Chapter One
S O P H I A
Shouldn't you already have friends by now?
I mean isn’t that what every movie, book, and ridiculously optimistic coming of age story, kind of always promises .The new girl arrives at a new school, accidentally bumpes into someone ( moste of the cases it’s a super hot ,well trained 6 foot 2 tall guy) in the hallway on her way to her first period and somehow by lunch she has people to sit with, by Friday she is invited to at least one party, and by the end of the month who would’ve thought , is living the kind of life that everyone wants.
Apparently.
However, reality has a much darker sense of humor.Take me for example, It’s my second week at my new Academy, and the most meaningful social interaction I have collected so far involves a football flying directly at my head and a Junior apologizing no fewer than four times before disappearing. Not that I have been counting.
Okay. Technically I have. Four times exactly.
*
I lean against my locker tray to remember if I have all my homework for the next class and let my gaze drift without noticing across the hallway. Where Students move around me in their expensive uniforms that somehow looks more tailored than mass produced and of course, designer shoes clicking against polished marble floors. Laughter echoes through the corridor as conversations blend into a constant hum of familiarity. And ther it is this familiar tight knot forming in my stomach again because watching all of them, the way they walk head up high, everyone seems to know exactly that they belong.
Everyone except me.
It isn't that people have been openly rude. To be honest most of them barely even
acknowledge my existence at all.
And I can’t even pretend that I belonge . Because I don’t and I definitely don’t want to. Not plaing to now, not in the future , not ever.Not after overhearing all the conversations , it’s so sad that they complain about the school food (wich is similar to a five star Restaurant) when ther are so many children in this world that suffer from hunger.Or once in Math, I overheard a guy complaining about his Birthday present, aperently a half a million doller super car was the wrong color so it was the worst present he has ever recived.
How sick is that ?
Most students at this school have last names that open doors before they even step into a room. Families with super successful businesses, fortunes, and influence that everyone recognizes.
Well I come from a small town, raised in a tiny but extremely cozy apartment by two loving parents. Now, I live with my loving aunt in a city that never sleeps and gives me high anxiety, evry time I tray to take the bus to get to school.When I walk through these enormous hallways, I am painfully aware of the sacrifices my aunt is making just so I can be here. After my parents died ,I had nowhere else to go, and my aunt insisted that I move to her so she can take care of me. The thought settles heavily in my chest. But I push it away before it can take hold. If I allow myself to think about my past for even a second longer, I will defenetly never make it through the day. So I push of my locker, fix my hair again in a messy bun and focus on something far less emotional.
My locker key.
More specifically, the fact that it has somehow vanished.
"Not again"I cry out in annoyance and beginn digging through my full bag.
But beside my Sketchbook,all my randomly thrown-in Pens, books and cat treats.
I can find nothig.
Not again
"I know you're in here somewhere," I mutter.I’m not a messy person , I’m really not but sometimes I just happen to lose things.
After several more seconds of desperate searching, and the consideration on just emptying my bag onto the flor my fingers finally brush against the familiar piece of metal. But my relief lasting half a second. Because at that exact moment, my copy of Pride and Prejudice decides it has had enough of being carried around all day long and slips from my grasp.
"No, no, no..."
Too late. It hits the floor with a loud crack and slides several feet across the hallway as though it has developed a desperate need for freedom.I muttering something under my breath that would disappoint every English teacher I have ever had and crouch down to reach for it. When a sharp click stops me. Less than an inch from my hand, a stiletto heel lands on the marble floor.
"Watch it." A sharp hig pitche voic followers causing me to snap my hand away just in time.
The voice that remindes me of Yzma from that one movie belongs to a tall girl,she looks like someone who has just stepped straight out of a luxury fashion campaign. Dark hair tied up into a sleek high ponytail,with so much hairspray that not even a single strand is daring to escape. Sharp features, flawless makeup that enhances rather than conceals, long lashes framing warm brown eyes that study me with thinly veiled annoyance. Huge gold earrings that make me wonder if her ears are fine, matched by a bracelet around one wrist , her jewelry cost probably more than my entire wardrobe.
Everything about her is polished. When I realized that I studied here for too long and she’s not even watching me , instead is staring at the tip of her shoe as if something truly catastrophic has just occurred. I follow her gaze automatically, expecting a scratch, a stain or some other visible damage that would justify the emotion radiating from her face.
But ther is nothing.Absolutely nothing.Her shoe is perfectly fine .
"Sorry," I say anyway as I reach for my book, deciding that apologizing is probably easier than whatever this conversation is about to become. "It was an accident." Only then does she look at me ,a slow and deliberate examination that travels from my face to my uniform and back again, as though she is seeing an insect and is disgusted by it existence.
