of her skull and allowed us to see the intricate inner workings of her brain.
It’s almost like a TED Talk.
It just works.
I thrust a cuticle between my teeth and swallow bile.
“Traditionally, tarot imagery is drawn or painted. But I, um, submit for your approval a series of seventy-eight paper-cut cards in red and black paper, layered between sheets of glass for depth.”
There is a long pause before Iliana speaks again.
Her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth.
“Rather than prepare a slide presentation,” she says, “I’ve made my sketchbooks available to you. The pages with my preliminary sketches are, uh, dog-eared. Or, you know, um, folded down.”
Another long round of silence.
Shuffling paper echoes throughout the auditorium.
Pages with my preliminary sketches sounds like a handful at most, but it sounds like the judges are looking at her other work, too.
Iliana’s so jittery that her curls shake around her face, but no one can take their eyes off her. Something about her wild, frenetic energy is fascinating, in the same sort of way as watching a captured firefly try to fight its way out of a Mason jar.
There is no poise to her at all, and yet she could very well be the one to take this thing from me. The small audience thunders with applause, and Iliana strides offstage like an electric, malevolent goddess.
CHAPTER 15
ILIANA
Username: Curious-in-Cheshire
Last online: 20m ago
Rhodes, of course, is everything the Capstone Award committee has ever wanted.
She’s not sweaty and shaking and babbling about tarot cards.
The stage lights shine on her dark hair, and her sweater falls over her curves in a way that’s equal parts flattering and nonthreatening to a battery of crotchety old women. She moves like an automaton: Eye contact with the first judge, eye contact with the second judge, eye contact with the third judge. Glance at the clock. Pan the crowd. Eye contact with the first judge, eye contact with the second judge, eye contact with the third judge. Glance at the clock. Pan the crowd.
Her presentation is canned, a regurgitation from that day in the diner a few weeks ago.
“Breathy nudes,” she says, clicking the remote in her hands to move the slides. “A series.”
Behind her, one of her trademark “breathy nudes” spreads across the screen, cream-toned pastels swept across paper toned deep claret. Each stroke of pastel is just a whisper, half smudged into the paper. And still, my brain completes each line the way it completes Sarah’s sentences: The nip of a waist leads to the curve of a hip. The swell of a breast, that delicate strait that runs from an earlobe down to the crest of a clavicle.
Every piece merely suggests the shape of the figure in question, leaving my imagination to fill in the rest.
They’re exquisite: Technically perfect. Clearly inspired. Intellectually stimulating. Tantalizing on a very basic, physiological level.
I wish I could find any fault in these at all.
She clicks the remote again.
“Lighter than air, soft pastels on colored paper. The study would emphasize each person’s innate vulnerability while focusing on their shared humanity despite their physiological differences.”
Her right eyebrow twitches, then the third finger on her left hand.
The judges nod thoughtfully.
“How is this different from last year’s Ocoee Art Festival submission?” asks one of the judges—a Mrs. June Baker, the woman who visited the school for the interest meeting earlier in the year. She gestures to the work on the screen behind Rhodes, the piece in question.
Rhodes took the Young Artist’s Achievement Award for this piece.
“It’s—It’s true that my work follows a theme,” Rhodes’s voice quivers, just on the end of each sentence, “but I—I believe an artist’s work goes where their interests are.”
“So, would you say this is a continuation of your Ocoee Art Festival series, then?”
“Yes.” Rhodes’s smile is broad. “Do you have any other questions?”
Sarah is down at the other end of the line, but Kiersten is positioned to my right. She’s watching Rhodes with the same interest as I am, and her face twists into something that reflects the sick dread that’s settled into my gut. Rhodes’s brilliant, beatific smile confirms something in my mind so clear, so apparently obvious, that I can’t believe I didn’t see it before this very moment:
“This feels like a setup,” I whisper to Kiersten. “They haven’t had questions for anyone else.”
“I heard y’all’s faculty advisor called in a favor,” Kiersten whispers. “Apparently, he told June Baker that Rhodes’s grades weren’t good enough, and June waived the GPA requirement so she could enter. Sounds like they’re trying