The plane drops again, enough to make my stomach flip. The wings catch air with a thunk. My teeth clack together, and a flight attendant stumbles in the aisle. Someone begins to cry. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I guess they weren’t kidding about it being bumpy.

The intercom warbles again. “Flight attendants, please take your seats.”

Harper tucks her long dark hair behind her ear. “Great, now I’m stuck holding my cup.”

The plane thumps and shimmies its way down through the clouds. It’s a hard go. My teeth clack together. Bags bounce up against the undersides of seats. I spend enough time in the air to know it’s probably fine, but I still check the window. Just get down out of the clouds already.

In front of me, that woman is still crying, but I don’t blame her now. Almost everyone looks nervous. Well, everyone except Harper.

“How long is your layover?” she asks, tucking her lipstick into its cap without spilling a drop of whatever’s left of her Diet Coke.

“Forty-five minutes,” I say as the plane dips right and then rises. “Tight.”

“It won’t matter in this mess. We’ll all be delayed.” Then she grins. “So, did you think any more about our conversation?”

Normally, I avoid chitchat on airplanes at all costs, but before we even took off, Harper pointed out my silver cuff bracelet, a gift from my dad two Christmases ago. She recognized the jewelry maker by sight, which brought us to the conversation of metalworking, then modern art, and then painting. There’s no stopping me when I get started on all that.

“I dozed off somewhere over Oklahoma, I think,” I say.

She laughs. “Hopefully this blizzard will convince you a transfer to CalArts is a good idea.”

“Transfer?”

“Yes. Look, even if you didn’t have the grades for it before, you said you’re pulling a 4.0 now. And you’re talented. I’ve seen your work.”

“Well, on my phone.”

“I’ve seen enough. You have a focus in your paintings that’s uncommon.”

Focus is what Phoebe saw in my work, too. She said I knew how to use color to draw a viewer’s eye to the heart of each painting. That’s how she convinced me to take the money she offered and to transfer permanently to my super selective and pricey art school that is across the country from Mom. I’d gotten accepted as a junior, but I came home early when Phoebe got sick, and I had no intention of going back. Especially with the hefty tuition hike that would affect my senior year.