The call comes from the school again.
But this time, it’s not about a fight.
It’s about an award.
“Zara’s piece was selected for the statewide youth exhibition,” the art teacher says. “Top ten out of three hundred submissions.”
I close my eyes for a second.
“She made it?”
“She made it.”
Marcus is standing in the doorway when I hang up.
“She made it,” I whisper.
He doesn’t need context.
“She made it.”
He exhales, shoulders dropping.
“She’s going to pretend she doesn’t care.”
“Of course she is.”
When she gets home, she throws her bag on the counter.
“School was fine.”
“Anything else?” I ask casually.
She shrugs.
“No.”
“Did your art teacher talk to you?”
Her jaw tightens.
“Maybe.”
“And?”
She exhales through her nose.
“My piece got picked.”
Marcus leans against the cou
