“Now,” Principal Ben says.

He is not playing around.

Mira quietly gathers up her things and follows Principal Ben out of the room.

We are all silent for several moments. Something is way not right about this situation. Usually when a student is in trouble, he or she gets called to the office—not that I ever have, but I’ve seen plenty—usually Tash—and they have to make that walk of shame/glory out of the room and down the hall to see the principal. The summons usually comes by office-aide-delivered note or office-to-classroom phone call.

When the principal himself makes the request in person… That has to be bad news.

“What could she have done?” Willa asks breathlessly.

“Nothing good,” Damien says.

Tru shakes his head. “Even I’ve never been called out by the man himself.”

We go back to finishing our tests.

For some reason, Jenna is still here. Why is she sticking around? Oliver said we could go when we finish. The moment I’m done, I will be out the door.

“Can you give me a clue?” Jenna asks Oliver, and everyone groans because, really, at this point, every delay only pushes back our escape. “Just a hint?”

She’s not exactly begging, but the look on her face says it all. It’s stressing her out that she doesn’t know what the big assignment is, that she can’t make plans and schedules and to-do lists and crap like that. I’m allergic to to-do lists. I think Jenna’s addicted to them.

“Okay,” Oliver says with a big sigh, like he’s making a big sacrifice. “One hint.”

Jenna practically explodes with relief.

“The project will embrace what I believe to be the true purpose of art.”

We all stare at him, blank-faced and waiting for him to say more. For him to explain or give some actually tangible detail.

He just smiles smugly and leans back in his chair.

“What does that even mean?” Jenna whines.

Oliver leans forward, rests his elbows on the table. “That is the question, isn’t it? What is the purpose of art? Is there a universal answer, or are there as many answers as there are artists—as there are people—in the world?”

I lay down my pencil. I sense a discussion coming.

“Dahlia, what do you think the purpose of art is?”

She frowns in concentration. “Art is about connecting with the universe,” she says. “About finding something pure and true in a world where so much is fake.”

“Not necessarily,” Mariely counters. “Sometimes the lie is part of the art.”

“Then what is your definition?” he asks her.

“Art should raise us above the mundane,” she answers. “It should take the ordinary and elevate it to something better.”

“Interesting,” Oliver hums. “Willa?”

She shifts in her seat, bites her lip as she glances at Damien and then quickly looks away. “Art should let us see the world through someone else’s eyes, so we can know what it’s like to be someone other than who we are.”

I wonder if Damien knows how Willa feels about him.

Oliver nods, looking around the room for his next victim. “Jenna?”

“Art is beauty,” she answers, almost mechanically.

“But what is beauty?” Damien asks. “There is ugly beauty and beautiful ugliness. Who decides?”

“The artist,” Cabot suggests.

Tru shakes his head. “The viewer. It doesn’t matter how beautiful the piece, if the viewer doesn’t get it then it’s worthless.”

The room erupts into a lively debate over this. My head is spinning. Part of me wants to jump in—I love a good debate about anything art-related—but the question kinda has me floored. I agree with all of them, but in some ways they seem inadequate. Art is so much more than words can capture.

“Sloane,” Oliver says, cutting through the voices. “You’ve been terribly quiet. What’s your answer?”

Great, put me on the spot to form into words the random thoughts that are flying through my mind.

“Well,” I say, buying time, “I think art is something different to everyone.”

Oliver laughs. “I think our debate has made that obvious. What is it to you?”

Somehow the words fall into place in my mind. “To me,” I say, equal parts confident and hesitant, “art is about connection.”

“How so?” Oliver asks.

“By tapping into an emotion, a universal truth, and figuring out how to convey that to another human being.”

“Which is why art takes so many forms,” Tru says.

Damien adds, “And why people feel so strongly about it. It’s about people.”

“So it’s all of those things,” Will says. “It’s honesty and deception. Beauty and imperfection. Artist and audience.”

Oliver smiles at all of us.

“Okay, my brilliant seniors, now get back to finishing those tests.” He turns to Jenna. “You can leave, you know.”

She smiles weakly and then gathers her things. Everyone keeps working, handing in their tests as they finish, and then escaping into the real world.

I’m the last one done—mostly because I keep stopping to think about our little impromptu debate. About The Incident and whether, in retrospect, it really qualifies as art.

I had a message, sure, but does that satisfy the requirements for art that we’ve just been talking about? Does forming letters on a building qualify as making a connection? As conveying an emotion or a universal truth?

Or was it just—as Mom is always so quick to call it—a stunt?

My shoulders hang a little lower as I cross the room to hand Oliver my test.

“That was a very thoughtful answer you gave,” he says with a smile.

I sling my backpack onto my shoulder. “Thanks.”

I start to leave, and then turn back to him. “Do you think that a message can have an emotion?”

“Of course,” he says. “But I also think that artists have to be careful not to let their message get in the way of the emotional core.”

I smile. “Thanks.”

“Sloane,” he says, stopping me at the door. “Some messages are so emotional that they can stand on their own as artistic expressions.”

I’m not sure what he’s trying to say.

I must give him a confused look, because he adds, “I believe that art saves lives, too.”

My jaw drops. I want to be shocked, but then I suppose it makes sense that Principal Ben would have told my teachers about The Incident. I just never imagined that anyone—any adult—would see value in my message.

Senior seminar is fast turning into my favorite class.

“Are you ready for adventure?” Tru pulls out of the parking lot into traffic.

Why did the hair on the back of my neck just stand up? “What are you talking about?”

He doesn’t answer, just shrugs and smiles mischievously. Instead of turning left onto the freeway, like we’ve done every single day since he started giving me rides to and from school, he turns right.

“Where are you going?”

“On an adventure,” he says, as if that answers my question.

“Tru,” I warn with my best mom tone, “where are we going?”

“Don’t worry,” he says, flashing me that charming smile. “You’ll like it.”

I pull out my phone.

He glances at it. “What are you doing?”

“Calling the police,” I say, even though I’m just texting Mom an excuse for why I’ll be late. I want to prevent any unnecessary grounding.

Despite the new job, she’s actually been home when I got there every day this week. She’s usually gone before I leave, but still, it’s such a huge change from life in New York that I’m kind of in shock each time I walk through the door.

“Chill, drama queen.” Tru grabs for my phone.

I pull it out of his reach. “You’re kidnapping me,” I say. “Someone needs to know in case they never find my body.”

“Just…relax.” He drops his hand.

“Where. Are. We. Going?”

“Can you not trust me for two seconds?” He flashes a quick smile. “Look, if you don’t love it, I’ll let you drive home.”

My ears perk up. This is an opportunity. “How about you buy my morning coffee for a month?”