“She works for a museum, but she’s not really artistic.” A faint smile flickered over his face. “She was excited when my art teacher told her I had talent. She’d just read all these articles about teen entrepreneurs, and she wanted me to have my shot. So I started posting online. Doodles at first, then more serious stuff. Anywhere that would get me exposure. And then I got on Instagram, just posting my art up there and racking up a following. Then commissions came along. Some people reached out to me, but it wasn’t until some huge influencers started talking about me and tagging me that things really kicked off.”

“And then your parents got you an agent,” I said.

“It was pretty surreal. I have no idea if this is what I want to do for the rest of my life. I just graduated from high school; I don’t have to have it all figured out.” He exhaled through his nose. “They keep telling me I have potential, but they act like it’s something that goes bad or spoils if you leave it alone too long. Like one day I’ll wake up and have to pour it down the drain like sour milk.”

I lightly touched his shoulder. “Hey. If it helps, I don’t think your talent is something that’ll fade or go away if you don’t squeeze every drop out right now. You’re right. It’s hard to figure out if you want something to be a career. Like when people find out I’m not going to college, they get all awkward. They think staying at Busy’s and being a barista is … a stepping-stone job. And for most people, it is.” I shrugged. “But I’ve never wanted to do anything else in my entire life. Making people happy with food is something special. So is your art.”

The wind teased his hair, lifting it up with an adorable little flip. “Yeah?” Levi smiled, then ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it all up. “I hope you’re right. I talked to my high school art teacher in the winter about how my parents were trying to strong-arm me. She knows someone at the RISD admissions office who can help, even though I missed the application deadline by a few days. No promises or anything, but I’m on the priority waitlist.” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t even know how I’ll tell my parents if it works out.”

Almost everyone pronounced the Rhode Island School of Design as ris-dee, but I remembered the first time Elodie told me about her dream school, she’d mispronounced it as rised the first time. Thinking about my girlfriend—ex-girlfriend—cast a shadow over me, so I swept the memory aside, focusing on the here and now instead.

“Wow. That’s a good school,” I said.