Monochrome

Adam Finds Out

Adam watched her from the other side of the room, his eyebrows furrowed. Not with concern, but with confusion.

"What are you doing?" she asked, a little louder than she meant to. "When did you get here?"

"I was here the whole time."

No way. Even in her post-run exhaustion, she wasn't likely to overlook an entire person.

"Did you get hurt?" he said.

"Huh? No." She lifted the hem of her tank top and wiped her face on it. It was mostly sweat she was wiping away. Mostly sweat.

"You sure?"

"Why do you think I got hurt?"

"Because if you didn't get hurt, that means you're crying because you're sad. And I assumed, as a soulless demon from hell, that you didn't experience human emotions like sadness."

Ingrid dropped the hem of her shirt and said, "I'm not crying. And I'm not sad. I'm pissed off. I just found out that I have to stay here for two years instead of one."

"Stay where?"

"Here, in this godforsaken school. With you. And Ms. Parker. And all the other crazy people." She was saying things that she never really intended to say to anyone but her family, but it felt good to say it finally to one of her enemies. They were the ones who deserved to hear it.

Adam didn't seem all that offended. "If you don't want to be here, then why did you apply?"

"I didn't. My mother did."

"Your mother applied you, even though you didn't want to come, and you got accepted?"

"I guess."

"How is that possible?"

She just shook her head.

"Can't you tell her you want to go somewhere else?"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Not gonna lie. I'd throw a party."

"Well, too bad. Mom's got a stipulation. Stay on the honor roll, or I have to come back next year."

"So? Do that."

Ingrid let her face fall into her hands. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because it's art. It's too hard."

"Then don't take art. Take dancing. Stick with what you know."

She looked up from her hands. "Adam, I told you. I'm not a dancer."

"Then what are you?"

No point in hiding it from him now. It was going to come out eventually, once word got out about her projects and her grades.

"I'm nothing," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm literally nothing. I'm not an artist. I don't paint. I don't dance. I'm a runner. A jock. That's it."

He frowned. He looked more disbelieving than anything. "So, you're saying you don't have any artistic skills at all?"

"None."

"Writing, playing an instrument . . . ?"

"No. Nothing. I don't do anything."

"That can't be right. The kids here have to pass the interviews. The art tests. The auditions. The waitlist is so long that people graduate before a spot ever opens up."