“Hey, it’s four more years that you get to dick around before you have to be an adult. I think that sounds like a sweet gig.”

I raised a brow at him. “The same could be said for you. Why don’t you go to school with me? Your grades are plenty good to get in.”

“And pay them ungodly amounts of money just to sit in a classroom?” He gaped at me. “Hell, no.”

“But there’s no problem with me doing that?”

“Not when your dad wants to give them the money. It’s not like he doesn’t have the spare cash.”

“Is that why you haven’t planned to go to college? Is it the money?” His mom didn’t have much money, but surely, his dad would help him go if it was important to him.

“Nah, it’s just not me. I don’t want to go, so there’s no reason to throw the money away. But if you hit up any good college parties, you be sure to give me a call.” He waggled his brows, making me snort with laughter.

We talked about our plans for the final weeks of school until the bus pulled up to the enormous stone museum. As seniors, we were given the leeway to wander the building on our own under strict instruction to return at the designated time. I dragged Michael off toward the modern and contemporary art wing—my favorite portion of the museum. The current exhibit was ultra-contemporary abstract art.

Not what I’d been hoping for.

Taking a detour, I led Michael to the adjacent collection of 19^th and early 20^th century European art, paying special attention to the post-impressionism pieces. They had a beautiful work by van Gogh called Cypresses that I took in for several long minutes.

“I’ve seen your work. You paint just as well as any of these people,” muttered Michael with his eyes glued to his phone. Not as in tune to the art world, he had been busier playing a game on his phone than enjoying the exhibits.

“That’s the plan. I want to sell my art for a living someday, but it’s not an easy field to get into. Most of these artists died in poverty, their work only appreciated after their death,” I mused, still lost in the swirling brushstrokes of van Gogh’s piece.

“If they’re so famous and too dead to enjoy it, you should just put their name on your work. It’s not like schmucks on the street would know the difference.” His head was down, oblivious of the impact his words had made until he glanced up and saw my wide eyes. “It was a joke, Sofia.”

“My parents will be in the city tomorrow. I need you to come over so I can show you something.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed a fraction, and the corners of his lips twitched up. “What have you been hiding, naughty girl?”

“I’m not hiding anything! I just want to show you something. Don’t be absurd.” I grabbed his sleeve and tugged him on to the next exhibit, which was our general pattern for the rest of the day.