CHAPTER ONE
The art room was a warren of scents—turpentine sharp in the nostrils, charcoal dust lingering like a faint haze. Amber Winters pressed her spine against the back of her chair, wishing the chipped linoleum floor would split open and pull her under. The walls, pocked with faded murals of abstract swirls, seemed to lean in, their colors bleeding into a corner easel where anonymous critiques were scratched in jagged ink. Some were cruel, meant to wound. Today, her name wasn't among them, but the laughter three desks ahead felt like a blade aimed at her heart.
Charles Chen sat at the room's far edge, his shoulders hunched over a sketchbook, his pencil carving lines with a precision that belied the flush creeping up his neck. He was ignoring the boys, or trying to, but their voices cut through the air like smoke curling around a flame. "Yo, Chen, heard Amber's got it bad for you," one said, his grin sharp, his words loud enough to ripple through the class. Another smirked, "She's been staring in class, dude. Creepy."
Amber's cheeks burned, her fingers clenching her pencil until it creaked. The rumor had sprouted last week, born from nothing—a stray glance in the cafeteria, twisted by boredom into something it wasn't. She barely knew Charles Chen, the boy who sat silently in art class, his dark eyes locked on paper, not people. Ten words exchanged in a year, if that.
The door swung open, and Ms. Abernathy strode in, her silver braid swinging like a metronome. "Alright, everyone, new seating chart's up. Find your places." Her voice sliced through the chatter, a lifeline.
Amber grabbed her bag, hoping for escape—a seat far from Charles, far from the idiots stoking the rumor. She scanned the chart on the wall, her heart sinking. Chen, Charles & Winters, Amber. Table 4.
Of course.
She trudged to the table, eyes on the floor, avoiding Charles's rigid form already seated there. His sketchbook lay open, a fortress of graphite lines—buildings, maybe, or something alive with movement. She dropped her bag with a thud, the sound sharper than intended in the quieting room.
"Hey," she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper, swallowed by the hum of settling students.
Charles gave the slightest nod, not looking up, his pencil never pausing, its rhythm steady as a heartbeat.
Amber sank into her chair, staring at the table's edge, where someone had scratched Trust no one in uneven letters. The words felt like a warning, a promise of a semester that would stretch on, heavy with eyes and whispers.