Asher looked embarrassed. “Oh no. I’ve talked to her on the phone. She’s so stuck-up with that fake British accent.”
“Oh, right,” Aria said, trying to regain her cool.
Asher closed the portfolio lid. “So you’re an artist, too?”
Aria fiddled with a stray lock of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail. “Oh, not really. Not seriously.” Her gaze darted to her own cardboard portfolio in the corner. It looked so shabby compared to Asher’s leather one. “There’s some stuff I’m still fiddling with.”
Asher’s blue eyes lit up. “Can I check it out?”
Before Aria could give permission, Asher strode over to the folder, lifted it up, and laid it next to his own on the desk. When he opened to the first piece, Aria’s face felt hot. It was a colorful, surreal painting of Noel. His skin was purplish. His hair was green. His body melted into a puddle. But it was Noel all the same—his eyes, his smile, his tufty hair. There was a hum inside her chest.
Asher flipped to another image of Noel. Then another. Aria glanced away, suddenly unable to endure them. Noel used to tease her about painting him over and over; he’d asked if he could have her work after the end-of-the-year art show at Rosewood Day. “Will you bring them to college with you?” Aria had joked. “Duh,” Noel had answered. “I’ll hang them in my room, next to my roommate’s p**n pinups.” She supposed that wouldn’t be happening now.
“Are you okay?”
Aria blinked hard. To her horror, tears had filled her eyes. She tried to smile. “Sorry. All those paintings are of an ex. I’m still getting over him. I actually hate all this stuff. I should burn it.”
Asher peered at Noel’s face for a beat, then shut the folder. “I incorporate people I’m in love with in my paintings as well. It’s only human, you know?” He rolled toward her. “Don’t burn these. They could be worth something someday.”
Aria looked at him crazily. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious. These are amazingly deep. You’re really talented.”
The sun emerged from a cloud and streamed in through the window. Aria swallowed hard, not knowing whether she should smile or burst into tears. “Thank you,” she said softly.
Asher laced his fingers together. “You should keep at it. Show me stuff as you finish it. I could put you in touch with my agent.”
“What?” Aria blurted.
But Asher just smiled confidently. “I know talent when I see it.” Then he grabbed the stack of papers from the desk, slipped them into his portfolio, and tucked the whole thing under his arm. “Anyway, I’ll be in touch. Have your mom call me.”
“I will,” Aria said.
A warm, pleasant feeling enveloped her as she watched him step off the porch and lope down the street. She wanted to call someone right now and tell them a famous artist had encouraged her to paint more—imagine if he really hooked her up with his agent! Then she realized who it was she wanted to call: Noel.
But as Asher turned the corner, her mood shifted. The street was so dark and shadowless, suddenly. A car swished past a side street and didn’t slow. A cat meowed in an unseen alley.
Ping.
Her phone vibrated in her palm. Aria flinched and stared at the screen. ONE NEW MESSAGE FROM ANONYMOUS. She opened the text.
Don’t get too close to your new little artist friend, Aria. Or I’ll just hurt him, too. —A
Aria’s stomach clenched. How did Ali know? Was she listening? Was she just going to take down everyone Aria knew?
There was a way to solve this. She hit FORWARD and sent the note to Fuji. Then she stuffed her phone into her bag and willed herself to walk back into the gallery with her head held high. You’re safe, she repeated over and over in her mind. It’s all over. You’re finally going to move on.
At least she hoped so.
16
HANNA MARIN, POSTER CHILD
That afternoon, Hanna stared into the impassive eye of a TV camera lens. When the red light that indicated they were filming began to blink, she smiled brightly. “And that’s why I stand behind Tom Marin’s Zero-Tolerance Plan,” she said clearly and slowly. She was six takes into the Tom and Hanna Marin Families Against Drunk Driving PSA, and this one was going to be a keeper.
Her father, who sat on the stool next to her, recited his lines in a presidential voice. The cameras did a close-up on him, and Hanna peeked at her reflection in the mirror that was set up on the other side of her father’s campaign headquarters-turned-studio. She wore a navy-blue sheath dress and a pearl necklace she’d borrowed from her mom. Her auburn hair had been professionally blown out, cascading in a smooth waterfall down her back. Her green eyes sparkled, and her skin glowed, thanks to an expensive cream in the makeup artist’s tool bag. Hanna definitely had to get its name.
The camera turned back to Hanna. “We need to keep teens of Pennsylvania safe,” she said emphatically. “I know this not only as a teen of Pennsylvania . . . but also as a victim of stalking and drunk driving.”
Pause. Smile bright. Look earnest and patriotic. “And . . . cut!” said the director, who was perched on a stool behind the camera. “I think that one’s a winner!”
Everyone in the room applauded. Mr. Marin patted Hanna’s shoulder. “Good work.”
“That really was amazing,” Kate agreed, appearing by Hanna’s side. “You’re a natural in front of the camera, Han. I’m so impressed.”
“She gets that from me,” boasted Hanna’s mom. Hanna was pretty sure her mom and Kate had never been together in such a small room, but they seemed to be getting along okay. Isabel, however, was standing in the opposite corner gripping a clipboard so tightly, Hanna was surprised she hadn’t bent it in half by now.