The majority of Quinn Keaton’s life has been spent living in the shadow of her mother’s debilitating grief. After her brother Griffin's accidental drowning sixteen years ago, her mother retreated from the world with Quinn in tow. Water, strangers, heartache, and the unknown become possible threats to their small, safe life, so she created an insulated bubble where nothing could harm them. But now, Quinn isn't sure where her own insecurities and fears begin and where her mother's end.

When an opportunity arises for Quinn to spend her senior year abroad at an English boarding school, her mother demands she turn it down and threatens to disown her if she goes. Quinn's first act of rebellion opens the door to what her life could be if she is brave enough to live it.

As her world expands in England with new friends and a chance at love, Quinn wonders how she can ever go back to her previous life, even if it means letting her mother go.

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GENRE Contemporary Ficrion Romance	EBOOK Amazon Kindle Smashwords Nook Apple Google Play Kobo	PRINT Amazon
Available: November 19, 2024
Teen

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Excerpt

The slam of Mama’s bedroom door reverberated through the thin walls of the house, echoing down the empty hall. Quinn took a seat on the edge of the sofa and checked her watch. In about three minutes, her mother would yank the door open and stomp down the hall for round two. This was not the time to speak up. There might be a moment after Mama wailed at the battered kitchen table, after the “Why can’t you understand I’m trying to keep you safe?” soliloquy, where Quinn could interject or point something out, but only if Mama was still crying. Once the tears stopped, the fight was over.

The door creaked on its hinges. Heavy footsteps sounded on the carpet, and on cue, Mama appeared in the hallway with puffy eyes and graying hair falling from a sloppy ponytail.

Her watery, dark eyes bulged, causing the vein in her forehead to throb more than it did on a regular day. Pale, papery skin around her mouth wrinkled as if she had eaten something bitter.

The words came out in a harsh, staccato rhythm like each mean word tasted bad in her mouth, and she needed to spit them out. “And another thing—why in the hell is Ms. Whateverhernameis involving herself in our personal private business? If she wants to be a parent, she can have a kid of her own, for Christ’s sake. Are you asking her to get involved?”

Quinn shook her head. She wanted to come to Ms. Garcia’s defense because, of course, her favorite teacher wasn’t trying to meddle. Ms. Garcia only ever wanted what was best for her. But Quinn bit the inside of her cheek instead. No good ever came from fighting Mama.

“The woman had the nerve to get you a job as an art intern at a museum clear across town. How are you supposed to get there every day? No, absolutely not!” Mama’s eyes hardened, black and fierce. She didn’t wait for Quinn to answer. “That’s too far for me to drive every single day. No job. There’s no need for all that risk.”

Mama crossed the room and dropped into a kitchen chair as if the last of her life had been drained out of her. Her bare shoulder caught on the peeling corner of plastic on the flowered patterned backrest, leaving a deep red scratch, but she didn’t even register the angry scrape it left on her skin. Like clockwork, she dropped her head to the table, and the sobs began.

“You know you’re all I have left.”

Quinn swallowed hard and nodded. This was her only chance.

“Mama.” The word came out in a whisper. Quinn immediately cleared her throat to try again. “Mama, Ms. Garcia didn’t mean anything by it.” She kept her voice low and even, no trace of emotion.

Her mother’s weeping continued, but it was softer. Taking a deep breath, Quinn continued. “She knows the director of the art program and thought I would enjoy the experience. Ms. Garcia thinks I’m a good artist, Mama.”

Mama’s head snapped up, eyes immediately dry.

Too far.

“Is that so?” The harsh tone signaled the conversation was taking a dangerous turn. Mama’s dark eyes glittered as she geared up for the next round. “What would your teacher know about good art? Did she have a gallery exposition at the San Francisco Armory? Was her name listed in the San Francisco Tribune’s Thirty Artists Under Thirty to Know? I was that artist, Quinn. Not your high school art teacher. What the hell does she know about art?”

