She was surprised to feel tears burn her eyes. The Geographer, with its complex composition and intriguing use of light, was one of her favorite Vermeers as well, and the fact that Jesse saw the beauty in the painting both touched and pained her. He needed a chance to learn all there was to learn about his craft. How he was ever going to get that chance, she didn’t know. Now, with the arrival of Mrs. Furman’s letter, she knew his chances were slimmer than ever.

When Jesse arrived at the warehouse early that afternoon, Anna was ready for him. He was grinning, sketch pad in hand, anxious to show her a portrait he was working on, and she felt almost guilty for putting a damper on his excitement.

“I heard from Mrs. Furman,” she said, before he had a chance to open the cover of the sketch pad, and she watched his smile fade.

He looked away from her, then lowered himself to the chair by his easel in a silent slump, sketch pad askew on his lap.

“I know you’re neglecting your other subjects and responsibilities, Jesse.” She stood above him, arms folded, voice stern. She felt like an old schoolmarm. “It’s so important that you keep up with your schoolwork. I don’t want you to help me here if it’s interfering with your regular studies.” This was not quite the truth. Yes, she wanted him to do well, but she would miss his help—she’d miss him—if he no longer came to the warehouse each day. She would miss his passion.

“Don’ care ’bout school,” he muttered, then raised his gaze to her. “I’m gonna drop out and I’ll jest help you here ever’ day.”

“Oh, no you won’t,” she said, lowering her arms to her sides. “You can’t drop out. You have too much promise, Jesse. You need to finish high school and graduate and then go to college where you can study art.” Even as she said the words, she knew what she was describing was a pipe dream. First, according to Mrs. Furman, his grades in all his other subjects would never get him into college. Second, he surely came from a poor family. How could they afford to send him away to school? Third, where could a colored boy go to study art?

Jesse said nothing, just sat there staring at the unopened sketchbook on his knees.

“I’d like to come by your house and speak to your parents about this,” Anna said. His parents needed to know that their son was shirking his responsibilities at school and that, if he’d only apply himself, he might have a future in art. “When would be a good time for me to stop by?”