Ouch
Then one perfectly sculpted eyebrow lifts.
"Sorry?" she repeats. And the way she says it is so strangely unnatural, almost as if she never used it before in her entire life.
"Yes," I reply forcing myself not to roll my eyes, tightening my grip on the book. "As in I didn't mean to do it."
She extends one leg slightly.
"These are limited edition Valentinos."
I look down on her shoe, not understanding what she wants me to do.
"...Okay?"
Something in her expression darkens, and for the first time I suspect I have failed a test I hadn't even known I was taking.
"They cost twelve hundred dollars."She snaps and her two friends behind her step further.
"Well …I’m sorry to hear that " And that’s not even a lie, I fell sorry for her ,ther are thousands of show out ther for less than fifty bucks and so much prettyer than her limited Valentinos. Also judging by her ridiculously high heels her shoes don’t look comfortable at all.
Lokking down at my comfy worn out sneakers, I smile.
"That’s funny to you ?"she snaps and to my supries Heads turn.
Just Great.
Exactly what I need after spending two weeks trying to avoid attention.
"No I was just … thinking" I tray to calm down the situation.
Spoiler it’s not working.
"That's not the point," she says, her voice clipped.
"Then what is the point?"
For the briefest moment, I see genuine disbelief on her face.
The hallway around us seems to hold it’s breath.
Just stay calm Sophi just breath.
I refuse to break eye contact and straighten up.
"Look…from where I'm standing," I say with a calm voice , "your shoes are perfectly fine, my book survived the fall, and both of us could still continue having a completely normal day."
Something shifts in her expression. Real surprise. Apparently people don't usually talk back to her. The thought almost makes me smile.
Almost.
Unfortunately, she notices anyway. The slightest twitch at the corner of my mouth is enough. Without warning she reaches past me and slams my locker shut with enough force that the metal door crashes through the hallway like a gunshot. I jerk my hand back instinctively, my heart launching into my throat as the locker rattles violently on its hinges.
Every pair of eyes in the corridor finds us.
For a moment, neither of us moves. She stares at me as though she can't quite decide whether I am unbelievably brave or unbelievably stupid, while I stand there wondering how a conversation about a perfectly undamaged shoe has escalated into what feels suspiciously like a public power struggle.
Then she folds her arms.
"Do you know who I am?"
The question is almost unsettling. Not asked with arrogance at least not in the obvious sense. If anything, she sounds genuinely confused, as though the answer should have been self evident the moment she opened her mouth.
"No," I say honestly. And pause. "And You know what? I don't care."
For the first time since this conversation started, her composure cracks.
A strange sense of satisfaction settles inside my chest. Maybe it is childish. Maybe it is reckless. But after two weeks of feeling invisible, it is surprisingly satisfying to discover that somebody at Weststar is capable of being bothered by my existence.
It kind of enjoying
Before she can respond, I adjust the strap of my bag and step around her.
*
With a wide, satisfied grin, I walk away. I can practically feel her glare burning into my back, but I won't look back. If I do, she'll tempt me into continuing, and I already have enough problems without declaring war on the school's fashion dictator.The thought follows me all the way down the hallway. By the time I finally check my phone, I am not even surprised to discover I am late.
The further I move through the building, the more the atmosphere begins to shift. The constant noise of the main hallways fades behind me until it becomes little more than a distant murmur, replaced by a quieter energy that settles over this part of the Academy like a held breath. Framed paintings line the walls on either side of the corridor, illuminated by carefully placed lights that turn every piece into its own small exhibition. Some of the artwork explodes with color, while others are composed entirely of charcoal and shadow, yet all of them carry the unmistakable feeling that somebody has poured a piece of themselves into their creation.
Without realizing it, I slow down.
And for the first time that morning, the tight knot beneath my ribs loosens slightly. Art has always done that to me ,has always possessed the strange ability to quiet the noise in my head, to create a space where expectations and grief and fear can't quite reach. Because the thing is , art doesn't care how much money your family has. It doesn't care whether your last name opens doors or whether your clothes come from expensive boutiques or not . A blank page doesn't judge. It simply waits patiently for somebody willing to fill it with something meaningful.
For someone to tell a story …sad or happy, it doesn’t matter.
Maybe that is why stepping into the art wing feels a little like finally coming up for air.And when I finally reach my classroom, my attention drifts toward the polished brass plaque beside the door.
ADVANCED ART
MR. ALBERT
Warm sunlight streams through the glass panel, illuminating rows of easels and large canvases. Even from where I stand, I can smell traces of paint, charcoal and paper, and something inside me relaxes almost immediately. It is such a simple thing. Such a ridiculous thing.