As strongly as Quinn knew to keep her butt planted on the edge of the couch, she was on her feet before she was fully aware of what was happening.

“Enough, Mama!” Quinn shouted. “You don’t even paint anymore.”

Before the words were completely out of Quinn’s mouth, she covered her face. Mama didn’t need to leave her seat at the kitchen table for Quinn to feel the searing pain of an invisible slap.

“Is that what you think of me? I stopped painting the day your brother died. Griffin was ripped away from me. Nothing will ever matter to me again. It takes everything I have to go on every day and make sure you are safe. The world is cruel, and it’s out to get us. If I don’t protect you, it will take you too. But you’re a heartless brat. You don’t even care.”

Mama jerked to stand up, knocking the chair to the floor as she stormed down the hall.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Slam.

It was over.

One solitary tear trickled down her cheek as Quinn crossed the room to set the chair right side up. She’d be more upset if she hadn’t heard a rendition of Mama’s grief-stricken monologue at least once a week for as long as she could remember. Quinn drifted to the kitchen counter to straighten a stack of bills, then wiped up crumbs from the counter before rinsing the sponge in the sink.

Leaning against the counter, she glanced around the minuscule kitchen. Everything about the small home screamed neglect. The cabinets and countertops were chipped and dingy. Flowered wallpaper peeled at the corners of the room. The furniture, appliances, and dishes were all faded and worn, much like Mama. Quinn sighed, then rinsed out her mother’s coffee cup and set it in the dish rack to dry before tiptoeing to the safety of her own bedroom.

Through the thin walls, she heard fresh sobs and hiccups coming from her mother’s room. The crying jags happened more frequently and lasted longer than they used to. Mama’s emotions had always been unpredictable, but the tsunami of hostility that resulted from her outbursts was harder to weather. Quinn wondered sometimes if Mama would benefit from seeing a therapist, but in what world would she be allowed to broach the topic?

She flopped onto her bed and pulled a pillow down over her face, clenching it so tightly it was difficult to take a breath. If Mama could see her right now, she would probably require Quinn to sleep without pillows from now on. Yanking even harder, Quinn silently screamed into the pillowcase.

Anna Keaton wasn’t a warm, loving parent. She had never been. Safety was her only priority, and only safety in the very literal sense. As long as Quinn could remember, she hadn’t been allowed to cross streets by herself, go to a friend’s, or a playground, which left her very much alone.

It was so rare for her mother to venture anywhere outside of their neighborhood, so their options were limited. If their neighborhood market didn’t carry an item, they went without. If the hardware store didn’t have the part, repairs didn’t happen. It took all her mother’s energy to drive the mile to the doctor’s office where she worked as a medical transcriptionist three days a week. Traffic made Mama nervous. Crowds gave her anxiety. She trusted no one. As Quinn got older, their circle shrunk to only the two of them. At school, the other kids weren’t interested in playing with the girl who wasn’t allowed to do anything, so Quinn learned to adapt.

Painting became her escape the day she found the box of art supplies hidden on a high shelf in the backyard shed. Since she wasn’t allowed to walk the two blocks to the park while her mother was at work, a very bored, twelve-year-old Quinn decided to turn the dusty old gardening shed into a playhouse. It was mostly empty save for an old rake and a mildewed box of ancient gardening supplies, so it didn’t take long to sweep the floor and dust out the cobwebs. She hauled several cardboard boxes from the garage to turn them into furniture and was contemplating the arrangement when the sunlight caught the single window perfectly, illuminating a small cardboard box hidden on a high shelf.

When Quinn stood on her tiptoes, her fingertips brushed the edges of the box. Sticking her tongue out, she jumped and batted at the box, hoping to budge it a little. Little by little, she worked the box to the edge of the shelf. Finally, she managed to tip it off the shelf and let it fall against her chest. With an audible “oof” Quinn fell to the floor. The box was much heavier than she had expected. She scrambled to her knees and listened for any sign of her mother. Snooping wasn’t something Mama tolerated. When she had determined the coast was clear, Quinn eased the lid off the box.

