Ally’s face stared up at me from the paper. Well, it was sort of her face. It was supposed to be, anyway.

“This one was a bold entry. She liked the concept,” he reminded me. “I believe she said it was ambitious, and I’d agree with her on that, too.” He paused. “But it’s also a little beyond your abilities, and judging by the way you’re frowning at it, I think you agree with her assessment that it’s not quite there yet.”

“I did my best,” I offered lamely.

“And it’s very good. But it’s still missing something.” He sighed. “Talia, you’re all of, what? Fifteen? Sixteen?” When I nodded, he said, “There are artists far older than you who can’t even envision something like this, let alone execute it. Revisit this same concept in another five years after you’ve really studied art, and I guarantee you will nail it.”

“So, what Mrs. Riley said….”

He held out his hands, palms up. “You have plenty of talent, and she knows it. If you didn’t, she wouldn’t have singled you out among my students. And if she thought you were really a talentless hack, she wouldn’t be asking you to rework this.” He shoved the third design toward me.

I studied the drawing before me. It was hard to be objective when I knew every line on the paper, but compared to the other three, this was by far the most polished and compelling. It didn’t have the same level of sophistication that my Struzan-inspired piece had, but Mr. Collins may have had a point about my readiness to tackle something like that. My bruised ego was the probable culprit for my self-doubt. Knowing this still didn’t make me feel any better, though.

He placed all three sketches back in my portfolio case and handed it to me. “Go home,” he said. “Think about her feedback. And you can use this room during lunch or whenever to polish that piece, okay?”

I nodded, and after a quick good-bye, I adjusted my backpack strap, grabbed my portfolio case, and headed toward my car. Jake’s car was already gone when I arrived at the sophomore lot. I tossed my things into the back seat and paused, unsure of what I wanted to do next. On any other Monday, I would’ve gone to Jake’s house and hung out for a few hours, but everything had changed.

And besides, he was probably out with Clover.

My chest tightened at the thought of them together. It wouldn’t have done any good for me to sit alone at home obsessing over it. I needed to be around people.

****

It sounded like a stampede when I opened the door from the gymnasium lobby. I stuck my head through the opening and spotted Bianca sitting at the top of the bleachers on the other side of the gym, her face partially obscured by her copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God. I stayed close to the walls as I made my way to her, careful to stay clear of the boys bouncing basketballs as they ran across the court.

I sat beside her and tapped on her shoulder, and she jumped. She pulled out her earbuds. “What are you doing here?” she said as she snapped her book shut.

“Just left the art room. I had to show Riley my poster art.”

“And? Did she love it?”

“Not exactly.” I made a face. “She kind of hated the one I really liked. Said I wasn’t talented enough to really execute it or something.”

Bianca’s eyes grew wide. “She actually said that?” When I nodded, she put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a quick squeeze. “Well, not that it’ll help much, but she says stuff like that during auditions all the time. Like last year, Brittany Meyers told me Mrs. Riley once said she sounded like a dying whale,” she said, referring to a girl who’d graduated the prior year. “And she’s at Juilliard now, so.” She shrugged and added, “It’s totally subjective.”

“That’s what Collins said.” I stretched my legs out onto the seats in front of us. “There was one I guess she kind of liked, but I have to go back and change some of it.”

“You got a second chance from Mrs. Riley?” she said, sounding impressed. “That’s like a narwhal. Like, you sort of know they exist because you’ve heard people talk about them, but no one you know has ever actually seen one.”

A shrill whistle pierced the air, and the boys tossed their basketballs into a large net sack before lining up on one of the baselines.

“Suicides,” Bianca said when I asked what was going on. She returned to her book. “Finn says they’re the worst thing about basketball. Tim and Brady hate these.”

At the whistle, half of the team launched themselves toward the midcourt line, tapped it, ran back to the baseline, tapped that, ran toward the other baseline on the far end of the court, and sprinted back to where they started. Then the other half would repeat the process while the first group gasped for air. And all the while, Coach Norton’s whistle blew in repeated spurts as if to urge them on.

I could see why suicides were so despised. I was exhausted from just watching them.

“And the point of this?” I said.

“My dad calls it ‘conditioning,’” she said without looking up. “Tim says it’s torture. They do it a couple of times in every practice.”

“I guess there’s more to basketball than throwing a little ball into the hoop.”

She snorted. “Finn could’ve told you that ages ago.”

I kept watching the boys dart to and fro. It was strangely hypnotic.

“I know you’re bummed,” Bianca said after Coach Norton’s whistles stopped and the team started another set of drills. “But at least she’s letting you go back and make it better, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“What did Jake say about Riley’s comment?”

I almost told her I wasn’t talking to Jake, but I decided not to. It sounded childish in my head. “I haven’t told him,” I said. “His car wasn’t in the lot.”

She looked up from her book long enough to give me a reproving glance before she resumed reading. “Maybe you can tell him after you guys work out your little tiff. He’s better at making you less mopey.”

I grunted in response. She was right, of course. I didn’t know what he would’ve done, exactly, but it was like Jake always knew what I needed to hear.

And at that moment, I kind of hated him for that.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I was surprised to see my mom’s car in the garage when I got home. Over breakfast that morning, we’d agreed a week-long bereavement was enough and we both needed to get back to some semblance of normalcy. I’d expected her to return to her seventy-hour work weeks, but I found her in the kitchen dropping large chunks of carrots into a big pot on the stove.

My mother was cooking. That was the furthest thing from normal.

“You’re home early,” I said after I greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. I plucked an apple from the fruit bowl on the breakfast bar and slid onto a stool.

“I could say the same for you. Aren’t you usually with Jake after school?”

I kept my expression neutral and lifted my shoulder in a half-shrug. “I hung out with Bianca for a little while at basketball practice instead.”

Mom turned to look at me, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised in surprise. My admission of willingly setting foot inside the school gymnasium probably affected her the same way the sight of her cooking startled me. I crunched into my apple.

“Did anything exciting happen today?”

Another crunch. “Nothing major.” I lifted my chin toward the stove. “What are you making?”

“Something Isabelle sent me.” I froze at the sound of Jake’s mom’s name, but my mother didn’t seem to notice. She nodded at a sheet of paper on the counter before she covered the pot and set the timer on the microwave for fifteen minutes. “You toss everything into the pot all at once, and voila! Instant chicken lo mein.” She smiled. “And you’ll love it because I used up a bunch of veggies we already had in the refrigerator.”

“Um, Mom? You don’t cook.”