these, and who knows what could happen.”
“Ms. Sloane! Pretty cool for a party with no booze, right?” Vi Miller invades our space, followed by a few other girls from my first period class. Part of me is irritated, the other part grateful. As much as I want to be alone with Luke, I know it isn’t a good idea.
“Inappropriate, Vi,” I say dryly, smiling at the girls. “By the way, I saw your dad’s latest listing in the paper this morning. Not bad.”
“Right?” she grins.
After what my roommates have come to call the Santiago Setback, I’ve made it my mission to know what each student’s parents do/own/govern, to avoid any more mishaps. This morning, Waverly had informed me that Mr. Miller was an independently wealthy real estate agent who showed one, maybe two houses a year. His latest: a cozy little place on Star Island with a price tag of approximately 22 million. Mrs. Miller didn’t need an occupation, other than being married to Mr. Miller.
“So tell me which of these pieces are yours,” I say to the girls.
“Mine is the still life,” Priya (Father: Raj! Botany professor at the University of Miami! Mother: Banhi! Ball-busting litigator!) nods shyly at one of the canvases on the wall.
“Awesome use of color,” Luke praises her. Priya’s cheeks turn pink. “Vibrant.” I like the way he talks to his students: caring, but still authoritative. He’s not one of those teachers who tries to be popular. But he is.
“And I did the charcoal sketch,” Vi says loudly, flicking a deliberately messy fishtail braid over one shoulder. “which could be worth like twenty grand.”
“And how did you get to that figure, exactly?” I shouldn’t tease her. Anyone with the potential to drum up twenty grand at the moment is doing better than me.
“Mr. Poulos has this software where you can upload an image and it will search the Internet for similar images. At school, we set it up so all of our images get scanned.” She waves me over to Luke’s computer and jiggles the mouse. “See? My sketch is just as good as this guy’s in Denver. And he sold it for twenty grand.”
“Just don’t forget us little people when you’re rich and famous.”
She blinks. “I’m already rich.”
“Famous, then,” I sigh, wondering if I ever acted this spoiled at 17. Knowing I probably did.
“Okay, people. If I could have your attention for just a second.” Luke taps the side of his solo cup with a plastic fork, which makes the girls giggle. Students and teachers cluster around him. Apparently, I’m not the only one who finds him magnetic.
“I want to thank everybody for coming out to support our summer session artists. You guys did some amazing work. So take a look around, check out the kinds of things your colleagues are creating. And if you’re interested in buying any of the pieces, check with me.”
The guys nod, the girls golf clap, and Vi emits a high-pitched “Ow ow!”.
I spend the rest of the reception sipping ginger ale and milling around the chapel. Luke plays host, taking pictures of the kids with their artwork and extending trays of mini quiches to the other teachers. The details in this space are exquisite, and a little worn, which gives the place character. There’s an old wooden pew against the back wall—probably an original—that serves as a display shelf for a row of black and white photographs of churches, mosques, and synagogues. Stacks of books on different world religions are stuffed beneath the pew. The curtains are hanging woven tapestries that border the stained glass.
And then there are the kitschy-cool pieces: an antique tricycle parked near the kitchen. A wooden desk with a record player and earphones. A hula-hoop hanging on the wall. A globe nightlight plugged into the wall by the door. A painted wood checkerboard on the coffee table.
I trace the squares with my index finger, wondering if Luke used to play checkers with his father, too. And then, just like that, I am
“Ms. Sloane! Pretty cool for a party with no booze, right?” Vi Miller invades our space, followed by a few other girls from my first period class. Part of me is irritated, the other part grateful. As much as I want to be alone with Luke, I know it isn’t a good idea.
“Inappropriate, Vi,” I say dryly, smiling at the girls. “By the way, I saw your dad’s latest listing in the paper this morning. Not bad.”
“Right?” she grins.
After what my roommates have come to call the Santiago Setback, I’ve made it my mission to know what each student’s parents do/own/govern, to avoid any more mishaps. This morning, Waverly had informed me that Mr. Miller was an independently wealthy real estate agent who showed one, maybe two houses a year. His latest: a cozy little place on Star Island with a price tag of approximately 22 million. Mrs. Miller didn’t need an occupation, other than being married to Mr. Miller.
“So tell me which of these pieces are yours,” I say to the girls.
“Mine is the still life,” Priya (Father: Raj! Botany professor at the University of Miami! Mother: Banhi! Ball-busting litigator!) nods shyly at one of the canvases on the wall.
“Awesome use of color,” Luke praises her. Priya’s cheeks turn pink. “Vibrant.” I like the way he talks to his students: caring, but still authoritative. He’s not one of those teachers who tries to be popular. But he is.
“And I did the charcoal sketch,” Vi says loudly, flicking a deliberately messy fishtail braid over one shoulder. “which could be worth like twenty grand.”
“And how did you get to that figure, exactly?” I shouldn’t tease her. Anyone with the potential to drum up twenty grand at the moment is doing better than me.
“Mr. Poulos has this software where you can upload an image and it will search the Internet for similar images. At school, we set it up so all of our images get scanned.” She waves me over to Luke’s computer and jiggles the mouse. “See? My sketch is just as good as this guy’s in Denver. And he sold it for twenty grand.”
“Just don’t forget us little people when you’re rich and famous.”
She blinks. “I’m already rich.”
“Famous, then,” I sigh, wondering if I ever acted this spoiled at 17. Knowing I probably did.
“Okay, people. If I could have your attention for just a second.” Luke taps the side of his solo cup with a plastic fork, which makes the girls giggle. Students and teachers cluster around him. Apparently, I’m not the only one who finds him magnetic.
“I want to thank everybody for coming out to support our summer session artists. You guys did some amazing work. So take a look around, check out the kinds of things your colleagues are creating. And if you’re interested in buying any of the pieces, check with me.”
The guys nod, the girls golf clap, and Vi emits a high-pitched “Ow ow!”.
I spend the rest of the reception sipping ginger ale and milling around the chapel. Luke plays host, taking pictures of the kids with their artwork and extending trays of mini quiches to the other teachers. The details in this space are exquisite, and a little worn, which gives the place character. There’s an old wooden pew against the back wall—probably an original—that serves as a display shelf for a row of black and white photographs of churches, mosques, and synagogues. Stacks of books on different world religions are stuffed beneath the pew. The curtains are hanging woven tapestries that border the stained glass.
And then there are the kitschy-cool pieces: an antique tricycle parked near the kitchen. A wooden desk with a record player and earphones. A hula-hoop hanging on the wall. A globe nightlight plugged into the wall by the door. A painted wood checkerboard on the coffee table.
I trace the squares with my index finger, wondering if Luke used to play checkers with his father, too. And then, just like that, I am
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