Page 119 of Wicked Promises

We slip into Robert’s classroom, and he shoots us a smile.

“Hey, guys,” he says. His desk is a wreck. Papers everywhere, folders, various tubes of paint and brushes. “How’s your day?”

“Peachy,” Margo answers. “You okay?”

“Oh, the substitute teacher probably wishes she had another week to get things more organized.” He rolls his shoulders back. “I’m just still trying to get everything sorted. Plus it’s the end of the year, and final projects are due. God, every year I think I should stagger the classes?—”

“Mr. Bryan!” one of his students squeals. They come in with a few others. “You’re back!”

“Yes, hello.” He motions for them to take their seats. “You, too, please.”

I take Margo’s hand and pull her toward the back of the room.

“He seems frazzled,” Margo whispers.

“I would be, too, if my desk looked like that.”

She hides her laugh behind her hand.

“We’re getting to the end of the semester.” Robert closes the door. “And I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that your final project, the portraits, are due at the beginning of next week. Can I see a show of hands to who’s already completed theirs?”

Half the hands in the room go up, including mine.

I was done a while ago. And in fact, Robert already graded it.

I didn’t breathe a word of that to Margo. I was already mostly done by the time I tried to hurt her relationship with the Bryans. It was only after, when she started standing up to me, that I revisited it. I changed a few things—the feeling behind it, but not necessarily anything physical.

For my first oil painting, I was impressed with myself. And I got an A on it, of course.

Margo frowns at my raised hand.

“What?” I mouth, holding back a smile.

I saw my eyeless self immortalized on the canvas yesterday, and I can imagine how conflicted she is. To paint me with a scowl? A dead look in my eye? It’s how most of the world sees me nowadays. But she’s always been able to see deeper.

And that’s where her struggle comes in.

Robert gives us an assignment, a bowl of fruit set up on a table in the center of our circle, and goes back to his desk.

It occurs to me that the end of the semester brings something else besides holidays and a weeklong break: college application deadlines.

I lean over to her as she’s putting paint on her palette. “Did you apply yet?”

“Did I apply for what?” She glances at me and pushes hair out of her face.

“School.”

“When would I have had time to do that?”

I roll my eyes. “You were out for over a week.”

“Because I had a head injury.” She readjusts her stool. “Seriously.”

“Don’t you want to go to NYU? There are other schools if you didn’t like that one?—”

“Listen. If I could have whatever I wanted, there’s another school I’d love to go to. It’s farther away, though. Even if I could afford tuition,maybethe Bryans would let me commute from here. That’s why NYU sounds like a good idea.” She shakes her head. “Haven’t we been over this? I can’t afford it, and I can’t ask the Bryans?—”

I narrow my eyes. “We’re going to talk about this dream school later. Because they’d give it to you. Anything you wanted.”