Chapter 194
Elara
I woke up to Diego's music bleeding through the wall—some kind of experimental jazz that was all discordant piano and no melody. Normally it would've annoyed me, but today it felt grounding. Real. A reminder that I was here, in this cramped Bronx apartment, and not trapped in some nightmare version of my life.
I reached for my phone before I was fully awake. Bad habit. The screen lit up and my stomach dropped.
Twitter's trending page was a disaster. #SloaneImpostor at number three. #ElaraRejectsAward at five. #ElenaTruth at seven. #PraxisPrizeScandal at nine. #ElaraWorksRebirth at ten. Five out of the top ten trending topics, all about yesterday.
I opened the first hashtag. Immediately regretted it.
The tweets came fast, contradicting each other, everyone so sure they were right. "She STOLE from a dead woman and people are really out here defending her?" Someone had posted side-by-side images of Elena's sketches and Sloane's finished paintings. The similarities were damning. Another thread broke down the timeline—Elena's death three years ago, Sloane's sudden rise right after. The comments underneath were vicious.
But then I scrolled further and found the other voices. The softer ones. "Maybe she was just inspired by Elena's work? Artists reference each other all the time." And: "She's pregnant. Everyone needs to calm down before something happens to the baby."
I closed Twitter. Set the phone face-down on my makeshift nightstand—really just a stack of art history textbooks I'd bought used. "Enough," I said out loud to the empty room. "You're done with this."
My laptop was still open on my desk from last night, the RISD website pulled up in one tab. I'd been looking at their application requirements before bed, trying to figure out if I actually had a shot.
I pulled out my notebook and wrote "RISD" in big letters. Underlined it twice. This was what mattered now. Not what strangers on Twitter thought about me or Sloane or yesterday's shitshow of an award ceremony. This. Getting out. Building something that was mine.
I opened a blank document and started typing before I could overthink it.
Art saved my life when nothing else could. It gave me a way to say things I couldn't speak out loud. In my worst moments, when I felt like I didn't matter to anyone, making something beautiful was the only proof I had that I existed for a reason beyond what other people needed from me.
The words came easier than I expected. Raw. Honest. The kind of thing that would've terrified me to write a few months ago, but after yesterday—after standing on that stage and rejecting the prize, after telling Julian about Lily—holding back felt pointless.
I wrote for two hours straight. Didn't stop until my stomach was growling so loud I couldn't ignore it anymore.
---
St. Valerius Academy looked the same as always—all Gothic stone and leaded windows, designed to make you feel small. But walking through the front entrance today, I felt different. Less like I was sneaking in where I didn't belong. More like I had just as much right to be here as anyone else.
Ms. Clark's office was on the second floor. Her door was open. She looked up when I knocked and her whole face lit up.
"Elara! Come in, sit down."
I dropped into the chair across from her desk.
"I watched the livestream yesterday," she said. She folded her hands on her desk, looking at me seriously. "What you did took guts. Both the artwork and the speech."
"Thanks." I didn't know what else to say.
"I mean it." She reached for a manila folder. "I've seen a lot of talented kids come through here. But what you showed yesterday wasn't just talent. It was integrity." She opened the folder and spread out several letters across her desk. "Which is why I'm especially happy to show you these."
I recognized the letterheads immediately. Harvard. Yale. Parsons. Pratt. My throat went tight.
"Pre-admission interest letters," Ms. Clark explained. "These schools started reaching out last night, asking for your contact information. With your test scores and your GPA—you're ranked first in your class now—you're looking at strong chances pretty much anywhere you apply." She paused. "So where are you thinking?"
The question hit harder than it should have. In my previous life, I'd never gotten this far. Pregnancy had derailed everything before I could even start applications. By the time Lily was born, college felt like something that belonged to a different person. Someone who'd had the luxury of planning ahead.
But here I was. Letters from schools I'd only dreamed about spread across the desk in front of me.
"Rhode Island School of Design," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I want to apply there."
Ms. Clark's eyebrows went up slightly. "RISD. That's ambitious. Very competitive, even with your credentials." She pulled another paper from a different folder, this one with the RISD logo at the top. "Their admissions office actually called me this morning. They saw the coverage from yesterday and wanted to make sure you knew about their regular decision deadline—February 1st. They're very interested in seeing your application."
I read the letter twice. It wasn't an acceptance or anything close to it. Just confirmation that they'd seen what happened yesterday and wanted me to apply through the normal process. No special treatment. No shortcuts. Just a fair shot.
Something in my chest loosened.
"I can do that," I said. "February 1st. I can make that work."
Ms. Clark smiled. "Good. You'll need twenty pieces for the portfolio—they want to see range and technical skill. Three recommendation letters. I'll write one. I'd suggest asking Dr. Sterling for another, given how she defended your work yesterday. And maybe Giulia Rossi for the third? Having someone from Elena's family speak to your character would be powerful."
I nodded. I'd already been thinking about asking Giulia. We'd exchanged information after the exhibition, both of us crying too hard to say much beyond thank you and I'm sorry.
"The personal statement is two thousand words," Ms. Clark continued. "They want to know your artistic philosophy, what drives your work, what you hope to achieve. Based on what you said yesterday, I don't think you'll struggle with that."
"I already started," I admitted. "This morning."
"Excellent." She made notes on her pad. "We'll need professional photographs of your portfolio pieces. High-quality documentation. Do you have access to equipment, or should we arrange something through the school?"
I thought about the paintings stacked in my room, the sketches filling every drawer. "I can probably borrow equipment from the art department."
"Perfect." Ms. Clark closed the folder. "Let's get you into RISD, Elara Vance."
The way she said it—like it was already decided, like I deserved this—made my eyes sting. I blinked hard and stood up. "Thank you, Ms. Clark. Really."
"Just keep making work that matters," she said. "That's all the thanks I need."
I found Raven in the library at our usual table, surrounded by empty Red Bull cans. She looked up when I sat down.
"Finally. I was starting to think you got abducted."
"Close." I pulled out my laptop. "Ms. Clark had interest letters from Harvard, Yale, Parsons, and Pratt. And RISD wants me to apply regular decision."
Raven's eyes went wide. "Holy shit. That's—wait, regular decision? So you'd hear back in March?"
"April, probably." The timeline felt both impossibly far away and too soon. If I got in, I'd be leaving in September. "If I get in."
"When you get in," Raven corrected. She turned her laptop toward me. "But first, you need to see this."
My stomach dropped before I even looked at the screen. Sloane's Twitter account. A long post, twenty minutes old, already thousands of likes.