One morning, during the spring of our junior year, I sat down in Dean Varnadoe’s classroom before the beginning of first period and opened up my book to work on my most recent drawing of Vanessa, taken from a photograph—the two of us standing next to each other at the Association of Fundraising Professionals gala, where Mrs. Haltom was honored as Philanthropist of the Year. Vanessa wore a sleeveless gown the color of mint cream; I had on a rented tuxedo with a silver ready-tied-tie-and-cummerbund set. In the photograph, I am grinning stupidly, but Vanessa’s expression is sanguine, her hair pinned up in a delicate chignon, a few loose strands tickling her eyes, her cheeks sprinkled with freckles.

My eyes moved back and forth between the photo and the paper, trying to make the face on the page speak to me the way the real one did. The intensity of my concentration was such that I did not notice Varnadoe stand up from his desk and come around behind me to examine my work.

“Very nice, Mr. Boykin,” he said. “May I have a look?”

I handed him the sketchbook.

“The young Miss Haltom?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Quite a fine likeness,” he murmured.

He flipped through the sketchbook. I felt a mild twinge of fear, but also one of pride. When he reached the drawing of himself, he raised his brow and let out a low whistle.

“You don’t mind, do you?” I asked.

“Not at all,” he said. “On the contrary. I’m flattered.”

He flipped back to the picture of Vanessa and set the sketchbook back down on the desk in front of me.

“She’s an intriguing girl, isn’t she?” he said.

“You know her?” I asked.

“I’ve seen her on the stage. She was Olivia in Twelfth Night last spring, no? I remember it well. That’s not a face one easily forgets. Very cool. Easily misread for arrogance, I suspect. Look closely, however, and you notice that the mood is more melancholy. You capture that well.”

“Do you think she would like it?” I asked.

“I think she would admire it,” he said. “I’m not sure she’d like it.”

“Why not?”

“Some people don’t want to be seen so clearly,” he said.

Two other boys came through the door, carrying on a loud debate about Vanderbilt’s prospects in the SEC basketball tournament. I shut my sketchbook and stuffed it into my backpack.