Chapter Three

The moment we are past the glass walls of the office—aka out of sight from Mom and Principal Ben—Tru grabs the schedule out of my hand. When I try to snatch it back, he wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me close on one side while holding the schedule away to the other.

“Jackass,” I mutter as I elbow him in the ribs.

“Let’s see,” he says, ignoring both my physical and verbal jabs. “Advanced graphic design and 3D rendering on art day. Modern lit with— oh, Lufkin is a total windbag, but he’s a pushover on grading.”

Since Tru has several inches on me, and clearly my elbow assault is having no effect, I twist myself out of his arm and let him have the damn schedule. I don’t need it to get to my first class. It’s Tuesday, which means art block, and I start in advanced graphic design.

I scan the map Agnes gave me. Several buildings make up the campus, all arranged around a central lawn. It feels more like a small college than a high school.

I’m looking for something that indicates where my first class might meet.

“Trig with Martinez will be the hardest class of your life,” Tru continues as if I’m paying attention. “Danziger loves chemistry far more than any human should, and senior seminar is a bunch of touchy-feely find-yourself bullshit, but at least it’s a cakewalk.”

He hands back my schedule and then oh-so-casually jumps up to smack the exit sign hanging from the ceiling as we pass by a door that leads to a concrete courtyard.

“Visual arts are in Sushi Hall.”

“Sushi Hall?”

What kind of building name is that? I don’t see it listed anywhere on the map.

“Building C,” Tru explains. “They all have nicknames.”

Building C. I find it on the map. The last building on the right, in the southeast corner of the campus.

“The six academic buildings are officially Buildings A through F,” he says. “But we Austinites could never conform to something so pedestrian as alphabetical naming.“

I shake my head as we keep walking.

“Good morning, Mr. Dorsey,” a middle-aged woman says. Black chopsticks poke out of her blue and green dyed hair.

“Morning Ms. Getty.” He leans in to give her a quick peck on the cheek. “I dig the new colors.”

Ms. Getty blushes and makes a shooing gesture. “I’ll see you in cinematography this afternoon.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

We round a corner into another hallway, and I can’t help but be a little bit in awe of the charmer beside me. After everything Mom said about Tru, I expected an unrepentant troublemaker who was on every teacher’s and administrator’s shit list. Is it possible that the unrepentant troublemaker has actually reformed into an honest-to-goodness good guy?

No way. I’ve known enough bad boys in my life to know that they never change their ways.

“What?” he asks when he sees me looking at him strangely.

I half laugh. “You have them all snowed, don’t you?”

“What do you mean, New York?”

“I mean,” I say, gesturing back toward the blushing Ms. Getty and the beaming Principal Ben, “you have them all believing you’re some kind of perfect boy next door.”

His brown eyes sparkle with mischief. “Are you suggesting I’m not?”

“I’m suggesting you’re a con artist of the highest—”

“Tru Dorsey.” A girl with platinum hair that hangs long on the right and is shaved close on the left steps into our path.

She looks angry and more than tough enough to take Tru in a fight. I prepare myself to get out of the way.

“Aimeigh,” Tru says, his arms and his smile wide, “how was France?”

She punches him in the shoulder. That’s my kind of girl.

I move a step to the side.

“You never sent me the footage from graduation,” she says, and for the first time I can sense the teasing under her dark image.

“Oh shit,” he says, “I totally forgot.”

“Tonight,” she warns.

“Absolutely.”

She flicks a glance my way. “Who’s your friend?”

He looks at me, like he suddenly remembered that I’m there. “Aim, this is Sloane, fresh from New York City.”

“That’s Aimeigh,” she says, “with an e-i-g-h.”

She extends her hand and I take it.

“Sloane,” Tru continues, “Aim’s the school documentarian. Do not get on her bad side unless you want to be immortalized in eternal humiliation.”

Aimeigh shakes my hand. “Don’t listen to him,” she says with a smile. “I only have a bad side.”

