I slide my book into my backpack and take the note from Mr. Clarke, heading out of the classroom for the office. To be honest, my stomach twists with paranoia. After all the trouble around the holidays and the situation with my dad, the past few weeks of smooth sailing has me on edge. Historically, things never really get better for the Evans boys—at least, not for long.
As I pass the main doors I consider just running. Just getting out of here—avoiding whatever’s waiting for me behind the glass windows of the main office, but then I think of Starlee, her mother, and grandmother. They sacrificed too much for me to just walk away. I’m gonna have to face this moment and whatever comes next.
I push through the office door, smiling at the receptionist behind her desk and hold up the note. “I got summoned.”
She takes it from me and waves me toward the back. “They’re waiting for you in the conference room.”
I shiver runs down my spine. The conference room is where the social workers always come to visit. Is that what this is about? Why didn’t they call Charlie in here? And who the hell are “they"?
I walk down the hall and stop at the open doorway, pausing in confusion. Ms. Peterman, my art teacher, sits at the table with a woman with wild, white hair and about a million bracelets stacked up her arm. Definitely not a social worker.
“Hey,” I say, stepping into the room. “You wanted to see me?”
“George,” Ms. Peterman says with a strange grin. “I wanted you to meet Cassandra Sparks. She’s from the Berkeley School of Art and Design.”
“Oh, hi,” I say, reaching out my hand. She shakes it with a surprisingly firm grip. “Nice to meet you.”
That’s when I spot a portfolio leaning against the table. A different kind of nervousness rolls through my body.
“Take a seat,” Ms. Peterman says, pointing to the chair next to her and across from Ms. Sparks. I jerk the chair back too fast and it tumbles, banging into the one next to it. As a reaction I lunge to stop it from falling completely, banging my elbow into the wall.
“George,” Ms. Peterman says.
“Huh?” I reply, straightening the chair.
“Sit down.”
I plop into the chair. “Right. Sorry.”
My art teacher gives me a patient smile. “It’s fine.” She turns to the woman from the art school. “As you can see, George has a lot of energy, one that he channels into his artwork.”
Ms. Sparks lifts the portfolio on the table and opens it up. Inside is all the pieces I carefully selected for the admission process. I’d applied to a few different schools, but Berkeley is on the top of my list. It’s not too far away and Charlie’s looking into their computer science and eSport program. With everything that’s happened over the last few months, and with our dad’s trial hanging over our heads, I’m not sure I’m ready to leave my brother right now.
I swallow as she flips through the pages, stopping on a pencil drawing of Sierra. “I was driving through this area and realized that I would be close to your school. Normally these kinds of announcements are made through the mail, but since Ms. Peterman is an old friend and you’ve got such a unique talent, I wanted to take the time to speak to you directly.”
I glance at Ms. Peterman. She smiles encouragingly. My palms and every other part of my body start to sweat.
“We’re offering you admission to the fall semester at BSAD.”
“Seriously?” I look between the two women.
“Yes, seriously,” Ms. Peterman replies. “You got in, George.”
I hop out of my seat and reach for my art teacher. She’s stuck by me through this whole process—forced me to apply when things seemed hopeless. “I can’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” she replies, her voice strained from how tight I’m hugging her. “You earned it.”
I let Ms. Peterman go and rub my head. “Wow. I just, I hoped, you know, but after…you know, after everything, I just didn’t think it would happen.”
Everything being my father. The man that told me over and over I’d never amount to anything other than manual labor. The man that shredded my artwork before cracking a bottle over my head. Embarrassingly I wipe my eyes, overcome with emotion.
Ms. Sparks smiles. “It’s my understanding tuition may be a hardship for you. BSAD isn’t cheap, but there are scholarship opportunities for you that your guidance counselor can help you with.” I can’t even think about the money right now. I’m too buzzed. “I did want to tell you about a special program we have. Each year we invite ten incoming students to display and participate in a gallery opening. You’ll get real time feedback on your art and pieces are priced to market. One hundred percent of the proceeds goes toward your tuition. The event is this spring and you can submit up to twenty pieces that fit in the allotted space.”
She pushes a brochure across the table. I pick it up, unable to read right now. My brain is on overload. I do manage to spit out, “Wow, this sounds amazing.”
“It’s a great event. You’ll get to meet other students, professors, and get a taste of what it’s like on campus.”
I’m totally stunned and unable to really speak. Ms. Peterman, as usual, comes to my rescue. “I think George is overwhelmed by the news and opportunities. He and I will work on ideas for the art show and make sure all the information is turned in.” She squeezes my hand and says, “Unless you have some other questions we can talk about this later, okay?”