Chapter 2

The bus stopped in front of Westwood Prep.

I took a deep breath, preparing to get off.

"Head up. Don't let them see you cry." I repeated Mom's words in my mind.

Friday's nightmare was over. Today was a fresh start.

My foot had barely touched the sidewalk when—

"Did you see the video?"

Two girls walked past me, staring at their phone screens and laughing.

My stomach dropped. Video? What video?

I hurried toward my locker, head down, curly hair covering my face. But my ears picked up every word like radar.

"She actually threw juice at him..."

"So aggressive..."

"Scholarship kids shouldn't even be here..."

My hands trembled as I spun the combination lock. It took three tries to open.

Julia—one of Mia's friends—stood nearby, giggling at her phone. When she saw me, she deliberately turned up the volume.

I heard my own voice coming from her phone: "Stay away from me!"

Then the sound of juice splashing, followed by that guy's calm "I was just trying to help."

The video title made me sick: "Scholarship Girl Attacks Student"

Over 15,000 views. Nearly 700 comments.

I grabbed my textbooks and slammed the locker door shut.

Julia and her friends giggled as they walked away.

The hallway speakers crackled: "All students please report to the auditorium for Monday assembly."

I closed my eyes. This day just kept getting worse.

I sat in the back row of the auditorium, wishing I could disappear. Principal Morrison stood on stage, beginning his weekly announcements. Budget meetings, parent conferences, fall formal...

I wasn't listening at all. I just wanted to survive the day.

Then the principal's voice suddenly became excited.

"Now, I have the great honor of announcing something truly extraordinary..."

I looked up.

"Willard Bryant has been accepted to MIT through their Early Action program..."

Willard Bryant? The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it.

The principal continued: "...with a perfect 4.0 GPA, first place at the International Physics Olympiad, and a published paper in the Journal of Applied Physics..."

The student next to me whispered excitedly, "Oh my God, he's literally the top of our class. Total genius!"

I frowned. I never paid attention to the academic elite. To me, they existed in a different world.

"Let's welcome Willard to the stage..."

A figure emerged from the side door. Black leather jacket, dark hair, lazy stride. Hands in pockets, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

My breath caught.

It was him. The guy I'd thrown juice at on Friday night.

My jaw dropped.

He scanned the audience from the stage, his gaze stopping on me for a second.

I wanted to die.

The auditorium erupted in applause. I heard girls screaming, "Willard, we love you!"

My brain went blank.

The guy who crouched down to help me pick up broken glass at the gallery... The one who mocked my "performance art"... The one I'd splashed with juice...

He was the school genius? Perfect 4.0 GPA? MIT early acceptance? Physics Olympiad gold medal?

And me—scholarship girl with a 2.8 GPA who bombed the SAT—I threw juice in his face?

I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

This was disaster 2.0.

The second the assembly ended, I bolted from the auditorium, wandering the halls until afternoon.

For afternoon AP Studio Art, I arrived ten minutes early.

Maybe I could sit in the farthest corner, avoid everyone's eyes. Maybe I could pretend last week never happened.

Mr. Harrison walked into the classroom carrying a stack of papers.

"Good afternoon, everyone. Before we begin, I need to address a technical issue..."

My stomach began churning again.

"Due to last week's computer malfunction, some partner assignments were randomly generated instead of being based on artistic compatibility..."

No no no no no.

"So we have a few unusual pairings. Let me see..."

He read several names, then stopped at mine.

"Olivia Martinez..."

I held my breath.

"...and Willard Bryant."

The classroom door opened at that exact moment.

Willard walked in, ten minutes late, completely unbothered. He scanned the room, locked eyes with me, and raised an eyebrow.

Then sauntered over and sat down next to me. The air felt thick.

"So. We're partners." His voice was flat, like he was commenting on the weather.

My face burned. "I... I'm really sorry. About the juice thing."

Willard leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "I've dealt with worse."

That made me feel even more embarrassed.

Mr. Harrison began explaining today's assignment: analyze a piece of modern art and write a critique.

I tried to focus, flipping through my textbook, trying to find the piece we were supposed to analyze.

Then I heard the scratch of pencil on paper.

I snuck a glance.

Willard was drawing in his notebook. Not random doodling—it was a complex abstract pattern, fluid lines full of movement.

"You draw?" I couldn't help asking.

He immediately closed the notebook, like he'd been caught doing something secret. "Just messing around."

The atmosphere instantly became awkward.

I cleared my throat, trying to get back on track. "So, about the assignment. Maybe we can divide the work? I'll analyze composition, you do historical context?"

Willard looked at me, expression unreadable.

Then he said something that made my blood boil.

"Look, I'm just here for an easy A. You do the work, I sign my name."

I stared at him. "What did you just say?"

"You heard me." His tone was casual.

"That's not how collaboration works!" My voice was louder than intended, several classmates turned to look.

Willard leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Do you really think we're equals? You need me more than I need you."

The words hit like a slap.

Because he was right.

I bit my lip hard, picked up my pen, and started taking notes furiously.

Willard reopened his notebook and continued his "messing around."

After school, I was called to Ms. Peterson's office.

The college counselor's office was on the second floor of the administrative building, walls covered with framed Ivy League acceptance letters. Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Stanford...

Each one felt like it was mocking me.

Ms. Peterson sat behind her large desk, wearing wire-frame glasses, pearl necklace glinting under the lights.

She looked at my transcript and frowned. "Olivia, let's be realistic."

My fingers gripped the chair armrests.

"Your GPA is 2.8, your SAT is 1100. These aren't competitive numbers."

"I know, but—"

"Not everyone is college material, Olivia." She cut me off, voice gentle but cruel.

"Have you considered community college? Or trade school? There's no shame in—"

"I'm applying to art schools." My voice trembled. "Rhode Island School of Design, School of the Art Institute of Chicago, California Institute of the Arts—"

Ms. Peterson gave a patronizing smile. "Those are extremely competitive institutions. And very expensive."

She paused, her gaze sweeping over my secondhand t-shirt and worn backpack.

"Are you sure your... family can afford it?" The way she emphasized "family" dripped with condescension.

I stood up, the chair scraping loudly. "I have to go."

"Olivia, I'm just trying to help you make informed—"

I was already out the door.

In the hallway, photos of Mia lined the walls. Art trips to Paris, summer camps in New York, workshops in Rome. All the opportunities I could never afford.

I didn't go home. The neighbors were renovating, Mom was working the night shift, and the empty apartment only offered the sound of power drills.

So at nine PM, I sat in a corner of the school library.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Mr. Harrison.

I opened it, my heart plummeted.

[Olivia, I need to tell you something. The school board is considering cutting funding for the art program. They think it doesn't contribute enough to college acceptance statistics. I might be let go at the end of the semester.]

I stared at the screen, fingers numb.

Mr. Harrison was the only person at this school who believed in me. The only one who saw my potential, who encouraged my dreams.

If even he was leaving...

I stood up and walked to the window, desperate for air.

Then I saw it.

A figure in a black hoodie, spray-painting graffiti on the campus wall. The movements were skilled, lines fluid, completing a complex abstract pattern in minutes.

In the moonlight, I couldn't see the person's face clearly.

But that pattern...

My heart skipped a beat.

That pattern was identical to what Willard had drawn in his notebook this afternoon.