We won’t settle. Nothing is normal. This thing with Zeke isn’t fly-by-night. Neither is my involvement with SCORE.

We won’t settle. The whole world is changing. No going back. There is no normal anymore.

WILL/EMZEE

It’s easier than it should be to sneak out of the apartment. My parents watch TV kinda loud, and if I just leave my door shut, they don’t bother me. A closed door means I want to be left alone.

I tiptoe through the foyer and then wait with my hand on the knob. It’s never long before a loud commercial comes on, and it covers the sound of the snapping lock.

I slip out, let the knob click back into place under cover of the same commercial. Scoot toward the elevator. Like clockwork.

Almost.

This time, the door clicks open behind me. “Hey.”

Uh-oh.

Steve’s in the hall with me. Busted. “Where are you going?” he says.

“What? No biggie. I’ll be right back,” I lie.

Steve pats his pockets, checking for his keys. He lets the apartment door close behind him. “Let me see your bag.” He holds out his hand.

“It’s only my books,” I tell him. “I’m just used to carrying it.”

Steve crosses his arms. “Would you rather talk to your mother about this?”

Hell freaking no. I swing my backpack off my shoulder and toss it at his feet. He unzips it.

My life is over. Being caught was always a possibility. I’ve known that. Caught by my parents, by a teacher, by the cops. I always thought I’d be mad when it happened. Defiant. It’s different. It’s worse.

Steve pulls out two of my paint cans, the gray and the white. When I see them in his hands, I feel like I’m crumpling, fading. Like I’m being dropped into a deep, deep hole from which I may never escape. Dirt walls and hopelessness, my very self stripped away.

“Put them back,” I whisper. “Please. Please.” There’s something raw in my voice. Steve reacts to my words as if I did lash out, as if I sounded all defiant and enraged. I’ve burned him.

He places the cans back, carefully. He re-zips the bag. Does he know that I’m dying in front of him?

Steve pulls out his phone. Clicks around a minute. I’m not sure what to do with the silence. This moment is nothing like I ever imagined. It’s all I can do to breathe. My bag is on the floor between us. I want to take it, but I can’t move.

Steve holds out his phone. “This is you?”

He has eMZee art in his photos. It’s kind of surreal. He thumbs through four images. The photos are taken through his car window, like he drove around looking for them. Not my best work, but … he’s seen me.

“Yes,” I admit. The fullness of the truth is refreshing.

Mrs. Nadinsky, our neighbor, opens her door. “Oh, hello, dears.” She has her gray hair in rollers under a cap. She’s carrying a small plastic trash bag.