Chapter 11 HARPER
“It’s official, I think my parents are getting a divorce,” I sighed, turning to Megan.
Her jaw dropped as our eyes met. This was the only class both our grades took together—art class. Thankfully, we had it this morning, I wouldn’t have been able to wait an entire day to speak to Megan.
I threw my head back and groaned. “I don’t want to have to choose.”
“Wait, is that why you’ve been gloomy all morning? Because I thought it was the thing between you and you-know-who.”
I kicked her in the shin. “Megan, he’s right there,” I hissed.
“So? He’s literally two rows away from us,” she scowled. “Anyways, back to your jaw-dropping news—your parents are getting a divorce? I thought those two were like Romeo and Juliet. No way they’d actually go through with it.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve not come around in a while. The tension between the two of them grew to an unbearable point. Dad finally moved out.”
“Your dad moved?” Her mouth fell wide open again. She shifted her stool closer to mine, taking my hand. “Harper, you never mentioned any of this.”
I shrugged, trying my best to act nonchalant. “I didn’t realize it sooner. It’s not like he just woke up one morning, packed his bags, and left. He’s been moving his things out slowly for weeks.”
“Oh, Harper.”
I withdrew my hand, hating the tone her voice was taking. “It’s all good. I guess two birthday presents and twice all the holiday gifts wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Do you want me to come over—”
“Don’t. And stop giving me that look.” I turned to face the canvas in front of me, resuming my painting. “Besides, it’s not certain yet. I just have this feeling.”
“Fine. But I’m sure they’ll work it out. Couples fight all the time. Just like my mom and dad.”
Oh, hell no. Megan’s mom and dad were the exact opposite of my parents. My parents barely argued, but Megan’s—no offense—Mrs. Lockwood was a gold-digging, money-chasing excuse of a wife. Still, I had to admit, she was a good mother.
I shot Megan a fake smile, just as she gave me one too. Just then, Miss Clara clapped her hands, signaling our painting time was over. I leaned back and glanced at my soft watercolor painting of my childhood comfort memories.
“I deserve an award for this masterpiece,” Megan declared, turning her painting toward me. I pressed my lips into a tight line to keep from laughing.
She’d painted stick-figure humans dancing across the canvas, with what I assumed was a campfire—but looked more like a ball of hair a cat coughed up—burning in the middle.
“You know, I think framing this and keeping it in that bottom drawer of yours would do it more justice. It’s just…too magnificent for the rest of us mere mortals to behold.”
She chortled. “Art has never been my thing, but—”
“Wow. I want everyone to look up here.” Miss Clara raised a charcoal painting high above her head as she walked backward to the front of the class for everyone to see. “They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I want at least two people to give me an interpretation of this beautiful piece right here.”
Miss Clara raised the painting higher. It was dark, almost swallowed in shadows. Heavy strokes of charcoal cut jagged across the page, uneven and raw, like the artist hadn’t cared much for neatness—only release. At the center, a boy sat hunched forward, faceless, his head bowed. His arms wrapped tight around his knees, pulling himself in as if the world was pressing too close.
At first, I didn’t see what was so special about it. Just rough marks and smudges. But the longer I looked, the more the shapes twisted into something else. The shadows weren’t random—they curled into monsters, all kinds, crowding in above him, their forms shifting and ugly, feeding off the fear he couldn’t hide.
And then I noticed it—at the edge of the canvas, a door. Drawn in pale white, untouched by smudges, standing open like a way out. But the boy wasn’t looking at it. He stayed curled in the dark, too small, too scared, like he didn’t believe the escape was meant for him.
“Looks like he’s just tired,” a boy from the back snickered. “Probably stayed up late playing video games.”
A few kids laughed, but my stomach twisted. That wasn’t it. Not even close. I couldn’t stop staring.
Before I realized it, my hand shot up. “It’s not tiredness,” I said, standing to my feet. All eyes flicked to me, but I didn’t care. “It’s…more than that. The way the lines close in around him—it feels suffocating. Like he’s surrounded by people but still alone. The shadows make it look like he’s doubting himself—trapped in his own head. Even though there’s a way out, he isn’t moving toward it.”
“Duh? ‘Cause it’s a painting. It can’t move, genius,” Racquel snickered. The class joined in.
“Racquel—”
“It’s not because it’s a painting,” I cut in, unintentionally interrupting Miss Clara. “It’s more of him being scared. Unsure. Like he doesn’t believe the way out is really for him.”
The class went quiet. My cheeks heated, but Miss Clara smiled like I’d just solved a riddle.
“That’s an insightful interpretation, Harper. Thank you.” She glanced past a few heads to where Tyler sat. “Tyler, since this is your work, do you want to add anything?”
My heart stuttered. Tyler painted that?
He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed. His eyes flickered briefly in my direction, expression unreadable, before sliding away.
“It’s just a painting,” he said flatly.
A ripple of disappointment moved through the class—some kids groaned, others chuckled. Miss Clara only nodded, clearly used to Tyler’s walls.
But I couldn’t shake it. The way he looked at me before brushing it off. The way my words seemed to strike closer than he wanted to admit.
It felt like the painting had cracked open a window into Tyler’s world, and for a moment, I saw the weight he tried so hard to hide.