My eyes sting with salt and I’m pissed, so pissed. Pissed at Mrs. Mulaney for admitting the one aspect of this school that brings me joy doesn’t matter. Pissed at my dad, who sent me into a formality meeting with absolutely no warning. Pissed at the school committee for confirming what I’ve always known to be true.
Art is not a sustainable path.
Not even as a high school hobby.
CHAPTER THREE
Hosting a welcome back assembly two weeks into the school year feels like a delayed reaction.
Mrs. Mulaney destroyed our Melted hopes and dreams mere hours ago, and now I’m sitting in the gymnasium half listening to her school spirit bullshit. I’m stage left, sandwiched between Henry and Fitz and surrounded by the rest of the drama kids, all processing the death of our hobby.
“So, we’re just supposed to sit back and be quiet through the desecration of the arts?” Makayla Okoye whispers behind me. Makayla, a junior like Fitz and me, is starting center on the varsity basketball team, has won a regional prize for her charcoal art, and can do a killer British accent. She’s an athlete who arts, the embodiment of who my sister and I would be if we were smashed together into one person. If we were a five-eleven Nigerian-American girl from D.C. and not short Jewish girls who’ve never left Massachusetts.
“But first, a riveting lecture on the consequences of Juuling!” Arjun Patel says. He’s sitting behind me, but I can hear his eye roll. Arjun is our senior stage manager whose main gigs are being student council vice president and captain of the tennis team.
My palms press against purple plastic bleachers as I lean forward to see over Ivan McGilvray, whose six-five frame is a serious problem at the moment. While Mrs. Mulaney moves on from Juuling to the budget cuts, I scan the bleachers—searching for my dad.
His eyes meet mine across the gymnasium.
Traitor, I mouth.
It doesn’t matter that my dad is too far away to understand. It’s cathartic, the word tumbling from my lips from a safe distance.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Reid Callahan
how did boiled go?
8:45 AM
I make another face, this time at the back of Reid’s head. He’s sitting with a group of band kids a few rows in front of me. He bumps shoulders with Lacey Henderson, first flute, and laughs when she whispers something in his ear. His fingers tap against his thigh absentmindedly in five-four, to the beat of whatever song he and my dad jammed to this morning, most likely.
Fitz reads the text over my shoulder. “May I?”
I hand Fitz my phone.
8:46 AM
“Does anyone have any questions?” Mrs. Mulaney asks.
Her toothy grin screams please don’t!
Henry chews on the inside of his cheek. Fitz raises her hand.