Years of dust and cobwebs exploded into the air, dancing in the beam of light streaming through the window. She gasped. The box was stuffed with tubes and jars of paint in every color of the rainbow, rolls of thick paper, tiny canvases, and more paintbrushes than Quinn had ever seen. She neatly lined up each treasure on a narrow ledge in the shed, chipped teacups for water, small metal tools with blunt edges, and milky bottles of pungent mystery liquid. But the paper-wrapped parcel at the bottom of the box was most intriguing.

A small stack of Polaroids and faded photos inside were tied with string. A chubby-legged toddler and a blurry preschooler in blue swim trunks grinned up at the photographer in the first photo. In the next, the children dressed in matching clown costumes were being pulled in a wagon by a man in a tweed jacket. Though the man was in profile, and she hadn’t seen him in nearly five years, Quinn knew it was her father. As she leafed through the rest of the stack, evidence of a life and people she had no memory of flitted by.

Her brother, Griffin.

As a baby, a toddler, and then as a frozen-in-time four-year-old. Always grinning and happy. Sometimes with baby Quinn. Sometimes holding their mother’s hand. But in every photo, they were laughing. Quinn blinked in surprise at the way her mother’s eyes shone brightly in each photo, a youthful, happy expression on her face. Mama never smiled like this anymore.

She might press her lips into a thin line when Quinn brought home all As or if she was lost in a book, but there was rarely a smile and never laughter. The beautiful, carefree woman in these photos was a stranger. Quinn’s fingertips traced the outline of her mother’s face. She had passed down the wavy chestnut hair and dark brown eyes to Quinn and Griffin. But instead of her mother’s pointed chin and upturned nose, Quinn’s heart-shaped face and straight nose came from her dad.

With a heavy sigh, Quinn carefully rewrapped the photos, stealing three to keep as proof this version of her mother ever existed. The parcel was buried back under the flap of the box and pushed back onto the shelf.

The painting supplies were another story.

The tubes of paint were crusted over, but with a little elbow grease they eventually opened. Squeezing out a big splotch of each onto a palette, Quinn stared at the rainbow in front of her as she selected a brush. On the first box in the center of the room, she painted herself a dining room table set with the Thanksgiving meal she dreamed about. A turkey the size of her head. Four pies with sprinkles and ice cream. Golden sweet potatoes topped with fluffy white marshmallows, and a platter with every vegetable she could think of.

With no family to gather with, Quinn and her mother usually split a baked chicken breast with a side of instant potatoes from a box. If Mama was in a good mood, she would splurge on a premade pumpkin pie from the grocery store. But the holidays for Quinn were never what the kids described at school after the new year. While they were comparing gifts and reminiscing about ski trips and prime rib Christmas dinners with cousins and grandparents, she silently made mental notes of how she would celebrate when she was a grownup.

While the tablescape was drying, she squeezed out more paint and moved to the section of wood under the window of the shed and painted a cozy living room scene. By the time her mother pulled into the driveway, two entire walls of the shed had been transformed into a cozy cabin with flowers and pretty pictures on the wall. Quinn was adding the finishing touches on a puppy sleeping in front of a fireplace when she heard her mother’s footsteps over her shoulder.

“What did you do?”

All the color had drained from her mother’s face when Quinn whipped around. Mama’s steely eyes scanned the decorated walls before flitting to the pile of supplies and up to the empty box on the shelf.

“Quinn, what have you done?” Anna dragged her daughter by the arm out into the blinding sunlight of the backyard and stared at her coldly, waiting for an answer.

“I found the paints in a box, and I wanted to make my playhouse beautiful. I’m sorry.” Quinn stumbled away from her mother’s tight grip.

“Those things weren’t yours to play with. Why can’t you ever be happy with what you have? Go to your room.” Mama’s eyes darted back to the box on the shelf. She yanked the door to the shed wide open, taking stock of the contents scattered on the floor while Quinn slunk into the house.

