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A loud buzz sounded at the door and I walked inside. A woman, bouncing up and down behind a large desk with her hands clasped together waited for me.
“Mr. Crawford, it is such a pleasure to have you visit our school. We appreciate all the donations Crawford Corporation has made over the years. The students…” she droned on as I began to piece her excitement together. She was impressed by the money.
“Thank you, Ms.—”
“Principal Cunningham. But you can call me Maggie.”
“Thanks, Maggie. I was hoping to speak to the art teacher, Mrs. Reynolds. Is she still here?”
“She sure is. Let me get her for you.”
Maggie walked—correction—skipped to the back of the office, where she picked up a microphone. “Attention. Can Mrs. Reynolds please come to the office? It’s very important.” The way she whispered the last part, made me feel a bit uncomfortable.
“Um, thanks again, Maggie.”
A few minutes later, a tall woman with vibrant red hair and a white apron completely splattered in paint walked into the office.
“What the heck was that all about?” she asked, wiping her hands with a towel. “Did Van Gogh come back from the dead or something?”
“Mrs. Reynolds? I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m—”
“Luke Crawford,” she said, putting the towel down on the desk. “I thought you were some rich playboy now. What are you doing back here?”
“Colton was more… Never mind. I came to see you about a painting.”
“Are you looking to invest in a new artist? I have some recommendations I could give you.”
“No. It was an art assignment you gave out in my first year.”
She stared at me, her eyes blinking behind purple glasses. “You’re inquiring about something you painted almost ten years ago?”
“Yes. And it wasn’t my painting. It was Grace Sweeney’s.”
She shook her head. “And they call me the eccentric one,” she murmured as she opened the door for me to exit the office. “Well, if we still have it, it would be in one of the storage rooms. I’m a little busy, but you’re more than welcome to take a look.”
As I followed Mrs. Reynolds down the familiar hallways, a feeling of nostalgia ran through my body. I walked past Grace’s first-year locker, remembering how I would wait for her every morning there, eventually avoiding it like a bad rash.
There was the gymnasium that led to the field where we won the state championship. I had looked for Grace that night, but she wasn’t there. Walking with my eyes downcast, I wondered if she was at home taking care of her mother that night. The thought made me sick to my stomach.
Mrs. Reynolds led me to her old classroom. There weren’t any desks, only easels, and a few pottery stations. “Knock yourself out.” Following her outstretched hand toward a door near the back, I walked into the storage room.
There were piles and piles of white canvases all over the room. There were some piled on top of steel shelves, while others leaned up against the walls. Scanning the room, I didn’t see any signs or notes indicating the pieces were in any particular order.
I should turn around and go home.
But then I remembered Grace’s face when she saw Jared and I crouched down to the pile closest to me and flicked through the canvases.
I recalled the painting was of The Mona Lisa, but I wasn’t sure how many other students would have tried to paint her over the years. I’d gotten through nearly a third of the art pieces when one caught my attention. Pulling it from the pile, I held it in front of me.
It looked like the right painting, but there was nothing written over it and the signature in the right corner clearly stated the artist’s name was Miles. I put it back down and flipped over the next piece.
“How are you doing there?” Mrs. Reynolds popped her head into the room as she adjusted her purple glasses.
“I haven’t found it yet.” I didn’t turn around but continued to search instead.
“Well, if you—”
“Wait! I think I found something.” My heart sped up as my eyes scanned a painting stuck between two shelves. I noticed it because it was the only one I’d seen placed in this position. “Can you give me a hand?”
