I didn’t consider what I said next; it just came out.

“I love you,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

A car whipped by us. We came over the hill and down into Belle Meade.

“Is that why you won’t go to the prom with me?”

It was a stupid question. But I had to ask.

She dabbed at her eyes with the heel of her palm.

“I guess so,” she said.

“Because I love you?”

“Because I’m not what you thought I was,” she said. “Now you know.”

“It doesn’t change anything,” I said.

“It does for me.”

We reached the Boulevard. Before long, we were up the driveway, back at the great house. Vanessa put the car in park and cut the engine. She rested her head on her forearms, draped across the steering wheel.

“I’m so tired,” she said.

“I know,” I said.

She lifted her head.

“I’m trusting you, Charlie,” she said.

“I promise,” I said.

“Not even Arch.”

“Not even Arch.”

The next day, I began sketching out a new painting. I didn’t need a photograph or a plein air study; the image was with me all the time, floating at the edge of my consciousness. A group of black children in white T-shirts, gathering empty cans on a green field, dropping them into white garbage bags beneath a sky turning orange and purple in the sunset. Behind them, an oblivious crowd of partygoers in sunglasses, the men in pastel chinos and dress shirts and bow ties, the women in flowery dresses. In the distance, a Confederate flag flying atop a bamboo pole reaching just above the tree line, framed against the yellowing sky. The connotation—the symbolism, you might say—was blatant. But I hadn’t thought at all about its implications; I was painting what I remembered, what moved me. I wanted it to express a feeling, an emotion I considered to be complex—the juxtaposition of allure and revulsion, guilt and desire, remorse and indifference.

“Wow,” Miss Whitten said. “I’m genuinely impressed.”

We were alone in the art room after eighth period. Through the open window, I could hear the sounds of the baseball and lacrosse and track teams heading out from the locker rooms to the fields. The fragrance of the spring air challenged the sour scent of drying oil paint.

“This one might push a few people’s fur back,” she said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.”

She looked off, out the window, as if searching for someone.

“There’s something I should probably tell you,” she said.

“What is it?”

“I’m leaving.”

“You quit?”

“I’ve been let go, actually. Dodd didn’t renew my contract.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t say.”

“You mean you don’t know, or you won’t tell me?”

She didn’t answer.

“God,” I said. “I’m sorry. What are you going to do?”