But as my mother used to say, if you learn to find joy in the little things in life, life itself becomes so much more beautiful.
And she was so right. Just standing her thinking about my next painting makes me smile.
Which is probably why I become so distracted that I don't notice someone approaching until a voice speaks behind me.
"You know, the door won't open itself no matter how long you keep staring at it."
The sound startles me so badly that I nearly drop my things for the second time. Spinning around, I find myself face to face with a blond boy whose amused expression suggests he has been watching me stand there for considerably longer than I would have liked.
And oh my lord he is handsome.
"Oh my God," I mutter, laughing awkwardly as I push a strand of hair behind my ear. "Was I really standing here that long?"
His grin widens.
Revealing perfectly shaped teeth.
"Long enough for me to start wondering whether you were planning to go inside or spend the entire lesson admiring the door." Despite myself, a laugh escapes me.
“I’m James “ Mister Handsome introduces himself and stretches out his hand.
With a great full smile a shake it “I’m Sophia “And somehow, after the morning I have had, that simple exchange feels like the nicest conversation I have experienced since arriving at Weststar.
“What were you thinking about Sophia?” James asks me, and for a second, I lose myself in his green eyes.A soft smile tugs at his lips, deepening the dimples in his cheeks. He looks around my age, super athletic, friendly, and honestly, he could totally become a friend.
Not a boyfriend.No im not a creep. I’m not lokking for a boyfriend just a friend.
So get yourself together, Sophia, and don’t say anything stupid.
“Nothing special. I was just… I don’t know. Thinking.”
“Okay, then. Shall we get in?”
“Get in?” I ask, confused.
Before it clicks.
“Oh, yes. Of course.” I laugh awkwardly and turn toward the door.
*
"Excuse us, sir," he says smoothly as we step inside, as though arriving late is something he does on a daily basis. "I was showing our new student around."
A few quiet laughs drift through the room, and heat creeps immediately into my cheeks. Near the large windows at the front, a tall man with silver-streaked hair looks up from the desk where he has been sorting through sketchbooks. Paint stains the cuff of his dark shirt, and a pair of reading glasses rests low on the bridge of his nose, giving him the slightly distracted appearance of someone whose thoughts are usually occupied by ideas rather than schedules. His gaze moves from James to me in a calm and attentive way .
"Very thoughtful of you Mr Blackwell " he says.
James responds with an innocent smile before grinig to me bendig slightly down “don’t worry he’s a nice teacher … just breath “ he wispers in my ear makig me slightly blush.
Get a grip Sophi!
I remain standing and watch him take an emty seat, before grinig to my teacher waiting for him to ether introduce me or tell me to take a seat.
"Everyone," Mr. Albert announces, "this is our new student."
"I'm Sophia Miller." I force what I hope looks like a normal smile. "It's nice to meet you." The response is exactly what I might have expected. A few students nod politely. One girl offers a small smile before returning to her sketchbook. Several others look at me briefly, decide I am not interesting enough and return to whatever they had been doing before.
From across the room, James catches my eye and gives me an encouraging nod. And to my supries it helps more than I want to admit.
"Thank you Miss Miller " Mr. Albert says while pointing to an empty seat "You may take the seat by the window."
I move quickly toward the empty seat, grateful to escape the spotlight. Okay, that wasn't too bad. Actually, I think I did pretty good.
Judging by the smile on James's lips, he agrees with me. Well, good.
I totally nailed it.
The seat beside the window offers a perfect view of the courtyard below where students crossing the grounds in small groups, sunlight softening the academy's imposing stone buildings.
It really is beautiful. Almost like Harry Potter but more luxurious.
For a brief moment, I find myself wondering whether my mother would have loved this place.
And she totally would have.
A sad smile apers on my lips. Grief has a way of weaving itself into everyday moments when I least expect it. It never truly disappears. It simply learns how to stay quiet until something invites it back into the light.
"Since you've joined us in the middle of the year," Mr. Albert continues, drawing my attention back to the front, "I don't expect perfection immediately. Weststar's art program is considerably more advanced than most, so there will naturally be some adjustments." My hand pauses halfway through opening my sketchbook.
What ?
Something about the comment settles uncomfortably inside me. Not the words exactly more the assumption hidden beneath them. The idea that talent flourishes more easily when accompanied by expensive tuition fees. That students from public schools start several steps behind and are expected to stay there.
Maybe I am imagining it. Maybe I am being overly sensitive.
But after two weeks surrounded by people who seem determined to measure value through wealth, those subtle distinctions are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
I know I should stay quiet. I genuinely do.
But it’s just so annoying.
