“Nope. Still not even a little bit artistic.”

“There’s an artist inside each of us.”

“I think I drowned mine.”

She gave a courtesy laugh, then said, “So what brings you here? Did you already fill out your schedule for next year?”

We’d gotten the sheets that morning. I liked to get things off my to-do list as quickly as possible. “Yes.” I handed it to her.

While she looked over it, my eyes continued to wander the room. Art hung on the walls and paintings were drying on easels. I bit my lip. “Did any of your students show a piece at the museum on Tenth Street for the show last week? I saw a painting there that my parents might want to buy.” This wasn’t the reason I had filled out my schedule so fast. I was not still curious about who Heath Hall was. Or at least that’s what I was telling myself.

She brightened at my mention of going to the museum. “Sounds like you didn’t drown your creative side, after all.”

“It’s for my parents,” I said again before she whipped out an eraser and started changing my schedule.

“Students don’t have to get my approval to enter pieces there. They have to submit them for consideration like everyone else. Did the piece not have a name with it?”

“No.” And I knew for a fact the piece had been snuck in and not submitted for consideration at all.

“What did it look like?”

“It was a painting of a shipwreck in the middle of the ocean.” It was dark and alive and even thinking about it now gave me goose bumps again. Maybe I did have a creative side clawing for air somewhere inside of me.

“I haven’t seen a piece like that come through my class. But most serious students work on paintings at home too.”

“Who would you say your most talented student is?”

“Everyone is an artist in their own way. I don’t pick favorites.”

I laughed. “I won’t tell anyone.”

She looked around, as if to make sure we were still alone, and led me to the far corner of the room where a half-done painting sat. Even incomplete, it was gorgeous. It was a tree, twisted and gnarled, dark and perfect. It had the same feel as the ocean scene from the museum. The same strokes or depth or something. “Yes. Who painted this?”

“I’m not allowed to tell you that without his permission. But I’ll ask him if he’s interested in selling any of his work. I’ll be in touch.”

“Okay. Thanks, Ms. Lin.” He’d know why I was asking. We’d been face-to-face in that hallway at the museum. We’d chatted online. He wouldn’t let Ms. Lin tell me who he was.

The door to the art room flew open and I whirled around.