The next day, Quinn came home from school to find a new carton sitting on her bed. The paints and supplies from the shed were stacked neatly inside, along with several new pads of paper and oil pastel crayons. The only thing missing was the packet of photos. Mama never acknowledged the gift, but Quinn assumed the paints were a peace offering, a blessing to keep creating.

Since then, Quinn was rarely without a sketchbook. The shed became Quinn’s studio. With the doors propped open, there was enough sunlight to paint by most days. But she would have painted in the dark if she had to because it was the privacy in the studio Quinn cherished the most. In the backyard studio, her mother wasn’t hovering or worried about every little thing. This was the only place Quinn was truly herself.

With the newfound bit of freedom, she signed up for every art class she could in school. By the time she started high school, she had developed her skills and knew she was talented. She explored every medium, but working in watercolors was her favorite. Blending colors and textures on paper or canvas to describe all the feelings inside was the only way she could communicate with the world. The way the paint dried, leaving a faint memory of what she’d put on the paper to begin with, was almost therapy. Quinn fell hard for art. It filled the holes where friends weren’t and gave her purpose.

By junior year, the only friend she’d made was Ms. Garcia. The art teacher never minded when Quinn brought her lunch to the studio and painted while she ate her peanut butter and jelly sandwich to avoid the lunchroom. Quinn listened dreamily as her teacher recalled stories of her years abroad in art school in France as she floated around the room in her brightly flowing tunics and loud jewelry. In the library before school, Quinn researched the places Ms. Garcia spoke of so she could paint them. If she pretended hard enough, maybe the memories could become hers too.

By the end of the year, Quinn still had no friends, but her teacher had a row of stunning French watercolor scenes lining one wall of the art studio. It was in this very room Ms. Garcia had offered the art intern opportunity and she was kind when Quinn turned it down. Today she had another announcement.

“I have exciting news for you, Quinn!”

Quinn had just taken a step back to evaluate the placement of a tiny bistro in the corner of her painting.  She was certain the color of the late afternoon sun was almost perfect. Ms. Garcia’s long paisley skirt swirled around her legs as she hurried over to the window where Quinn liked to set up.

“Why this is the Café de Flore in Paris, I told you about! It’s exactly the way it looked when I would stop for espresso on my way to class in the afternoon! I don’t know how you did it!”

The compliment made Quinn want to purr with pleasure. Instead, she blushed furiously. Lost in the memory, her teacher sighed deeply as she smiled at the painting before giving her head a shake.

“I came in to give you great news! How would you like to spend the entire summer painting and get paid for it?”

“Um. Okay!” Quinn laughed as she rinsed her brush and dried it on the hem of her smock.

“I hoped you’d say yes. My friend at the Bay Area Botanical Society is looking for a watercolor instructor for a workshop this summer. The class will paint the rare flowers grown on Alcatraz Island. The paintings will be sold at an auction to fund a renovation of the museum on the island. Did you know the prisoners on Alcatraz were gardeners because the warden wanted to make it a beautiful place for the guards and their families who lived on the island full time? Weird, right? But now it’s a botanical wonder out there, and I recommended you to lead the class. They will pay quite well.”

“Wow! Where will the class meet?”

“That’s the other exciting part! They want you to teach it on Alcatraz Island! They’re going to give you a ferry pass for the summer, so you’ll get to spend your whole morning outside in the sunshine.”

Every ounce of blood rushed to Quinn’s head when her teacher said the word ferry. The sound of Ms. Garcia’s voice was swept away in the whoosh of static suddenly roaring in her head. Quinn pressed her hand against the wall as her knees buckled. She sat down hard on the bench near the window and the brush in her hand clattered to the floor.

“I can’t.” It came out strangled. The echo of Ms. Garcia’s voice swirled around, but she couldn’t focus.

Ms. Garcia knelt before her. “Honey, you’re incredibly pale. I know the other internship wouldn’t work, but you’d get paid for this.”