"Sir," I say before I can reconsider.
"Yes, Miss Miller?"
I swallow.
"I don't think talent has much to do with where somebody comes from Sir."
The words linger in the air. Several students look up. Some appear surprised. Others look amused. James seems particularly interested in how this is going to unfold. Silence stretches across the room for a few long seconds and I can practically hear my own heartbeat.
I clear my throat and force myself to continue.
"Take Henri Rousseau or Bill Traylor," I say, my voice steadying. "Do you think they had an expensive education? For a matter of fact, they didn't. They learned it all by themselves, with pure imagination and belief. And look at Monet. His family wanted him to be a grocer, he lived in crushing poverty, but he changed the art world because he believed in his vision."
I look the teacher straight in the eye.
"They didn't need a fancy degree to be great. So yes Sir ... I'm sure I'll catch up quickly."
Wow Did I really just say that?
A faint smile appears on Mr. Albert's face. Not mocking. Not irritated. Intrigued before he says "Then I look forward to seeing your work, Miss Miller." And Relief washes through me so suddenly that I almost laugh. I nod and lower my gaze to my sketchbook as brief whispers spread through the room before fading away again.
Apparently I have survived.
Barely.
Although judging by the amused expression James is trying and failing to hide, he is definitely going to bring this up later.The attention gradually shifts away from me as Mr. Albert begins explaining the assignment. Sketchbooks reopen, pencils return to paper, and the room settles into the quiet rhythm that seems to define creative spaces.
As I open my own sketchbook, I study the room again but this time with less anxiety and more curiosity.And we all watch Mr. Albert placing an old stone sculpture on a platform near the front and instructs everyone to focus on proportions, perspective, and shadow work. While several students immediately begin sketching, I spend a few moments simply observing the object first following every curve, every crack in the stone, every shadow created by the afternoon sunlight before allowing my pencil to touch the page.
It is a habit my mother taught me when I was younger.
Don't draw what you think you see. Draw what is actually there.
The memory arrives so suddenly that my chest tightens. For a brief moment, I can almost hear her voice. I can picture her sitting beside me at our tiny kitchen table, a pencil tucked behind one ear while she gently corrected the way I held mine. She had never been formally trained, never attended prestigious art schools or exhibited her work in galleries, yet she had always possessed an instinctive understanding of beauty that no classroom could have taught.She used to tell me that most people never really looked at the world. They glanced. They assumed. They rushed past details.
You have to pay attention.
The thought lingers as I finally begin sketching. Slowly, the rest of the room fades. All that remains is the sculpture in front of me and the familiar movement of graphite across paper. There is something strangely comforting about the process. Every line leads naturally into the next, every shadow slowly finds its place and before long the constant noise that has occupied my mind all morning begins to quiet.
And the best think is, that Time moves differently whenever I draw. Minutes blend together. Thoughts become softer and my and my Problems become smaller. For the first time all day, I am not thinking about anything.
I am simply drawing.
"Interesting."
My pencil slips slightly across the page. When I notice that Mr. Albert is standing next to my desk. For a brief moment, panic flares inside me there is something uniquely terrifying about a teacher silently observing your work without saying anything.The longer he remains silent, the more convinced I become that he has found something horribly wrong with my sketch. Instead, he continues studying the page with an expression impossible to read. Several seconds pass. Then several more. By the time he finally speaks, I have already prepared myself for criticism.
"The shadows are strong." His gaze remains fixed on the drawing. "That wasn't what I expected. You understand where the light is coming from which is more than I can say for some students who have been in this classroom all year."
For a second, I am not entirely sure I have heard him correctly.
"Oh."
Brilliant response, Sophia.
Mr. Albert's mouth twitches slightly, as though trying not to smile
"Who was your teacher before?”
"My mother sir, she taught me when I was younger."The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Immediately something shifts in his expression
"She was an artist?"He asks surprised.
And for a moment, I don't know how to answer. Because the truth is complicated. My mother had wanted to be an artist. She had dreamed about it, talked about it, filled sketchbooks with ideas and plans she always promised she would finish one day. Life had simply gotten in her way
"She wanted to be," I say softly.
Mr . Albert nods once before he returns his attention back to the rest of the classroom without asking another question. The silence he leaves behind feels strangely considerate. Grief isn't something you recover from. It isn't an illness, it isn't a broken bone. You don't wake up one morning and discover it is finally gone. Instead, it settles quietly inside you and learns how to coexist with everything else. Most days it stays hidden beneath ordinary life, but every now and then something unexpected brushes against an old memory and suddenly it is there again as vivid as it has ever been.I stare down at my drawing for a moment longer before forcing myself to focus on the assignment.
