“ArtSquad practice,” Aimeigh says.

“Of course.” Mrs. K smiles. “Have a good team this year?”

“The best.”

As Mrs. K goes about her prep for class, I put away my ArtSquad homework assignments.

“You’re in my seat,” a stiff voice says.

Aimeigh looks up at Jenna. “You don’t own it.”

“I do when the bell rings,” Jenna retorts.

“Then when the bell rings,” Aimeigh says, a huge fake smile in place, “I’ll move.”

“Now girls,” Mrs. K says. “Play nice.”

Aimeigh rolls her eyes, but she shoves the rest of her materials into her backpack and heads for her own desk. “See you after.”

I head for the supply bar at the back of the room. When I’ve picked out a set of oil pastels and a sheet of newsprint, I head back to my seat.

Jenna has her sketchbook in front of her and her pencils lined up neatly next to it. She has them sorted in order of hardness.

There is definitely something odd about her.

I pull out my tablet, figuring I can check the traffic data for the latest Graphic Grrl strip that I posted late Sunday night. There’s always a huge spike in visits on Monday and Tuesday morning. This week, after the high-profile Artzfeed article, I’m prepared for a bigger-than-usual boost. Tilting the screen slightly away from Jenna, I log in to my site and scan for the numbers.

I am not prepared for the huge figure I see on my analytics dashboard.

Tash is always pushing me to add advertising to the site. Her uncle’s in marketing, which makes her a self-appointed expert, but she thinks I could make a lot of coin that way. For now, though, I’m just doing it for fun. I think it would change things if I decided to commercialize my art.

Still, these numbers are astounding.

“You should watch out,” Jenna says, so softly I almost don’t hear her.

“What?”

She keeps her head lowered, but twists to the side. “You should be careful.”

“Of what?” I ask.

“Of Aimeigh,” she says. “She isn’t very nice.”

I snort out a half laugh. “Okay, thanks.”

I can get why she feels that way. I’ve seen Aimeigh be kind of harsh to Jenna a couple of times. Of course she thinks Aimeigh’s mean.

But I definitely don’t need anyone to look out for me. I’m more than capable of looking out for myself.

On the way to the parking lot after school, my phone dings with a text message. I smile when I see Tash’s name on my screen.

Tash: SODA started 2day. Not same w/o u!

Me: Wish I wuz there

Tash: New painting teach is HAWT!

Me: Pic?

Tash: He took my phone

Tash: Will sneak 2moro

Me: Pls do

Tash: Any reprieve from shemonster?

Me: Not yet

Me: Hopefully soon

Tash: Tell me if I need 2 put out hit

Me: Haha

Tash: Or send chocolates

Me: Def send chocolates

Me: From Amuse Bouche

Tash: Done deal

Tash: Xoxo

Me: *mwuah*

I smile and sigh as I slip my phone back into my pocket.

I picture her walking up the dark gray steps at SODA along with the horde of other students rushing in late for the first day. Walking the halls, flirting with any halfway cute guy she sees—teachers included—and daring any girl to cross her path. Sneaking out onto the roof to eat lunch in our spot.

I feel like I’m missing out on what is supposed to be the best year of my life.

I have to keep that in mind. I have to remember that getting back to New York is my number one goal, every second of every day. No matter how fun ArtSquad may be or whether I’m making new friends—new whatever-Tru-is—or feeling challenged by exciting classes, it all pales in comparison to what I would be doing at SODA.

New York. My one and only mission.

Chapter Twelve

Oliver walks into the senior seminar classroom Wednesday and sets his bag on the chair at the head of the table. “Before we start working on our projects, I think it’s important for each of you to be as self-aware, as self-knowledgeable as possible.”

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a stack of papers that look suspiciously like test booklets.

Everyone groans as he slaps them down on the table.

“This,” he says, jabbing one finger onto the stack, “is the Myers-Briggs personality test.”

Jenna asks, “How do you spell that?”

Oliver crosses to the whiteboard and writes it out.

“Does it test whether you have a personality?” Tru asks.

Someone whispers, “Then Jenna will fail.”

Across from me Willa bites back a laugh as she looks sideways at Damien.

Oliver doesn’t hear the comment. Or he chooses to ignore it. He hands the stack of booklets to Jenna, who takes one and passes them on.

“The test should only take about thirty minutes.” He grins like he’s granting us the best prize ever. “As soon as you finish, you can head home for the day.”

Cheers go up around the room. Suddenly everyone is very interested in taking the test. Heads down. Pencils scratching on paper. Rhythmic breathing.

The concentration only lasts about fifteen minutes.

“What if my test says I’m a serial killer?” Keegan asks.

Oliver laughs. “It’s not that kind of test.”

“What if it says you should be a nine-to-five drone who lives a soul-sucking existence that consists of nothing more than going to work, going to the gym, and going to bed?”

Everyone turns to stare at Tru.

Because seriously, the last person on the planet who could ever end up working an ordinary job, living an ordinary life, is Tru Dorsey.

There is definitely something extraordinary about him. About the way he can make people smile and laugh and feel good about themselves, even on their worst days. Aimeigh’s shown me some of his film clips, and he’s an extraordinary artist, too. Where his personality—or at least the personality he chooses to show the world—is bright and uplifting, his art delves into the deeper, darker emotions. He’s an enigma, a contradiction. A unique voice in a world of sameness.

There is no way Tru could ever live an ordinary life.

“It’s not that kind of test either,” Oliver repeats. “Now get back to it.”

Another five minutes in and Jenna closes her booklet. She hands it to Oliver and then, in a voice I’m pretty sure she meant to be a whisper but isn’t, asks, “When are you going to give us our final project assignments?”

Everyone turns to look, and for once they’re not glaring at Jenna in mock derision. They apparently have the same question.

All I know about these mysterious final projects is that NextGen students spend three years looking forward to them, and they are supposed to be epic on every level. Epic scale, epic scope, epic creativity. Epic is something I can definitely get behind.

For a moment, Oliver looks stern—which is hard to pull off when you’re wearing a bow tie, thick-framed glasses, and your shirt collar is sticking up at three different angles. He finally gives up the pretense. “Okay, okay, you beat it out of me. Next Wednesday. You’ll find out about this year’s senior projects next Wednesday. Now if you will just—”

There is a sharp rap at the door before Principal Ben steps into the room. Unlike Oliver, he is a master of the grim look, and he is full of grim right now.

“Pardon the interruption, Mr. Wendell.” He nods at our teacher and then scans the room. “I need to see Mira Jacobson in my office please.”

Mira looks stunned. I don’t really know her—she’s also in my AGD class, but we haven’t spoken or anything—but I’m stunned, too. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person who gets in trouble. Aside from the purple streaks in her hair, she looks completely good girl.