“I—I’m fine. But I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’ve got to go.” Bile rose in the back of Quinn’s throat. She struggled to her feet and sprinted for the bathroom.

Quinn barely made it into a stall before she threw up what lunch she had managed to eat and collapsed to the floor in a weak, quivering puddle. Beads of sweat formed on her upper lip as another wave of nausea rolled through her. Tears pricked her eyes. Quinn slumped against the stall door as hot tears began to spill down her cheeks.

There was literally nothing she would rather do than spend an entire summer painting with other artists, teaching techniques she had been practicing for years under her teacher’s guidance. But there was no way she could go near the ocean, let alone get on a ferry and travel across the waves to an island completely surrounded by water. The image of crashing ocean waves on the jagged rocks of Alcatraz Island flashed in her mind. Panic rippled through her body. Her chest seized until there was barely room for air. Ms. Garcia knew Quinn well, but she had no idea how terrified she was of open water.

No.

There was no way. And her mother would never agree.

“Quinn? Honey, are you in here?” The bathroom door creaked open, and her teacher’s comforting voice echoed in the empty room.

Quinn clambered to her feet and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. “I’m here.”

“Can you come out for a moment. I think we need to talk.”

Reluctantly, she slid the lock open and stepped out timidly to face Ms. Garcia.

“Here,” she said, handing Quinn a stack of wet paper towels. “Do you want to splash some cold water on your face?”

Quinn nodded and took her offering.

“I don’t know exactly what is going on, but I’m concerned. I love having you in my class, and you’re welcome in the art studio any time. You are such a talented artist, but I’m concerned you aren’t hanging out with anyone your own age. Is there something going on I should know about?”

Quinn’s face burned with embarrassment. How do you tell your teacher she is your only friend?

“There are a couple of students painting with the Botanical group this summer, which is why I thought–”

“I can’t do that, Ms. Garcia.” Quinn yelped. Her knees threatened to give out again at the mention of the job and she clutched the edge of the sink so she wouldn’t go down.

“Okay, okay.” Ms. Garcia rubbed Quinn’s back reassuringly. When she was steadier, the teacher wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Why are you having such a visceral response to it?”

Quinn shook her head violently as the tears began to prickle behind her eyes again. A lump formed in the back of her throat. “It’s the water.”

Her secret was out.

Saying the words out loud to someone else relieved a pressure valve in Quinn’s chest. She exhaled fully for the first time in a long time.

“I’m afraid of water. The ocean, lakes, swimming pools. Any body of water, really. My brother drowned when I was two, and I’ve been afraid of the water ever since. So is my mom. That’s why I can’t get on a ferry across the bay to teach an art class. Besides, my mom would never let me go anyway.”

“Oh, Quinn. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” Ms. Garcia gathered her in her arms. The scent of peonies in her perfume filled Quinn’s nostrils as she pressed against her chest. She clung to Ms. Garcia. How long had it been since someone had held her? Years? Her mother avoided touching Quinn at all costs, not even a passing hand on the shoulder or hair tussle. The embrace felt so good, Quinn wanted to cry when her teacher finally let go.

“Let’s get some fresh air.” Leading her to the courtyard, Ms. Garcia pulled a candy bar from her pocket and split it in half, giving Quinn the bigger piece.

“I think you should talk to someone. I’m a good listener.” Ms. Garcia wasn’t one to pry.

The way she stared, the corners of her mouth turned down in a deep frown, Quinn knew it was probably time to give her some details about her life.

Breaking off the corner of the candy bar, Quinn popped the bite into her mouth and shrugged. “I guess I don’t even know where to start.”

“Do you want to start with the water thing? It’s okay, Quinn. What we talk about will stay between us.”

“My mom says I’ve always been afraid of the water. My brother drowned, and I guess it started after that.” The photo she kept hidden in the back of her closet flashed through her mind. She and Griffin on the beach with the crashing waves of the San Francisco Bay splashing foamy behind them. No fear of the danger behind them.