Chapter One
S O P H I A
Shouldn't you already have friends by now?
I mean isn’t that what every movie, book, and ridiculously optimistic coming of age story, kind of always promises .The new girl arrives at a new school, accidentally bumpes into someone ( moste of the cases it’s a super hot ,well trained 6 foot 2 tall guy) in the hallway on her way to her first period and somehow by lunch she has people to sit with, by Friday she is invited to at least one party, and by the end of the month who would’ve thought , is living the kind of life that everyone wants.
Apparently.
However, reality has a much darker sense of humor.Take me for example, It’s my second week at my new Academy, and the most meaningful social interaction I have collected so far involves a football flying directly at my head and a Junior apologizing no fewer than four times before disappearing. Not that I have been counting.
Okay. Technically I have. Four times exactly.
*
I lean against my locker tray to remember if I have all my homework for the next class and let my gaze drift without noticing across the hallway. Where Students move around me in their expensive uniforms that somehow looks more tailored than mass produced and of course, designer shoes clicking against polished marble floors. Laughter echoes through the corridor as conversations blend into a constant hum of familiarity. And ther it is this familiar tight knot forming in my stomach again because watching all of them, the way they walk head up high, everyone seems to know exactly that they belong.
Everyone except me.
It isn't that people have been openly rude. To be honest most of them barely even
acknowledge my existence at all.
And I can’t even pretend that I belonge . Because I don’t and I definitely don’t want to. Not plaing to now, not in the future , not ever.Not after overhearing all the conversations , it’s so sad that they complain about the school food (wich is similar to a five star Restaurant) when ther are so many children in this world that suffer from hunger.Or once in Math, I overheard a guy complaining about his Birthday present, aperently a half a million doller super car was the wrong color so it was the worst present he has ever recived.
How sick is that ?
Most students at this school have last names that open doors before they even step into a room. Families with super successful businesses, fortunes, and influence that everyone recognizes.
Well I come from a small town, raised in a tiny but extremely cozy apartment by two loving parents. Now, I live with my loving aunt in a city that never sleeps and gives me high anxiety, evry time I tray to take the bus to get to school.When I walk through these enormous hallways, I am painfully aware of the sacrifices my aunt is making just so I can be here. After my parents died ,I had nowhere else to go, and my aunt insisted that I move to her so she can take care of me. The thought settles heavily in my chest. But I push it away before it can take hold. If I allow myself to think about my past for even a second longer, I will defenetly never make it through the day. So I push of my locker, fix my hair again in a messy bun and focus on something far less emotional.
My locker key.
More specifically, the fact that it has somehow vanished.
"Not again"I cry out in annoyance and beginn digging through my full bag.
But beside my Sketchbook,all my randomly thrown-in Pens, books and cat treats.
I can find nothig.
Not again
"I know you're in here somewhere," I mutter.I’m not a messy person , I’m really not but sometimes I just happen to lose things.
After several more seconds of desperate searching, and the consideration on just emptying my bag onto the flor my fingers finally brush against the familiar piece of metal. But my relief lasting half a second. Because at that exact moment, my copy of Pride and Prejudice decides it has had enough of being carried around all day long and slips from my grasp.
"No, no, no..."
Too late. It hits the floor with a loud crack and slides several feet across the hallway as though it has developed a desperate need for freedom.I muttering something under my breath that would disappoint every English teacher I have ever had and crouch down to reach for it. When a sharp click stops me. Less than an inch from my hand, a stiletto heel lands on the marble floor.
"Watch it." A sharp hig pitche voic followers causing me to snap my hand away just in time.
The voice that remindes me of Yzma from that one movie belongs to a tall girl,she looks like someone who has just stepped straight out of a luxury fashion campaign. Dark hair tied up into a sleek high ponytail,with so much hairspray that not even a single strand is daring to escape. Sharp features, flawless makeup that enhances rather than conceals, long lashes framing warm brown eyes that study me with thinly veiled annoyance. Huge gold earrings that make me wonder if her ears are fine, matched by a bracelet around one wrist , her jewelry cost probably more than my entire wardrobe.
Everything about her is polished. When I realized that I studied here for too long and she’s not even watching me , instead is staring at the tip of her shoe as if something truly catastrophic has just occurred. I follow her gaze automatically, expecting a scratch, a stain or some other visible damage that would justify the emotion radiating from her face.
But ther is nothing.Absolutely nothing.Her shoe is perfectly fine .
"Sorry," I say anyway as I reach for my book, deciding that apologizing is probably easier than whatever this conversation is about to become. "It was an accident." Only then does she look at me ,a slow and deliberate examination that travels from my face to my uniform and back again, as though she is seeing an insect and is disgusted by it existence.
