’s olive green eyes meet mine without flinching.

Finally, she asks, “Do we have a deal?”

“We have a deal.” Oh God yes, we have a deal.

“Good.” She pulls the keys out of the ignition and grabs her purse. “Now let’s go get you enrolled.”

Principal Haverford’s office looks like the lobby at MoMA. All gleaming white and crisp modern furniture. The entire back wall is windows. Nothing like the comforting den of Headmistress Maggie’s office at SODA, with the overstuffed couch, scarred wooden desk, and student-painted portraits of the last six headmasters on the wall behind her.

No welcoming vibes in this ice box. I highly doubt Principal Haverford will let me call him Principal Ben.

I will anyway.

“You have an impressive portfolio,” he says, flipping through the presentation on my tablet. “Very bold and expressive.”

Mom scowls at me as I slump lower in my seat.

Then again, she could be scowling at Principal Ben’s words. Having a lawyer and a businessman for parents and a science nerd for a brother makes conversations about my art practically impossible.

Mom looks at my work and calls it nice or pretty. She can’t understand what he means by bold and expressive. She can’t understand how that gives my sometimes-fragile artist’s ego a reassuring pat.

What Mom does understand is grades. Quantifiable numbers, tests with right and wrong answers. To her, they’re all that matter.

“Sloane was on track to graduate with honors at the School of Drama and Art,” she says, her voice reeking of butt-kissing. Like she has to convince him to admit me, to overlook my recently rocky past.

Like the big fat check she and Dad are writing for tuition doesn’t wipe that all away.

Principal Ben nods as he stares at my tablet. He folds the cover back into place and then pushes it across the table. He flips open the paper file.

“Yes, I can see that Sloane was an excellent student,” he says, scanning the paperwork.

Was being the operative word. My grades second semester junior year took a big dip because of all the court time at the end of the year.

Here it comes.

The Incident. Bad Influences. Delinquency Spiral. I’ve memorized Mom’s entire speech. I heard it enough over the summer to do a spot-on recitation of the Utter Disappointment of Elizabeth Whitaker.

Throw in Dad’s sudden emotional distance and Dylan’s sympathetic winces and you’ve got my summer trifecta.

My What I Did This Summer essay would basically be an outline of all the ways I let down my family.

“Principal Haverford,” Mom begins, ready to plead my case or make assurances or write another check, but he waves her off.

“We have students from diverse backgrounds,” Principal Ben says, closing my folder and pushing it to the side. “Diverse experiences. Every artist has a past. Sometimes a troubled one. Austin NextGen prides itself on a clean slate policy.”

Mom beams. She couldn’t smile harder if I suddenly announced my intention to give up art and follow in her legal footsteps. Or Dad’s business footsteps. Or even Great-Gramma’s teaching footsteps.

“Let’s leave the past in the past,” he says, “and create a better future.”