The fear must have started after that. “My mom hates the beach. That’s where my brother died. She could never bring herself to go back, and she said I was so afraid of the water it was easy to avoid it altogether. I guess I would scream bloody murder when my mom would put me in the bath, so I switched to showers. Any pool of water makes me freak out.”

“I can see why. Does your mom hate the water too, Quinn?” Ms. Garcia offered the other half of the candy bar.

“Probably more than I do. Plus, a lot of other fears too. She worries about everything, especially me. Since I’m all she has left, she feels like she needs to protect me from everything. She means well, but it’s a little much sometimes.”

“Losing a sibling is a lot to deal with at any age. Have you or your mom talked to a therapist?”

Shaking her head, Quinn straightened up and jutted her chin out in defiance. “It was a long time ago. I probably made it seem more dramatic than it really is. Certain things make me think about it.”

“Sure. But everyone can benefit from some therapy from time to time. That’s a lot of grief and anxiety to carry around all the time. Aren’t you exhausted, Quinn.”

“I’m fine. Really, I am.”

“Is it only you and your mom at home?”

Quinn squirmed uncomfortably, unsure how much to divulge. This was the most she had talked about her family to anyone. Ever. No one else had even bothered to ask.

She nodded. “My parents divorced when I was three. My dad wasn’t really around much after that. He basically started over with a new family in Arizona. He’s remarried, with two little boys, and I get a birthday card once a year. That’s about it. I don’t even know his side of the family, so I have no idea if I have cousins or aunts, or uncles. My mom was an only child, and I think her mom died. She never talks about it, so I really don’t know. It’s been the two of us since I can remember.”

“What about holidays or summer break? Do you see your dad then?” Her teacher’s concerned eyes never left Quinn’s face.

Quinn shook her head. “No. I think their divorce was messy and he moved on without us. He never asked to see me, and I was too little to remember him much. My mom never talks about him and doesn’t like it when he sends me anything. He never misses child support, and I think that’s all my mom has wanted from him. It’s strange, but I haven’t ever given it much thought. It’s how it’s always been.”

“Wow. That’s some pretty heavy stuff, Quinn. I’m sorry you have had to deal with all that. I feel terrible I didn’t ask you about your life before now. Can I give you a bit of advice?”

“Sure,” Quinn said, though her smile was forced. Curiosity got the better of her, but did she really want to hear what Ms. Garcia had to say about her life? Until now, her life seemed fairly normal. If you didn’t count the water phobia and having a mother who wouldn’t let out of her sight because everything was too big of a risk. When Quinn said it out loud, it sounded extreme.

“Don’t worry, Quinn. I’m not going to tell you to get over it. Long-term pain and trauma isn’t something you can skip over or decide you’re done with. But I would encourage you to start talking to a professional about some of this stuff. I’m happy to listen whenever you need to talk, but maybe we should set up a few appointments with the school counselor. She might have some suggestions on things you can try to keep your anxiety levels down, especially when it comes to water. She also might have some recommendations for therapists you could see outside of school.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think my mom would like that. We’re pretty private.”

Ms. Garcia studied Quinn’s face, before nodding sympathetically. “Okay. You should talk to her and feel her out before you set anything up. Meanwhile, I have another suggestion for you. I never see you with any other kids your own age, Quinn. I really do think it would do you a world of good to hang out with some teenagers and act silly. Get in some good trouble. Skip class occasionally and go get coffee. After all, there are only a few weeks left in the school year. Live a little!”

Quinn balked and choked on the last bite of chocolate.

Holding her hands up, feigning innocence, Ms. Garcia laughed. “I know. I know. A teacher isn’t supposed to tell you to skip school. But sometimes you have to be a teenager, you know? Who do you hang out with after school or on the weekends?”

Two pink circles appeared on Quinn’s cheeks. She stammered. “I, uh, I don’t know.” She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans and stared at her shoelaces. “I don’t really have any friends here at school.”

