Amber spent the weekend piecing together Lena's betrayal, her bedroom a sanctuary of scattered sketches and half-formed plans. She avoided the library, too shaken by the alcove's murals and that cryptic note—Some truths hurt. Instead, she worked on her showcase piece, a triptych titled Becoming: a figure emerging from shadow, then stepping into light, and finally standing bold but unfinished, a mirror of her own journey—and maybe Charles's too. Each stroke was deliberate, her brush lingering on the canvas, the colors bleeding like her thoughts.
Monday, she found Priya in the art room before class, adjusting her camera with careful precision, her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid. "Can we talk?" Amber asked, her voice low, her bag heavy on her shoulder.
Priya nodded, leading her to a quiet corner near the supply shelves, the air thick with the scent of paint thinner. "I checked Lena's old posts on the art board," Priya said, keeping her voice low, her eyes scanning the room. "Last year, her showcase piece got rejected—harshly, by the judges. She blamed Ethan for stealing her spotlight, said he influenced the panel. I think she's jealous of you, too. Your work's getting noticed."
Amber's chest tightened, the pieces falling into place. "So she gave him Charles's sketch to hurt us both?" she asked, her voice trembling with anger.
"Maybe," Priya said, her fingers tightening on her camera. "Or Ethan pressured her. He's… manipulative. I've seen him twist people before."
Amber remembered the missing hand sketch from Charles's pile, the one gone after Ethan lingered near their table. "I think Ethan stole another sketch," she told Priya, her voice urgent. "Hands, from Charles's stack. I saw him near our table that day."
Priya's eyes widened, a spark of determination in her gaze. "We need proof," she said. "I can check the art room after school—Ethan keeps his portfolio in the storage shelves. If it's there, we'll know."
Charles arrived then, his face closed off, his sketchbook shut, a wall between them. He didn't look at Amber, sitting at their table with a rigidity that hurt to see. Amber's heart ached, but she didn't approach him, not yet, her guilt and resolve warring within her.
After class, Amber and Priya searched the art room's storage shelves, the shelves creaking under their weight, the air heavy with dust. Tucked behind Ethan's portfolio, in a folder labeled Showcase, was Charles's hand sketch, unmistakable with its fluid lines, each finger alive with motion. Amber's anger flared, hot and sharp—she had proof now, but exposing Ethan could backfire, taint her own work with accusations of spite.
Priya touched her arm, her voice steady. "I took a photo of Charles dancing," she admitted, pulling another print from her bag. It showed Charles mid-spin in the chorus room, his face alight with defiance, his body a poem of grace. "I didn't mean to intrude. But he's incredible. He shouldn't hide it."
Amber stared at the photo, an idea forming, a spark of hope. "Can I have this?" she asked, her voice soft, determined.
Priya nodded, her smile small but warm. Amber wrote on the back, her handwriting careful: You're enough. Don't hide. During a break, she slipped it into Charles's sketchbook when he stepped away, her heart pounding, hoping it would reach him, a bridge across their rift.
As they left the art room, the critique wall had a new note, in black ink: Allies can turn. Amber froze, her eyes flicking to Priya, doubt creeping in. Was it a warning about her new friend? Or was Lena still pulling strings, her absence a deception? Priya met her gaze, her expression steady, unwavering. "I'm with you," she said quietly, her voice a lifeline.
Amber nodded, but the doubt lingered, a shadow in her chest. The art room felt like a trap, its walls closing in, the murals' swirls watching, waiting.