Ouch
Then one perfectly sculpted eyebrow lifts.
"Sorry?" she repeats. And the way she says it is so strangely unnatural, almost as if she never used it before in her entire life.
"Yes," I reply forcing myself not to roll my eyes, tightening my grip on the book. "As in I didn't mean to do it."
She extends one leg slightly.
"These are limited edition Valentinos."
I look down on her shoe, not understanding what she wants me to do.
"...Okay?"
Something in her expression darkens, and for the first time I suspect I have failed a test I hadn't even known I was taking.
"They cost twelve hundred dollars."She snaps and her two friends behind her step further.
"Well …I’m sorry to hear that " And that’s not even a lie, I fell sorry for her ,ther are thousands of show out ther for less than fifty bucks and so much prettyer than her limited Valentinos. Also judging by her ridiculously high heels her shoes don’t look comfortable at all.
Lokking down at my comfy worn out sneakers, I smile.
"That’s funny to you ?"she snaps and to my supries Heads turn.
Just Great.
Exactly what I need after spending two weeks trying to avoid attention.
"No I was just … thinking" I tray to calm down the situation.
Spoiler it’s not working.
"That's not the point," she says, her voice clipped.
"Then what is the point?"
For the briefest moment, I see genuine disbelief on her face.
The hallway around us seems to hold it’s breath.
Just stay calm Sophi just breath.
I refuse to break eye contact and straighten up.
"Look…from where I'm standing," I say with a calm voice , "your shoes are perfectly fine, my book survived the fall, and both of us could still continue having a completely normal day."
Something shifts in her expression. Real surprise. Apparently people don't usually talk back to her. The thought almost makes me smile.
Almost.
Unfortunately, she notices anyway. The slightest twitch at the corner of my mouth is enough. Without warning she reaches past me and slams my locker shut with enough force that the metal door crashes through the hallway like a gunshot. I jerk my hand back instinctively, my heart launching into my throat as the locker rattles violently on its hinges.
Every pair of eyes in the corridor finds us.
For a moment, neither of us moves. She stares at me as though she can't quite decide whether I am unbelievably brave or unbelievably stupid, while I stand there wondering how a conversation about a perfectly undamaged shoe has escalated into what feels suspiciously like a public power struggle.
Then she folds her arms.
"Do you know who I am?"
The question is almost unsettling. Not asked with arrogance at least not in the obvious sense. If anything, she sounds genuinely confused, as though the answer should have been self evident the moment she opened her mouth.
"No," I say honestly. And pause. "And You know what? I don't care."
For the first time since this conversation started, her composure cracks.
A strange sense of satisfaction settles inside my chest. Maybe it is childish. Maybe it is reckless. But after two weeks of feeling invisible, it is surprisingly satisfying to discover that somebody at Weststar is capable of being bothered by my existence.
It kind of enjoying
Before she can respond, I adjust the strap of my bag and step around her.
*
With a wide, satisfied grin, I walk away. I can practically feel her glare burning into my back, but I won't look back. If I do, she'll tempt me into continuing, and I already have enough problems without declaring war on the school's fashion dictator.The thought follows me all the way down the hallway. By the time I finally check my phone, I am not even surprised to discover I am late.
The further I move through the building, the more the atmosphere begins to shift. The constant noise of the main hallways fades behind me until it becomes little more than a distant murmur, replaced by a quieter energy that settles over this part of the Academy like a held breath. Framed paintings line the walls on either side of the corridor, illuminated by carefully placed lights that turn every piece into its own small exhibition. Some of the artwork explodes with color, while others are composed entirely of charcoal and shadow, yet all of them carry the unmistakable feeling that somebody has poured a piece of themselves into their creation.
Without realizing it, I slow down.
And for the first time that morning, the tight knot beneath my ribs loosens slightly. Art has always done that to me ,has always possessed the strange ability to quiet the noise in my head, to create a space where expectations and grief and fear can't quite reach. Because the thing is , art doesn't care how much money your family has. It doesn't care whether your last name opens doors or whether your clothes come from expensive boutiques or not . A blank page doesn't judge. It simply waits patiently for somebody willing to fill it with something meaningful.
For someone to tell a story …sad or happy, it doesn’t matter.
Maybe that is why stepping into the art wing feels a little like finally coming up for air.And when I finally reach my classroom, my attention drifts toward the polished brass plaque beside the door.
ADVANCED ART
MR. ALBERT
Warm sunlight streams through the glass panel, illuminating rows of easels and large canvases. Even from where I stand, I can smell traces of paint, charcoal and paper, and something inside me relaxes almost immediately. It is such a simple thing. Such a ridiculous thing.