I can’t help but crack a smile in return.

“I am also ArtSquad captain this year,” she says.

I’ve never heard of that. “ArtSquad?”

“Like an academic decathlon,” she explains, “except for art.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“Hey, Aim,” Tru asks, “you have AGD first period?”

She nods. “Yeah, why?”

“So does Sloane.” He tries to wrap his arm around my shoulders again, but I dodge out of the way. “I was going to show her…”

“But you have elsewhere to be?” Aimeigh finishes.

Tru gives her a big hug. “You’re a rock star.” Then, to me, “Catch you later, New York.”

I roll my eyes as he starts walking backward down the hall, the way we came.

“Send me that footage!” Aimeigh shouts before he reaches the corner.

He mock salutes and then he’s gone.

“Come on.” She turns to me. “AGD is this way.”

Just as I thought. The moment anyone to impress is out of sight, Tru ditches me onto the nearest available person. “Unshocking.”

“What?” Aimeigh says as we head for the pair of glass doors at the end of the hall.

“Him,” I say, jerking my head back the way he fled.

“Tru?” She flashes me a genuine smile. “He’s the best. Can’t rely on him to send the footage he promised at the start of summer, but there’s no one I trust more behind a lens.”

Even Aimeigh thinks he’s all goodness and heart? Maybe I really am wrong about him. Maybe Mom and his parents are wrong, too, not that they would admit it. Mom would still kill our deal in a heartbeat if she knew I was even having a second thought about him.

Aimeigh pushes through the doors, into the outside. “So, New York, huh?”

The lawn before us is crisscrossed with sidewalks like some geometric coloring book. Without having to pull it back out, I picture the map Principal Ben gave me. Paths lead from Building A, across to Building D, diagonally to Buildings E and E, and right to Buildings B and C.

“Yep, New York,” I say as we make the turn that will take us to Building C and advanced graphic design.

“Which PS did you go to?”

I bite back a retort. People watch a few TV shows and suddenly they think they know everything about life in New York. Not everyone goes to public school, takes afternoon tea at the Plaza, or gets mugged on their way through Central Park.

“School of Drama and Art,” I say.

Aimeigh lets out a two-note whistle. “Impressive. So NextGen isn’t a big change, then?”

I shrug. What can I say? NextGen is a huge change? Austin is a huge change? My entire life is in upheaval? Just because they are both art schools doesn’t make SODA and NextGen educational equals.

SODA is unlike any other school in the country. In the world. Graduates are pretty much guaranteed acceptance and financial aid at the best art and design schools in the world: Juilliard, Tisch, RISD, Parsons, the School of Visual Arts. At SODA, my post-graduation plan to study animation at the School of Visual Arts was a no-brainer. Now it’s suddenly in question.

That and the fact that Mom is determined that I will attend a Real College so I can get a Well-Rounded Education.

“What’s your favorite museum?” Aimeigh asks. “I’ve always wanted to visit the Guggenheim.”

Apparently her attempts at small talk are limited to asking me about New York, but since the city is my favorite subject, I’m good with that.

As I tell her about the Dia:Chelsea on our way to Building C, I scan the lawn, study the other students milling around in back-to-school excitement. At first glance, they don’t look all that different from students at SODA. There are definitely the recognizable archetypes.

The hippie-dippie free love types, with their peasant skirts, patchwork denim, and waist-length dreadlocks.

The wanna-be beatniks in skinny ankle jeans, patent oxfords, and bored expressions. Even a beret or two.

The poser urban core, whose bling and footwear probably cost more than the entire monthly income of the Queensbridge Projects.

I’m not denying my own privilege, but at least I’m not pretending it doesn’t exist.

“In here.” Aimeigh yanks open the door to Building C and leads the way.

It looks like a garden variety school hall. Sections of lockers broken up by classroom doors, drinking fountains, and bathrooms. But instead of walls, the space above the lockers is glass. The hall is full of light.

