He frowns at the last one, as if he’s not sure he chose the right word. But then he shakes his head and goes on.

As he talks about the inspiration of change and the excitement of the unknown—as someone who has recently experienced plenty of both, I think I can safely say I’ve had enough—I stare out the wall of windows that line one end of the classroom. Outside, the sky has turned to clouds and all trace of the morning sun has disappeared. From my seat I can see the Pokémon sculpture. Washed with diffuse light instead of sharp direct sun, it transforms completely. It almost looks like it’s made from fuzzy wool instead of cold metal.

Out of habit, I flip open my tablet and start sketching. Trying to translate the idea of what I see into pixels.

“And that,” Oliver says from right behind me as his hands land on my shoulders, “is why I think the journey we take together this year will be transformative.”

I quietly fold the cover back over my tablet.

“First things first,” Oliver says, back at the head of the class, the windows behind him. “I have had most of you in class before”—his gaze drifts to me and I realize I am probably the only one of the dozen students in here who is new to the school—”but let’s do a round of introductions.”

When he turns to Jenna, she stands up and starts talking. “I’m Jenna Nash. I’m a graphic design focus. I attended the Summer Institute at University of the Arts and I plan to enroll there next fall.”

I got a good idea of Jenna’s type in advanced graphic design yesterday. Good girl, teacher’s pet, all around suck-up. Boring.

“That’s very nice, Jenna,” Oliver says, placing a hand on her shoulder, “but instead of the normal who, what, where intros, I’d like you to talk instead about two things: The first time you ever remember creating art. And describe the ideal image of your artistic life five years from now.”

“Oh.” She frowns, probably because she’s not used to ever being wrong. “Um, the first time I created art…”

As Jenna starts talking about her artistic past and future, I pull my tablet into my lap. If I angle my body just right, Oliver won’t be able to see it, and I will look like I have my head bowed, listening.

I can’t risk opening any Graphic Grrl sketches in class, so I flip to the next blank page after my Pokémon sketch. My stylus would be too obvious, so I choose the pencil setting and start tracing shapes with my fingertips. Soon, the shapes start to look like objects. Like people.

This table. Jenna sitting awkwardly while the next student does his past-present intro. Oliver, facing the window with his arms wide. The Pokémon statue through the glass.

A tan hand appears over my screen. I watch, transfixed, as Tru clicks the watercolor setting and starts tracing shapes over mine. A blue wash on the window. Shades of gray on the sculpture. A hideous orange on Jenna’s sweater.

I glance up and have to bite my lips when I see that her sweater really is that unattractive color.

I’m about to look back down to see what he colors next, when Oliver says, “Truman?”

Tru leans back in his chair. “Oliver?”

“Your first creative memory,” our teacher says, “and your artistic dreams.”

Tru’s is the first person whose answer I actually want to hear.

He stands. “First creative memory,” Tru says, his face a study in carefree charm. “Putting together this outfit this morning.”

Everyone laughs, even Oliver. Tru bows. I have a feeling that’s exactly the reaction he wanted. There was a distance in there. An attempt to keep anyone from seeing all the way in to the truth, to protect that secret memory.

Which only makes me wonder why, makes me want to find out. Like a puzzle I have to solve.

“And five year dreams?” I ask.

Tru looks down at me. For just a beat, I see a flicker of seriousness in his dark eyes. An instant of pain and reality.

Then it’s gone.

Tru turns his attention back to the rest of the class. “I want what every eighteen-year-old wants. To take over the world.”

Another laugh.

Another deflection.

When he sits down, I put my tablet away.

Oliver turns to me. “You must be Sloane.”

I nod and then push to my feet. “I’m Sloane Whitaker. Like Jenna, I’m into graphic design. My first creative memory…” I force my mind to drift back and am surprised when I find the answer. “Is tracing the Sunday comics in the New York Gazette.”

The reason the memory is surprising is that in it, Mom is at my side, encouraging me. Encouraging my art. I mean, it must have happened, because she enrolled me in art school. Twice. But I can’t remember the last time she encouraged anything except success, following the rules, and not ruining my future.

“And my dream,” I say, “is to be back in New York, graduating from SVA with a degree in animation, and actually getting paid to draw comics.”

That’s it. Doesn’t seem too unreachable.

Tru leans over, his breath hot on my neck as he whispers, “Way to dream big, New York.”

Something about his tone, about the condescension, grates me the wrong way. Who is he to judge my plans?

“Sorry,” I say, not meaning it at all, “not everyone wants to take over the world.”

At first, I think he’s going to leave it at that. And he should. We’re practically strangers.

Then, as Oliver moves on to a girl named Willa, Tru leans closer still—if that’s even possible—and whispers right against the shell of my ear, “You should.”

Despite myself, shivers race over my entire body as his lips tickle my skin.

I spin my chair abruptly away from him, knocking my shoulder into his chin along the way. He doesn’t know anything about me, about what I want from life. He doesn’t get to have an opinion about it.

“I can take a hint,” he says, and I can hear the laughter in his voice.

Too bad my swivel didn’t knock the cocky out of him.

Chapter Seven

After senior seminar, I have to stop by the front office to pick up some form Mom forgot to fill out, so Tru gets a head start to the parking lot. He is leaning against his car, face turned up to the gray sky.

When I walk up, he gives me a sloppy grin.

“Hey, New York,” he says, like he didn’t see me three minutes ago in seminar.

I roll my eyes and start to walk around him.

“Hey, wait a minute,” he says, placing his hand on my waist. When I stop, he adds, “Why are you being so uptight with me?’

Every muscle in my body tenses. In anger.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been called uptight. The exact word Brice used when he explained why he wasn’t interested in seeing me as anything more than a friend. My jaw clenches.

“I am not uptight,” I grind out.

“Look, we’re neighbors,” he says, pushing away from the car and standing way too close. “Can’t we be friends?”

He leans down until his mouth is right next to my ear.

“Admit it,” he whispers. “You like me.”

My mind is racing. He is so close, so warm, so there. That tingling sensation I seem to get whenever he’s around has my skin on fire. I barely know him, but I can’t decide if I should shove him away or lean in closer. Neither is a good answer.

“Tru, I—” As I turn my head to respond, I catch a whiff of his breath.

All trace of breath mint is gone. He smells like a liquor cabinet.

“Oh my God.” I shove both hands against his chest. “Are you—” I realize I’m about to shout the word drunk at full volume on school property. I drop my voice to a whisper. “Have you been drinking?”

He falls back against the car and shrugs, that crooked smile in place.

He’s wasted.

So many emotions rush through me. Shock. Shame. Confusion. And anger. Most of all anger.