Charles missed class the following day—a doctor's appointment—Ms. Abernathy said, her tone sharp as she distributed gesture-drawing instructions. Amber was organizing her supplies when she noticed it: a small black notebook wedged under Charles's chair, half-hidden by a stray pencil. She bent down to pick it up, intending to submit to Ms. Abernathy for safeguarding.
The cover of the notebook was simple; no name; worn edges from use. Her quiet voice urged her to find out whether it was his; curiosity pulled at her. She opened it just to verify. The first page consisted only of a drawing—two hands, painstakingly rendered as if about to play a piano—two hands without words.
The lines were clearly Charles's, flexible but exact, alive with unsung music.
She ought to have paused there. She knew it; her guilt surged like a tide. Her fingers turned the page, though, driven by the need to know the lad hiding under silence.
Her breath was stolen in the next drawing: two figures, shadowed, facing each other across a kitchen table, their postures stiff with wrath. Smaller, half-hidden in darkness, stood a teenage kid between them, his face a picture of suffering. Fourth fight this week. When does it ends?
Guilt sharp and hot, burning her chest. It was private, holy, not hers to see. Still, she turned another page unable to stop. It was filled with quick sketches of dancers, each pose noted with choreographic notes— plié, extend, hold. Another page displayed a self-portrait of Charles in motion, his face ablaze with a happiness Amber had never seen in class. The caption read: Before I stopped
Her heart hammered, each beat an accusation. She had studied more about Charles Chen in three pages than in a year of shared classes. His parents were falling apart, their arguments a storm he was struggling to leave. He had been a dancer, loved it intensely, and lost it—why? And he carried it all in this notebook, a secret kept under quiet control.
Lena appeared next to her, casting a shadow across the page to see what Amber had written. "What is that?" she asked, her voice low and eager eyes twinkling with interest.
Amber snapped the notebook closed and shook her hands. "Nothing. Just Charles's. I'm going to give it to Ms. Abernathy."
Lena cocked an eyebrow at her and smiled in a teasing manner. "Looked like more than nothing. He's a bit intense, huh?"
"It's none of our business," Amber said, the defensiveness in her voice sharper than she intended to sound, adding to her guilt. She put the notebook inside her bag to give back to Charles. Lena's gaze was lingering in curiosity, but she didn't pry.
Amber left the art room and passed the wall that had the critique notes. One of the newest notes had caught her eye. It was written in big sloppy red ink, and it said: Some secrets are better left buried. Her stomach turned, and the chill caused by anxiety crept up her spine. Was it about her? Charles? Or was it just a twisted coincidence? The air hung heavily around her. The faded shapes of the murals felt like they were staring at her as she rushed out of the room with Charles's journal weighing down her bag.