“She used to, and when I asked she did, but my dad isn’t an artist. Mom didn’t want him to feel left out of the conversation, so she tried to make sure we talked about things we all enjoyed.”

He studies me with a sad smile. “Well, I know how your father feels.” He looks down at the tablet in his hand one more time, then stands and holds it out to me. “Thank you for coming in to show me your work. Marcus Webster is right. You have talent. I’m sorry you couldn’t get your application submitted in the typical manner, but I can promise we will consider your work as we make our final choices for this class. We have your information, and if you’re chosen you’ll be hearing from us soon.”

Just like that, I’m dismissed. There is no time to ask about the last project my mother worked on or if her team finished it, because once I take the tablet, he is walking me to the door, talking all the while. He wishes me luck in my finals at school as he escorts me down the empty hallway and tells me to give his best to my father. He pushes the button on the elevator and within seconds the doors open.

“Keep up the good work, Merriel,” he says as I step inside.

The elevator doors close. Disappointment settles in my chest. My hand feels heavy as I push the lobby button. As the elevator starts to move, I hit the number three, and when the doors open I feel my mother beside me as I start down the hall. If anyone asks what I’m doing here, I will just tell them I want to take the atrium stairs on my way out.

The design has changed since the last time I was here. Now instead of vibrant walls of lavender and blue, swirling ribbons of color snake along a background of yellow. Screens are scattered along the walls, all muted but tuned to various programs. One displays a report on the weather—sunny and warmer with no rain in today’s forecast. On the second, a broadcast of the current president addressing a group of smiling workers. Two others flip through slides of a handful of upcoming projects—like a park with an arching, waterfall-like fountain and a new apartment complex in rose and white stone.

An unfamiliar blonde dressed in a bright green top and tight purple pants smiles at me as she ducks into a workroom to the left. A burst of laughter sounds from inside the workroom as I pass. People are standing around a large square table with a model of something in the center of it. I don’t recognize anyone in the meeting space, and there aren’t any familiar faces in the next, but I do spot one person I know in the workroom not far from the stairs.

Kacee Anderson’s back is to me as she draws on a whiteboard. She’s dressed in all black and taps her foot to old rock music that is pumped through the room’s speakers. Her dark hair is pulled into a tight ponytail that sways as she works. Several other artists are working at the table or on graphic-design tablets along the wall.