But as my mother used to say, if you learn to find joy in the little things in life, life itself becomes so much more beautiful.
And she was so right. Just standing her thinking about my next painting makes me smile.
Which is probably why I become so distracted that I don't notice someone approaching until a voice speaks behind me.
"You know, the door won't open itself no matter how long you keep staring at it."
The sound startles me so badly that I nearly drop my things for the second time. Spinning around, I find myself face to face with a blond boy whose amused expression suggests he has been watching me stand there for considerably longer than I would have liked.
And oh my lord he is handsome.
"Oh my God," I mutter, laughing awkwardly as I push a strand of hair behind my ear. "Was I really standing here that long?"
His grin widens.
Revealing perfectly shaped teeth.
"Long enough for me to start wondering whether you were planning to go inside or spend the entire lesson admiring the door." Despite myself, a laugh escapes me.
“I’m James “ Mister Handsome introduces himself and stretches out his hand.
With a great full smile a shake it “I’m Sophia “And somehow, after the morning I have had, that simple exchange feels like the nicest conversation I have experienced since arriving at Weststar.
“What were you thinking about Sophia?” James asks me, and for a second, I lose myself in his green eyes.A soft smile tugs at his lips, deepening the dimples in his cheeks. He looks around my age, super athletic, friendly, and honestly, he could totally become a friend.
Not a boyfriend.No im not a creep. I’m not lokking for a boyfriend just a friend.
So get yourself together, Sophia, and don’t say anything stupid.
“Nothing special. I was just… I don’t know. Thinking.”
“Okay, then. Shall we get in?”
“Get in?” I ask, confused.
Before it clicks.
“Oh, yes. Of course.” I laugh awkwardly and turn toward the door.
*
"Excuse us, sir," he says smoothly as we step inside, as though arriving late is something he does on a daily basis. "I was showing our new student around."
A few quiet laughs drift through the room, and heat creeps immediately into my cheeks. Near the large windows at the front, a tall man with silver-streaked hair looks up from the desk where he has been sorting through sketchbooks. Paint stains the cuff of his dark shirt, and a pair of reading glasses rests low on the bridge of his nose, giving him the slightly distracted appearance of someone whose thoughts are usually occupied by ideas rather than schedules. His gaze moves from James to me in a calm and attentive way .
"Very thoughtful of you Mr Blackwell " he says.
James responds with an innocent smile before grinig to me bendig slightly down “don’t worry he’s a nice teacher … just breath “ he wispers in my ear makig me slightly blush.
Get a grip Sophi!
I remain standing and watch him take an emty seat, before grinig to my teacher waiting for him to ether introduce me or tell me to take a seat.
"Everyone," Mr. Albert announces, "this is our new student."
"I'm Sophia Miller." I force what I hope looks like a normal smile. "It's nice to meet you." The response is exactly what I might have expected. A few students nod politely. One girl offers a small smile before returning to her sketchbook. Several others look at me briefly, decide I am not interesting enough and return to whatever they had been doing before.
From across the room, James catches my eye and gives me an encouraging nod. And to my supries it helps more than I want to admit.
"Thank you Miss Miller " Mr. Albert says while pointing to an empty seat "You may take the seat by the window."
I move quickly toward the empty seat, grateful to escape the spotlight. Okay, that wasn't too bad. Actually, I think I did pretty good.
Judging by the smile on James's lips, he agrees with me. Well, good.
I totally nailed it.
The seat beside the window offers a perfect view of the courtyard below where students crossing the grounds in small groups, sunlight softening the academy's imposing stone buildings.
It really is beautiful. Almost like Harry Potter but more luxurious.
For a brief moment, I find myself wondering whether my mother would have loved this place.
And she totally would have.
A sad smile apers on my lips. Grief has a way of weaving itself into everyday moments when I least expect it. It never truly disappears. It simply learns how to stay quiet until something invites it back into the light.
"Since you've joined us in the middle of the year," Mr. Albert continues, drawing my attention back to the front, "I don't expect perfection immediately. Weststar's art program is considerably more advanced than most, so there will naturally be some adjustments." My hand pauses halfway through opening my sketchbook.
What ?
Something about the comment settles uncomfortably inside me. Not the words exactly more the assumption hidden beneath them. The idea that talent flourishes more easily when accompanied by expensive tuition fees. That students from public schools start several steps behind and are expected to stay there.
Maybe I am imagining it. Maybe I am being overly sensitive.
But after two weeks surrounded by people who seem determined to measure value through wealth, those subtle distinctions are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
I know I should stay quiet. I genuinely do.
But it’s just so annoying.
