So, instead of that truth, I tell another. “I’m in charge of making dinner tonight.”

“Well, I can always come to your house,” she says. “It’s been forever since I’ve seen your dad.”

That’s a streak that I am determined to continue.

“I could even help,” Rose offers in an overly cheerful tone that raises warning bells in my head. It’s the one that she used after she convinced me to sneak away from our Girl Scouts campout when we were ten and she didn’t want me to realize that she’d gotten us lost in the woods. “It would be great to—”

“What’s going on?” I stop in the middle of the hallway. Someone bumps into me from behind and yells as they shove their way around me, but I don’t care.

“We’re blocking the hallway,” Rose says as a guy brushes past and flips us off.

“I’ll move if you tell me what you’re up to. Because this isn’t about studying.”

Rose blows a strand of hair off her face and sighs. “It’s nothing terrible,” she says. “There’s just something I have to talk to you about and not when there are a bunch of people around.”

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine. Honest.” Her eyes meet mine. “It’s actually a good thing, but I really have to talk to you about it today.”

We go down another hallway, which is starting to empty out, and reach the doorway to my last class of the day. One that I am in no danger of failing—Advanced Studio Drawing.

“I’ll meet you at the picnic benches after last bell,” I agree. “We can figure out the rest then.”

“Great! See you there.” Rose bolts down the hall and I head into class wondering what plan my friend is hatching.

Mrs. Rudoren tells us that we can use the class period to work on our final project—a still life of a bowl of bananas, oranges, and apples. Really exciting stuff. I call up my work that I finished days ago so I can turn to it if Mrs. Rudoren comes by. Then I call up the file of my mother’s unfinished work, careful to tilt the screen so no one can see the abstract image. I start drawing and, again, nothing feels right. So I clear the screen and re-create my work from this morning. My mind wanders to the would-be criminal with magenta- and-black-streaked hair. Then to the man in the gray suit and buckled black boots—his hand raised, ready to strike—while lights flash atop the police car next to the deep forest-green bush.

After school, I wait for Rose sitting on the scarred, faded wooden top of the picnic table. I balance my tablet on my legs and continue the work I started in art class. Laughter and shouts ripple the air as people head to buses or down the sidewalks toward home. The public screen behind me chirps about the storms that will be coming our way. I spot Isaac with a group of friends standing under a tree. He grins in my direction and all his friends turn to look at me. I wave, then stare down at my tablet, waiting for the buses to move.