Even without saying it, I know he’s asking about everything. About my art project, but also about me. He’s the only person outside of my family that I’ve told about my vision problems. I had to, to convince him to give me a crack at the senior art intensive. Because I’m already two months past the normal deadline.

I let out a long rush of air, and decide it’s easiest to start with the uncomfortable stuff. “Same. Still no license.” I nod toward the door, where the bike he can’t see is leaned up against the building. “But I’m good.”

“Good, good.” He pulls his glasses off of his face, sets them on the table, and rubs the bridge of his nose. “And your portfolio? You feeling good about it so far?” He’s letting me submit my portfolio late, but I still have to go through the same process as other students—a blind jury of teachers that doesn’t include Winters. Blind, as in they don’t know whose art is whose. Not blind like me. That way, Winters can help us all while still being impartial. Someone doesn’t get in just because he’s invested a ton of time into them.

I pull the zipper back on my portfolio and start pulling things out. I spread out a few pieces of paper on the table in front of us—a charcoal drawing of a loon, a sketch of the river, and my pastel drawing of the sunset, looking down from the dunes—my secret spot. I have more, but these are my favorites so far.

Winters pushes papers around, pulling them in front of him then pushing them back. Tipping up the paper to get a better look. He’s been appraising everything for at least five minutes before he breaks the silence. “These are all wonderful, Aiden. You know I’ve always thought you had a lot of talent for art.”

There’s a “but” hanging in the air. I’m tempted to say it, but I also don’t want to know. They’re wonderful. Isn’t that enough? I can’t help myself—after years of being coached, I’m a sucker to know what I’ve done wrong and how I fix it. “But?”

Winters laughs and shakes his head. “There’s just something missing. A spark.”

“A spark?” This makes me ache for baseball. The objectiveness of it. A strike is a strike. And sure, you can bitch about the ump, but if you throw a good pitch, 99 percent of umps are calling it. And no one’s judging your pitch on the feeling you put behind it, or if it has “spark” or not.