I pause for a moment, stunned at how bright the space is, at how the sun bounces off every surface. It’s literally glowing. As much as I don’t want to like anything about this place, I want to breathe in the rays.

Aimeigh yanks open the door to the second room on the left.

“Mrs. K is the best,” she says as I catch up with her.

From the moment we walk through the door, I know that advanced graphic design at NextGen is going to be top notch. The setup is spectacular. There are eight tables in the center, each with two chairs, light boxes in the corners, and a strip of plugs in the middle. Along two walls, computer workstations with huge flat-panel monitors display hypnotizing screensavers and a scroll of text that reads: To design is to communicate clearly by whatever means you can control or master.—Milton Glaser

There is an interactive whiteboard projection screen at one end and a counter full of art supplies, everything from pencils and markers to sketchbooks and scratchboards at the other. It’s like playtime for graphic designers. Everything we could possibly want or need to unleash our creativity. I feel inspired just walking into the room.

Almost all of the seats are already filled, and a tall woman with shiny black hair and purple-framed glasses is writing something on the whiteboard.

15 minutes free sketch

I nod to myself. This, I can do. No matter how much things change, how upside-down my life feels, how far from home I really am, it can always come back to the art.

I slip into the last open chair next to a girl with shoulder-length brown hair who is studiously drawing circles in a sketch book. Seconds later, I have my stylus in one hand and my tablet open to a drawing app.

“Mrs. K likes us to warm up with traditional materials,” the girl next to me says. She points to the art supply bar at the back of the class. “There are sketchbooks in the lower left cabinet.”

With a sigh, I put my tablet away and fetch the old-school tools.

As I slide back into my seat, I say, “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

She keeps sketching circles, and the more she adds the more it’s starting to look like a wormhole or something.

“I’m Jenna,” she says, not looking up from her circles.

I pull the cap off a red marker. “Sloane.”

“You’re new.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Did you just move here?”

I study the paper for a second, try to come up with a concept, and then just go for it, swiping red across the page in a swooping curl. “Yep,” I say. “From New York.”

New York. The Big Apple. There’s my inspiration.

I follow up my first swoop with another in the opposite direction. With an idea to follow, I lose myself in the design. Shiny red skin. Green and black stem. Some shading. A long shadow stretching across the—

“Time,” Mrs. K calls. “Supplies down, everyone.”

I lean back and evaluate my little apple. Not bad for a fifteen-minute free sketch.

“Welcome to the first day of advanced graphic design. I’m Mrs. K,” she says, “and I see a lot of familiar faces here, and a few new ones. For those of you who are new to NextGen or new to me, I like to start each class with a free sketch, followed by a presentation.” She looks at Circle Girl. “Jenna, can you start?”

Jenna holds up her drawing, swinging it in an arc so the entire class can see. “I’m Jenna Nash.”

“Very nice,” Mrs. K says. “I like your use of repeating shapes.”

Jenna sits back down, beaming.

Mrs. K shifts her gaze to me.

I stand and hold up my apple drawing on display. “Sloane Whitaker. New Yorker.”

The teacher takes a step closer, like she’s trying to get a better look. “Very nice.” She squints. “I like the texture in your shading. And the bold color choices.” She smiles and looks at me. “You like Rothko?”

I nod. “But I like Kandinsky more.”

“So do I.” Her face cracks into a smile. “Welcome to NextGen.”

As she turns her attention to the next student—a boy with flaming orange hair he wasn’t born with and a piercing in every possible location—I sink back into my seat. Well, if I’m going to be stuck in Nowheresville for the time being, at least I have a design teacher with taste.

After AGD, I have lunch and free period. NextGen is a closed campus, which means I can’t leave to find food. Since it’s the first day of school and I don’t have any work to actually work on or friends to sit with—and I’m not looking to make any on this temporary detour—I decide to find a quiet corner where I work on finishing up the sketches for the next Graphic Grrl set while I eat. I was prepared for Austin to be a hellish pit of heat and humidity—it is Texas, after all—but amazingly enough the climate is not that different from New York in summer. And, if I’m being honest, it smells better.

