Pushing the Limits (Pushing the Limits, #1)(29)

I lacked confidence, but I could pretend. I chanted in my mind, Pretend you’re Noah. Even better, biker chick Beth, held my head high and crossed the crowded locker room toward the bathroom where I intended to change in a private stall. Biker chick Beth confidence or not, there was no way I could change in front of them.

Shaking off the tension that runway walk created, I shut the stall door and changed. If entering a locker room resembled the opening of a Stephen King novel, dance practice ought to be like starring in a horror movie.

Thankfully, the locker room had emptied by the time I hurried to join warm-ups. In the hallway, two juniors giggled by the water fountain. “Can you believe that Echo Emerson is rejoining the dance team? What a nightmare.”

“Like, because Luke is all over her it gives her an excuse to pretend she’s not a freak.”

I ducked back into the bathroom. My heart in my gut, my stomach in my throat, my pretend confidence in tatters.

WITH MY JEANS, BROWN COTTON shirt and tank top back on, I roamed the hallways. I had an hour to kill for five days a week until graduation. Maybe only four. I could move Noah’s tutoring session back to right after school on Mondays.

I turned a corner and a part of my soul took a deep breath when I noticed the artwork littering the walls. I followed the trail of paintings and drawings to what used to be my favorite room—art. Several canvases rested on easels, waiting for their masters to return. A bowl of plastic fruit sat on a table in the middle of the easel circle.

I assessed each painting in turn. I admired the way the first one used shadowing. The second one paid nice attention to detail. The third one?

“Good to see you, Echo.” My old art teacher, Nancy, exited the connecting darkroom and weaved through the easels and tables toward me. She insisted that her students call her by her first name. She despised rules and formalities. Her hair, bleached blond with black streaks, was a testament to her attitude.

I gestured to the third painting. “Abstract expressionist?”

Her boisterous laughter vibrated in the room. She adjusted her black horn-rimmed glasses. “Lazy student who thought art would be an easy A. She claims to be an impressionist.”

“What an insult.”

“I know. I asked if she knew what an impressionist was and when she shook her head, I showed her your paintings.” Nancy stared at the mess in front of her as if trying to find something redeemable in it. “I’ve missed you.”

Familiar guilt tiptoed through my insides. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, kid. It’s not your fault. Your father informed me you were no longer allowed to take an art class. I took that to mean I’d never see you.”

I walked to the fourth picture. “Nice lines.”

“Are you still painting?”

Hoping to make it look like I was extremely interested in the color chosen for the banana, I tilted my head, but I wasn’t. The black hole in my mind widened, interrupting any thought of painting. “No, but I still sketch. Mostly in pencil. Some with charcoal at home.”

“I’d love to see them.”

Nancy snatched the sketchbook I pulled from my backpack. She sat on the table with the fruit and flipped it open. “Oh, Echo. Simply amazing.”

I shrugged, but she missed it, too infatuated with my sketchbook. “We won.”

She tore her eyes away from the sketches and stared at me in silence. I continued to busy myself with the other artists’ work. After a few seconds, she returned to studying my drawing of Grace. “No, you won. I was merely along for the ride.” She paused. “You remember?”

“No.” Surely Nancy would take pity on me and fill in some of the gaps. “Were you there?”

“Mmm, girlfriend. You’re itching to get me in trouble with your father and Mrs. Collins. Your father I could take, but Mrs. Collins?” She shuddered. “Between you and me, she scares me. It’s the friendly ones that’ll get you in the end.”

I snickered, missing Nancy’s honesty. “I wish I could remember.” The fifth canvas was completely blank. The oil paints and brushes sat unused. “Do you mind?”

In her classic deep-in-thought stance, Nancy rubbed the bottom of her chin. “He only said you couldn’t take an art class, not that you couldn’t paint.”

I picked up a flat brush, dipped it into the black paint and made circles on the canvas. “It’s like I have this large black hole in my brain and it’s sucking the life out of me. The answers are in there so I sit for hours and stare. No matter how hard and long I look, I only see darkness.”

I chose a fan brush and mixed black and white paint together to create different shades of gray. “There are edges around the black and every now and then a flash of color streaks out of the gray. But I can never really grasp any of the slivers of memories that emerge.”

Clutching the paintbrush, I stared at the canvas that now represented my brain. “I wish someone would just tell me the truth and end the madness.”

A warm hand pressed hard against my shoulder, causing me to blink out of my zone. Wow, five o’clock. Dad would kill me if I didn’t get home soon. Nancy kept her hand on my shoulder and her eyes locked on the canvas. “If this is madness, then madness is brilliant. Are you going to finish this?”

For the first time in two years I felt like I could breathe. “You mind me hanging out after school?”