Chapter 4

"Wait! I—" Mia panicked, her voice going shrill. "Mr. Harrison, this really was an accident! I just—"

"Mia," Mr. Harrison looked from Willard to the paint thinner bottle on the floor, liquid still dripping from the opening in a trail pointing straight at my canvas. "Go to the dean's office. Now."

"But—"

"Now."

Mia grabbed her bag furiously, shot me a venomous glare before leaving, then turned to Willard: "You're going to regret this."

Willard leaned against the wall, hands in pockets. "I doubt it."

The door slammed shut.

"All right, everyone back to work," Mr. Harrison's voice broke the silence.

But no one actually worked. Whispers spread through the classroom—"Willard actually..."—"Mia's screwed..."—"What will the dean do..."

I sat in my chair, staring at the ruined painting, my mind blank.

I didn't realize the entire class period had passed until the bell rang.

Students filed out quickly. The room emptied quickly.

I cleaned up the mess, rolling up the destroyed canvas. My hands still trembled, tears still fell, but I forced myself to pack up.

"Thank you."

I turned to find Willard still there. He was leaning against the wall, hadn't rushed out like everyone else.

"She's a bitch," he said bluntly. "Someone had to call it out."

I gave a bitter smile. "But now she'll hate me even more."

"She already hated you," Willard looked at me. "Might as well fight back."

The hallway was empty except for us. Clutching my rolled canvas, I suddenly asked: "Why did you help me? Last week you said I needed you more than you needed me."

Willard was silent for a long time. So long I thought he wouldn't answer.

Then he said: "I was being an asshole. Sorry."

I was stunned. This was the first time he'd apologized.

"That painting..." he continued, his gaze falling on the canvas in my arms. "It was good. Really good. You shouldn't let people like Mia destroy it."

My throat tightened.

For three months, only Mr. Harrison had praised this painting. Everyone else either ignored it or said "too abstract, can't understand it."

But Willard said it was good.

I didn't know what to say, just nodded.

"Do you have time to repaint it?" he asked.

"I don't know," I bit my lip. "The application deadline is coming up, but I'm not sure how much time I have left."

Willard frowned but said nothing. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to leave.

At the door, he stopped, looked back at me:

"Don't give up."

Then he was gone.

That night, I received an email.

From the college application system, subject line: Deadline Reminder—6 Weeks Remaining.

I opened it, staring at the requirements:

• 10-15 complete works

• At least 3 different media

• Include one core piece

I was now missing that core piece. Six weeks to reconceptualize and recreate a work that could represent my highest level.

Impossible.

My phone buzzed. An Instagram DM.

I didn't want to look, but I clicked anyway.

The anonymous account had sent a message:

[You think Willard cares about you? He's just bored. Rich kids like him play with trash like you for fun.]

I stared at the screen, as if someone was squeezing my heart in their fist.

He had helped me today.

But was that account right?

Was he just playing with me?

That night I couldn't sleep at all, my mind replaying those Instagram comments, Mia's smug smile, and the look in Willard's eyes when he said "don't give up."

2 AM, I gave up on sleep. Rather than lie here overthinking, I might as well do something.

I needed to repaint that piece. Six weeks. Had to start.

2:30 AM, I inserted my shaking key into the art studio door lock. The entire building was pitch black, only the green emergency exit signs glowing at the end of the hallway. I turned on the lights, the harsh white glare making me squint.

The blank canvas stood on the easel like a mocking face.

I picked up a brush, tried mixing colors on the palette. But my hand held the brush suspended in midair, unable to make that first stroke. Ms. Peterson's contemptuous gaze, those comments—"trash," "poor kid," "doesn't belong here"—spread through my mind like poison.

The brush fell to the floor.

I collapsed onto the table, finally breaking down.

"Damn it," I cursed under my breath, tears dripping onto the palette, bleeding the deep blue paint. "Damn damn damn—"

The door suddenly opened.

I jumped up, my heart nearly leaping from my throat. Thinking it was security, thinking I'd be caught, thinking—

"What are you doing here?!"

Willard stood in the doorway, wearing a black hoodie and ripped jeans, carrying a backpack. He looked as shocked as I was.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," he said, his voice unnaturally calm.

He walked in and set down his backpack. I noticed spray paint on his hands—bright yellow and silver, not completely wiped off yet.

"Were you just... spray painting?" I asked.

He looked at his hands and shrugged. "Maybe. Were you just... crying?"

"No."

"Liar."

But his tone wasn't mocking. More like stating an obvious fact.

Silence. Awkward, suffocating silence.

Willard walked to my canvas, looked at the photo on my phone—the painting before Mia destroyed it.

"You want to repaint it," he said. "The one Mia ruined."

I nodded, my throat tightening. "I have to repaint it. For my portfolio. But I can't... I can't start."

"Why not?"

"Because—" my voice cracked. "What's the point? She'll destroy it again. They all will. They want me gone."

Willard stared at the photo for a long time.

"This is kinetic art, right? Has moving parts?"

I was stunned. Didn't expect him to notice that.

"Yes. It was supposed to have rotating elements, but I couldn't figure out the mechanism. The balance was off."

He pulled out a notebook from his backpack and started sketching. Quick, precise lines.

"Look. If you change the axis here," he pointed at the diagram, "then use a counterweight here... Physics. Center of gravity, torque distribution."

I leaned in closer. Suddenly, the problems that had plagued me for months became clear.

"This is... amazing," I whispered.

Willard looked up at me, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly—the first time I'd seen him really smile.

"Art and science aren't opposites," he said. "They're just different ways of seeing the world."

His eyes held light. Real, warm light.