seventeen.

Cora

“What a nutjob,” Ruby mutters to the girl sitting near her. I think her name is Clarissa. The two of them bend heads, giggling and whispering, no doubt about Mr. Peterson. I try not to grit my teeth. He’s not weird. Okay maybe a little, but he’s so passionate about art and digging into your soul. If these kids would just try to see past their own rich, selfish noses, maybe they could learn a thing or two from him.

Halfway into the period, Mr. Peterson announces that he’s leaving for a few minutes and that we should continue working hard on our projects. I smile as my gaze sweeps over my painting. My teacher was right about not quitting—it actually looks pretty decent. No, more than decent. I rummage in my bag for my cell to snap a pic to send to my parents and Elissa, when something cold and wet sloshes down my face. I leap out of my seat, the liquid now rolling down my torso and back and splattering the floor.

Green paint.

I whirl around, wiping it out of my eyes, and find Ruby