If Adriana’s plan to arson all our hometown’s unwanted buildings ever gets any traction, I will humbly propose that our high school be added to the list—with the single condition that the art room be spared. It is literally the only thing worth saving here. The tables and chairs are stained; the walls are covered with yellowing watercolors by students who graduated before I was born; and the air is always gummy with the combined smell of papier-mâché and Murphy Oil Soap. I love it.

Ever since I was a kid, art is the only thing I’ve really been passionate about. I have dozens of sketchbooks at home filled with my own drawings—from the stick-figure families and their lumpy cartoon dogs I did in preschool, to the complicated sketches I’m working on now. My big dream is to one day illustrate my own graphic novel.

“Ah, my star pupils!” exclaims Mr. Strauss as he sweeps into the room, beaming at me and Hope Cheng, as if we’re actually doing him some big favor by making him stay after school to make sure we don’t actually arson the place. “What are we doing today?”

“I still have my sculpture to finish.” Hope gestures at the project she’s been working on for the past few weeks, which sort of defies an easy description. She’s building a statue out of pine cones and glue, but it honestly looks like a robot made of spiky turds.

“How about you, Auggie?” Mr. Strauss turns to me as Hope empties a bag of pine cones she’s salvaged from who-knows-where all over one of the art tables.

“I guess I wanted to practice with the charcoals some more.” My big flaw as an artist is that I get easily mired in details, and I’ll spend forty minutes trying to perfect a single tree before I finally give up and accept that everything I’m doing is pointless. Mr. Strauss suggested I work with charcoals for a while—a medium that allows for quick sketches that focus on shape and composition rather than minutiae.

Unlocking the supply cabinet, our teacher retrieves all the necessary materials while I clip a wide sheet of paper to an easel. Hope sets up her turd monster on a table across from me, and before I put my headphones on, I clear my throat. “Adriana told me to say hi.”

“Oh.” Hope tosses her hair, turning away just as a little smile touches her lips. “Tell her I said hi back. I listened to that K-pop group she was talking about at lunch last week, and I really liked them.”

“You know, if you want to say hi back, you could always text her…” I let my inflection go up at the end—a suggestion and a question. Hope is very cute and totally Adriana’s type: ethereal and witchy, all hippie skirts, flowing hair, and mismatched accessories.