“Check this out,” Weston said. His poster-sized project was spread out across the table, and I looked it over with an uncontrollable smile. It was a girl looking out the window, her face in shadow except for her bright blue eyes. She held her knees to her chest, and a small necklace hung loosely from her fingers. It was a silver heart with intricate detail chiseled around the border. In the middle appeared one word: Happenstance.

“It’s incredible,” I whispered. “She’s so pretty.” I felt an urge to run my fingers over it, but didn’t want to smear the charcoal.

“It’s you.”

I looked up at him, in shock. We’d been working on this project for three months. My eyebrow shot up, and I shook my head, unconvinced. “You’re such a liar.”

“I’m completely serious.”

“Is everyone ready to reveal their final project?” Mrs. Cup said as she sauntered into the classroom, dressed in a black shawl and pants suit. “I know you have all been working incredibly hard. In years past, you’ve taken home these projects and framed them, given them away, or did with them as you choose. But I’ve asked more from you this year. We’ve learned about Faulkner’s lessons and that as artists, you must learn to kill your darlings.” She sighed. “For your final grade, I’m going to ask this of you.” She held up Shannon LaBlue’s poster-sized painting and ripped it in half, length-wise. It made a quick, high-pitched sound, and we all gasped.

Shannon’s mouth fell open. She looked around, unsure of what to do.

Mrs. Cup walked to Zach Skidmore, who sat next to me. “Well?”

“Are you serious? I thought this was going to be the crowning project of my high school years. I worked my ass off on this, Mrs. Cup!”

“It’s your final grade.”

Zach stared at the ground for a moment, breathed out through his nose, and then took his project, a beautiful landscape, and ripped it in half. We all winced, as if he’d cut his wrists.

The teacher stood in front of my desk. I had worked hard on my project, a charcoal piece featuring a dark hallway with Victorian paintings. It made a horrid ripping sound as I separated one side from the other.

Mrs. Cup took a step, standing in front of Weston. His project was still laid out on my desk, behind him.

“Weston.”

“This is cruel,” he said.

“It’s a lesson. Not all lessons are easy. The best ones—those you learn the most from—are the most difficult.”

“I’m not doing it,” Weston said, shifting just slightly, protecting his elegant and tender rendering of me.

“It’s your final grade, Weston. It was the whole point.”

He stood, pulled his poster from the desk, and rolled it carefully. “Then I guess I fail.” He left the classroom and walked down the hall toward the parking lot.

Mrs. Cup shook her head, then took a step toward the next horrified student.

“It was you?” Frankie asked, a little stunned.