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“Great technique, though!” she jokes.
“If you don’t want to be here, you can go,” I say, smiling. “I really don’t mind.”
“No way! I love this stuff.” She continues forward with me. “Remember the field trip to the Art Center in Des Moines sophomore year? That was fun.”
“You mean the trip where you and Dodger Ryan snuck back on the bus to bang and left me waiting in the courtyard?”
“Yes!” Her smirk fades. “Sorry.”
I grin. “It’s all right. I forgive you.”
“Heidi!”
I spin around at the sound of my name.
“Hey, Professor Wilson!” Jenna and I greet as she wanders toward us.
Wilson pauses in front of us, her grin wide and infectious. “You know, I have to tell you, I was devastated when you said you weren’t entering this year…”
I deflate. “Yeah, I?—”
“But I am so glad you changed your mind!”
“I what?”
“I just love your piece and — you didn’t hear this from me — the judges are loving it, too!” she adds with a wink. “We need more artists like you! Ruthless! Fearless! You’ve got a future, kiddo.”
My piece?
I open my mouth to ask, but she hustles off into the crowd, disappearing as quickly as she appeared.
“What piece?” I ask anyone who’s listening. “I didn’t submit anything.”
Jenna smirks at my reaction, her devious eyes pointing toward a table the next row over. “I think she might be talking about that piece over there,” she says.
I follow her gaze, and my blood runs cold. I take wide strides over to the table, my jaw dropping more and more the closer I get.
Several of my drawings lie arranged on a large canvas, grouped together to create a disjointed image of a man. His hands. His body. His face.
His...
“Oh, my god,” I say.
Jenna stands beside me and grins. “Gotta hand it to Drew,” she says. “He’s got a nice pecker.”
My cheeks burn. My heart stops.
“What is this?” I ask, too shocked to think for myself.
“It appears to be your submission to the Art Fest.”
“No. I didn’t do this. I didn’t submit anything.”
“I know,” she says. “You didn’t think you were good enough to compete. So, I did it for you.”
I stare at her, cringing at what feels like a knife twisting in my back. “You did this?” I ask.
She holds up her hands. “Now, before you get mad?—”
