Chapter 3

Back in the Anderson mansion, the silence was as heavy and oppressive as a physical weight. Mr. Anderson sat in his leather armchair, reading the Wall Street Journal, his face a stony mask. Mrs. Anderson was arranging flowers, her movements stiff and precise.

Nicole swept into the room, throwing her bag onto the floor.

"Caleb attacked Ethan today for no reason! He's completely out of control!"

Mr. Anderson lowered his paper, his gaze pinning me to the spot. "Is this true?"

"There was a disagreement," I said calmly.

"He's lying!" Nicole insisted. "He's jealous of me and Ethan, that's all it is. He's always been a troublemaker."

I met Mr. Anderson's cold stare. "I was concerned. Ethan has a reputation. I didn't want to see Nicole get hurt or have it affect her scholarship applications."

Mr. Anderson' s expression didn't change, but a flicker of something-maybe calculation-passed through his eyes. He valued results, and a scandal was bad for the family's image, which was bad for business.

"Nicole, your focus should be on your art. The state scholarship is your priority. Don't let anything, or anyone, distract you," he said, his voice flat. It was a warning.

Later that evening, Nicole came to my room. It was the smaller room at the end of the hall, the one that used to be for storage.

"I don't know what game you're playing, Caleb, but you need to stop."

She dropped a canvas on my desk. "I need a new concept for my final portfolio piece. The one about 'transient beauty.' I need something powerful."

This was our routine. She would give me a theme, and I would give her the spark, the core idea that she would then execute. My "Midas touch," as she used to call it.

I looked at the blank canvas, then back at her.

"No."

She blinked. "What do you mean, no?"

"I mean, no. I'm not helping you. It's your portfolio, Nicole. You should do it yourself."

A strange look crossed her face-a mix of confusion and indignation. "But... you always help me. This is what you do."

"Not anymore," I said, turning back to my own sketchbook. "I have my own work to focus on. My own scholarship to win."

"You? Win the scholarship?" She let out a short, sharp laugh. It wasn't a kind sound. "Don't be ridiculous, Caleb. You're good, but you're not me."

"We'll see," I said, not looking up.

She stood there for a full minute, expecting me to back down, to give in like I always did. When I didn't, she snatched her canvas off the desk.

"Fine. I don't need you. I never did."

The door slammed shut behind her.

I picked up my pencil and began to sketch. A dark, cramped space. A figure curled in on itself. The raw, visceral memory of the storage unit flowed from my mind, through my arm, and onto the paper.

The loan was officially withdrawn. And for the first time, I was creating just for me.