"Sir," I say before I can reconsider.
"Yes, Miss Miller?"
I swallow.
"I don't think talent has much to do with where somebody comes from Sir."
The words linger in the air. Several students look up. Some appear surprised. Others look amused. James seems particularly interested in how this is going to unfold. Silence stretches across the room for a few long seconds and I can practically hear my own heartbeat.
I clear my throat and force myself to continue.
"Take Henri Rousseau or Bill Traylor," I say, my voice steadying. "Do you think they had an expensive education? For a matter of fact, they didn't. They learned it all by themselves, with pure imagination and belief. And look at Monet. His family wanted him to be a grocer, he lived in crushing poverty, but he changed the art world because he believed in his vision."
I look the teacher straight in the eye.
"They didn't need a fancy degree to be great. So yes Sir ... I'm sure I'll catch up quickly."
Wow Did I really just say that?
A faint smile appears on Mr. Albert's face. Not mocking. Not irritated. Intrigued before he says "Then I look forward to seeing your work, Miss Miller." And Relief washes through me so suddenly that I almost laugh. I nod and lower my gaze to my sketchbook as brief whispers spread through the room before fading away again.
Apparently I have survived.
Barely.
Although judging by the amused expression James is trying and failing to hide, he is definitely going to bring this up later.The attention gradually shifts away from me as Mr. Albert begins explaining the assignment. Sketchbooks reopen, pencils return to paper, and the room settles into the quiet rhythm that seems to define creative spaces.
As I open my own sketchbook, I study the room again but this time with less anxiety and more curiosity.And we all watch Mr. Albert placing an old stone sculpture on a platform near the front and instructs everyone to focus on proportions, perspective, and shadow work. While several students immediately begin sketching, I spend a few moments simply observing the object first following every curve, every crack in the stone, every shadow created by the afternoon sunlight before allowing my pencil to touch the page.
It is a habit my mother taught me when I was younger.
Don't draw what you think you see. Draw what is actually there.
The memory arrives so suddenly that my chest tightens. For a brief moment, I can almost hear her voice. I can picture her sitting beside me at our tiny kitchen table, a pencil tucked behind one ear while she gently corrected the way I held mine. She had never been formally trained, never attended prestigious art schools or exhibited her work in galleries, yet she had always possessed an instinctive understanding of beauty that no classroom could have taught.She used to tell me that most people never really looked at the world. They glanced. They assumed. They rushed past details.
You have to pay attention.
The thought lingers as I finally begin sketching. Slowly, the rest of the room fades. All that remains is the sculpture in front of me and the familiar movement of graphite across paper. There is something strangely comforting about the process. Every line leads naturally into the next, every shadow slowly finds its place and before long the constant noise that has occupied my mind all morning begins to quiet.
And the best think is, that Time moves differently whenever I draw. Minutes blend together. Thoughts become softer and my and my Problems become smaller. For the first time all day, I am not thinking about anything.
I am simply drawing.
"Interesting."
My pencil slips slightly across the page. When I notice that Mr. Albert is standing next to my desk. For a brief moment, panic flares inside me there is something uniquely terrifying about a teacher silently observing your work without saying anything.The longer he remains silent, the more convinced I become that he has found something horribly wrong with my sketch. Instead, he continues studying the page with an expression impossible to read. Several seconds pass. Then several more. By the time he finally speaks, I have already prepared myself for criticism.
"The shadows are strong." His gaze remains fixed on the drawing. "That wasn't what I expected. You understand where the light is coming from which is more than I can say for some students who have been in this classroom all year."
For a second, I am not entirely sure I have heard him correctly.
"Oh."
Brilliant response, Sophia.
Mr. Albert's mouth twitches slightly, as though trying not to smile
"Who was your teacher before?”
"My mother sir, she taught me when I was younger."The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Immediately something shifts in his expression
"She was an artist?"He asks surprised.
And for a moment, I don't know how to answer. Because the truth is complicated. My mother had wanted to be an artist. She had dreamed about it, talked about it, filled sketchbooks with ideas and plans she always promised she would finish one day. Life had simply gotten in her way
"She wanted to be," I say softly.
Mr . Albert nods once before he returns his attention back to the rest of the classroom without asking another question. The silence he leaves behind feels strangely considerate. Grief isn't something you recover from. It isn't an illness, it isn't a broken bone. You don't wake up one morning and discover it is finally gone. Instead, it settles quietly inside you and learns how to coexist with everything else. Most days it stays hidden beneath ordinary life, but every now and then something unexpected brushes against an old memory and suddenly it is there again as vivid as it has ever been.I stare down at my drawing for a moment longer before forcing myself to focus on the assignment.