as I search the cupboards for a set of brushes and watercolors.
You did not fall off Veronica’s bed. An echo of Benton’s voice rings through the room, his laughter filling the empty space. How did her parents not catch you?
My own laughter joins his, so loud that it hurts my chest and makes it hard to breathe. Her parents didn’t, but her little brother almost did. Thankfully, we remembered to lock the door.
I grab a piece of thick watercolor paper and shove the memory away. I hate that he was my friend. I hate that I told him about my relationship with Veronica and my dreams of art school. I hate that he knows how I crushed on Morgan. I can’t believe I trusted him with so much of myself.
The bell finally rings to signal the end of lunch. I ignore the shuffle of feet and settle at the table closest to the window, the sun warm against the back of my neck as I work. I wet the paper to make the paint glide smoothly across the surface and swirl my brush in red paint.
My classmates trickle into the room, their noise filling the space with a gentle hum as I spiral the red down my paper and add highlights of orange and gold. The second bell rings, and our teacher starts class. I ignore the scrape of chairs, the rustle of paper, and the slamming of cabinets. I block it all out. But they don’t acknowledge me, either. No one sits at my table. No one asks for my permission before they steal chairs for their own groups.
The only person at my table is the fading memory of the friend who tried to kill me.
I swish my brush in a cup of water to wash away the paint. When I glance up, I can almost see Benton sitting across from me, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hands buried in clay. What do you think, Walsh? Does this cup need a lily or a rose?
Benton leans back and tilts his head to one side, glancing from the mound of unformed clay to the half-finished cup beside it. I don’t remember which flower I chose. I don’t remember whether he took my suggestion or went in another direction entirely.
My hands tremble, and the brush shakes, swiping a line of blue down Morgan’s emerging face. I swear under my breath. Before, when my magic was eager to answer my call, it would be risky to reach for the water’s energy to undo my mistake. I might have done it on a day like today, when I was alone at my table and no one could see me. But now? When reaching for my magic is likely to send unbearable pain racing down my spine? I don’t dare even try. Especially not with a Phantom Benton smiling at me from across the table. The clay is gone now, replaced by oil pastels that smudge the rainbow into his skin.
Fresh laughter, loud and raw and real, cuts through my thoughts and makes Benton disappear. Nolan stands beside a table of girls, bent forward so his elbows brace against the back of an empty chair. He flips his hair out of his eyes, and the movement raises his gaze enough that it finds mine. He grins and bends lower, whispering something that sends the girls into another fit of laughter.
Let them laugh. Let them stare. I crumple my ruined painting and shove my chair away from the table. The laughter dies as I throw the paper in the trash and rinse my brushes. Someone left an empty roll of paper towels beside the wide sink, so I’m forced to rummage through shelves to get a new one.
In the third cupboard, I find a row of abandoned pottery. A cup sits at the front, the sides glazed in a beautiful marble of whites and shimmering gray. On its front sits a pink lily, each petal formed and painted with care. I reach for the piece, running my fingers along the sharp lines of the delicate flower.
“Hannah?” The art teacher, Ms. Parker, approaches the sink. She’s a short woman with curly black hair and pale skin. She teaches all the high school art classes, so I’ve known her for almost four years. Ms. Parker has a flair for bright clothing, and today’s red-and-gold-patterned dress is no exception. Her thick eyebrows are raised in concern. “Is everything okay?”
I cradle the cup in my