So grabbing a lunch to go—an egg salad sandwich from the cafeteria and an apple juice from the vending machine by the front office—I head outside. I know exactly where I want to work.

At the center of the big geometric web-work of sidewalks is a giant sculpture. I can’t tell exactly what it’s supposed to be. It looks like someone dipped a Pokémon in stainless steel and set it on a square granite base. Still, it’s pretty cool. And since it’s after noon, there’s a bit of a shadow on the east side.

As I approach, I sling my backpack onto the ground and then drop to the grass. The base of the statue is still warm from the passing sun. It feels good on my back.

I close my eyes and let my spine connect with the warm stone. If I imagine hard enough, maybe I can make myself believe I’m sitting on the roof of SODA with Tash or against the arch in Washington Square Park. Only without the smell of pee and body odor.

Though I’m tempted to take a nap—everything about this spot feels nice and relaxing—I need to make progress on my sketches. Once I started publishing regularly, every Sunday, my fans started getting pretty rabid about it. If I’m even a few hours late they start hounding Graphic Grrl on her social media accounts. So I unwrap my sandwich, pull out my tablet, and get to work.

I lose myself in the process. The collection of shapes that create Graphic Grrl have become part of my physical memory. My hand goes on autopilot. I’ve been drawing her since the seventh grade, in one form or another.

Freshman year I showed some of my strips to Tash. Before that they were my secret, the hidden art I had never shown anyone. She convinced me to start publishing them anonymously online. It’s been our secret ever since.

Mom and Dad don’t know. Even Dylan doesn’t.

I’d been on the verge of telling Brice, but, well, that all went to hell in an instant, so I’m glad I didn’t. What a nightmare that would have been.

Graphic Grrl and I have been through a lot. Bad breakups. Fights with Tash. The Incident.

And now, the fallout.

As much as I miss home right now, as long as I have Graphic Grrl in my pocket then I think I will get through things all right.

“The last girl who sat under this statue died in a grisly axe murder,” Tru’s voice says from behind me.

I immediately click out of my drawing app, hiding Graphic Grrl safely away and swapping her for my class schedule, which I had captured in a pic and then tossed in the nearest recycling bin.

Austin apparently loves its recycling. Three big bins—blue for paper, green for glass, and red for plastic—are at practically every corner. And each building also has extra bins outside for cardboard, metal, and compost.

I’m all for saving the planet, but I don’t think I’ve seen a real trash can.

Tru’s shadow moves over me. “They say she still haunts the school.”

“Too bad for her I don’t believe in ghosts,” I toss back.

“She’ll haunt you for that.”

I ignore him. My next—and last, thank heaven for small miracles—class of the day starts in ten minutes: 3D rendering in Building F. I have plenty of time to hit the girls’ room first and dump my lunch containers in the recycle bins on the way.

I start across the lawn toward Building F. Tru falls in step beside me.

“Is there a reason you’re following me?”

“Two, actually.”

He doesn’t elaborate and I really don’t want to ask, but I can’t help myself. “And those reasons are?”

“One,” he says with a big grin, “if you recall, I am your official campus guide for the day.”

“My official campus guide who ditched me at the first opportunity,” I throw back.

“And two,” he says with a chiding tone, like he’s annoyed by my interruption, “I happen to also have class in Building F next period.”

He flashes me a smile that I’m sure he thinks is charming-as-hell. All I see is a flashing sign that says Danger. Whether or not I actually believe he’s reformed, nothing about Tru Dorsey is anything but trouble for me. Trouble in the form of Mom canceling our deal. Trouble in the form of repeating the Brice-induced heartbreak. Trouble in the form of an attachment in a place I don’t intend to be for any longer than absolutely necessary.

I walk faster. With any luck, the class will go by quickly so I can get home and back to Graphic Grrl.