The showcase was three weeks away, and the art department thrummed with tension, a current running through every brushstroke and whispered conversation. Ms. Abernathy stood at the front of class, her silver braid glinting under the fluorescent lights, her voice carrying a weight that silenced the room. "The Spring Arts Showcase is your chance to show who you are," she said, her eyes sweeping the students. "One winner—visual artist, dancer, musician—will receive a full scholarship to a summer intensive, the Linden Gallery for artists, or partnered programs like Westlake for performers. It's not just skill. It's truth."
Amber's triptych, Becoming, was taking shape, each panel a step toward courage: shadow, light, possibility. She poured herself into it, her brush lingering on the canvas, the colors bleeding like her fears and hopes. Charles, still distant, worked on a cityscape titled Across the Table, its figures mirroring Amber in subtle ways—her posture, her hands—that she noticed but didn't mention, their silence a wound unhealed.
Priya caught Amber after class, her voice urgent, her camera clutched like a shield. "I overheard Ethan talking to a showcase judge—Mr. Hargrove, from the Linden Gallery," she said, her words rushed, her eyes scanning the hall. "Ethan offered to 'help' with Hargrove's daughter's portfolio if he favored Ethan's piece. It's a bribe, Amber."
Amber's jaw dropped, her anger flaring hot and sharp. "That's cheating," she said, her voice trembling, her hands clenching her bag. "If we tell Ms. Abernathy—"
"We'd need proof," Priya interrupted, her brow furrowing. "And Ethan could twist it, make us look petty. He's good at that."
Amber's mind raced, her anger warring with caution. Ethan's stolen sketch, his bribe—it was too much, a web of deceit she couldn't ignore. But exposing him could disqualify her own work if the judges saw her as stirring drama, a risk she couldn't afford. She needed to be smart, patient, to find a way to protect Charles without losing her chance.
At home, her mother was relentless, her voice cutting through the kitchen's quiet. "Ethan's exhibition is a better opportunity than that showcase," she said, dismissing Amber's plans with a wave of her hand. "And Charles? He's unstable, Amber. His parents' divorce, that art nonsense—focus on someone with a future, like Ethan."
"He's not nonsense," Amber snapped, her voice shaking, defiance flaring. "Charles is better than Ethan. His art, his… everything."
Her mother's eyes narrowed, her lips thinning, but she didn't argue, her silence a cold rebuke. Amber retreated to her room, her triptych panels staring back, their shadows deeper now. She added a figure to the second panel, watching from the edges—Ethan, Lena, or her own doubt, she wasn't sure.
Charles's absence in class the next day worried her, his seat empty, his sketchbook gone. She texted him, a simple You okay?, but got no reply, her phone's silence a weight in her pocket. Priya, noticing her distraction, whispered during a break, "I saw him in the chorus room yesterday, dancing again. He's preparing something, I think."
Amber's heart lifted, a spark of hope, but fear followed, cold and sharp. If Ethan or Lena knew about his dancing, they'd use it against him, twist it into mockery or worse. The critique wall confirmed her dread, a new note in blue ink: Thieves wear crowns. It was about Ethan, she was sure, his polished facade hiding a thief's heart. But proving it would take more than a stolen sketch, and rebuilding Charles's trust felt like an impossible task. The art room's murals seemed to pulse, their swirls a warning, as Amber vowed to find a way.