“Do you have friends in your neighborhood you see on the weekends?” Ms. Garcia asked, her voice dropping to little more than a whisper.

Quinn shook her head as two fat tears plopped into her lap. “You don’t understand, Ms. Garcia. I wasn’t ever allowed to go to anyone’s house because my mom worried I would get kidnapped or hurt. When you can’t have playdates and sleepovers, no one wants you as a friend. In fourth grade, I became the weird girl who wasn’t allowed to do anything, so they stopped inviting me. But it’s fine. That’s how I figured out I was good at art. Painting has become the thing I love to do more than anything, and I’m perfectly happy being alone.”

Two more tears dropped to her lap and stained her denim. Then the flood gate broke.

Ms. Garcia squeezed Quinn’s hand. “Honey, you don’t look very happy.”

Quinn wiped her tears away with the back of her sleeve and sniffled. “I’m pretty happy.” But the words came out like a question and not a statement either of them believed.

“There is one other thing I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve been thinking about bringing it up to you for a while now, and it seems like the perfect time to get it out on the table.”

What now? Quinn sighed and turned to face her favorite teacher.

Ms. Garcia smiled knowingly and paused before going on. “There is a very prestigious boarding school in England called Hayehurst Academy that takes one American student every year on scholarship. They choose a student who is accomplished in the arts, either a musician or an artist, or a poet. The student spends their entire senior year abroad, all expenses paid. Your flight to England, room and board for the year, and tuition are all completely paid. The only thing the student has to do is get their passport and work hard to excel. It’s an amazing opportunity, and this year, I get to pick the scholarship winner.”

Quinn squinted and cocked her head to the side. “So, you want me to help you pick a student?”

“No, Quinn. I pick you. You should go to England and study and paint your heart out and make lots of new friends and have great adventures. You should go.”

While the information clicked into place, Ms. Garcia sat very still. After what felt like an eternity, Quinn understood what Ms. Garcia was offering. Her brown eyes flew open, a gasp caught in her throat.

“But I just told you about how terrified I am of water! And you want me to fly over an ocean? My mom would never let me go. No, I couldn’t.” Quinn ticked off the reasons why she couldn’t accept on trembling fingers until Ms. Garcia covered her hands with her own to quell her fears.

“I heard you. And I don’t expect you to jump at the opportunity. I agree it might be a hard sell for your mother, but I can explain everything to her in person. I usually do because there aren’t many parents who would let their kids go away for a year without asking a lot of questions. But listen to me, Quinn. You have to live your life. This is an amazing opportunity. I know it would be hard, but it could change the trajectory of your life. The doors it could open! You could literally have your pick of art schools after graduation.”

Tears began to fall again, and Ms. Garcia reached over and hugged Quinn. “Honey, every single painting of France you’ve created for me this year is memory of an adventure I had as a student. My years at Hayehurst as a teenager changed me. Changed the way I saw the world. It altered my perspective and set me on a new course. Most importantly it gave me the opportunity to continue to art school in France. You need that, too. You’ve lived too long in this sad shadow. Be brave and live your life.”

As Ms. Garcia was speaking, the fear and anxiety in Quinn’s chest bubbled up into her stomach and began clawing its way up her throat, mixing with the thick tears. She knew her life was small, but she wouldn’t call it a sad shadow. Now embarrassment burned hot and raw in her belly, and she needed to leave before she was sick again.

Quinn bolted from the bench, spilling the contents of her backpack on the ground. Tubes of paint and charcoal pencils skittered across the pavement. Students were returning to campus from lunch and stepped over the art supplies. Tears filled her eyes and Quinn dropped to her knees. She blindly fumbled for the tubes and began stuffing things inside.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Garcia. I know I’m disappointing you, but I can’t. My mom would never say yes and...” Quinn whimpered, zipping up her backpack. “I’m sorry. I really am.” She turned toward the school and sprinted across the yard.

 

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