Page 65 of SNOB

“No!” I spit again, very happy I have this drink. I bring it to my lips, taking a big gulp.

Gray chuckles again, his finger reaching for my necklace. “So you guys aren’t a thing?”

“N-no…”

Gray’s chest falls, his back hitting the rail. “He makes it seem like you are.”

“How so?”

“You rile him up. And when I talk to you, he gets more riled up.” Gray shakes his head. “It’s funny. Girls don’t usually bother him, so it’s easy to assume.” He sips his drink, his eyes moving to the side like he’s in thought. “But he’s been pretty stressed lately with his dad, and trying to get back on the team with that fucked up spine.”

My brows furrow. Was that what I hit that night? Angelo’s voice comes to my head. “Emmy, be fuckin’ careful. These things do a lot of damage.” The space tilts more right before the soft jazz in the background pauses, a voice ringing over a speaker. I’m too focused on Gray’s words to listen.

What does he mean Mac gets riled up when he talks to me? Maybe his injury wasn’t the only reason he was angry after the game.

“But maybe I’m reading into things.” Gray’s eyes wander my frame before he smiles. “Hey, do you wanna?—”

“Ember Everett?” My name over the speaker pulls my attention away from Gray. “Is the artist for this piece here? Ember Everett?”

“I think that’s you,” Gray says.

My brows lower. “Why would they call my name?”

“Well, there’s one way to find out.” Gray holds out a hand before escorting me to the middle of the room where someone in a tuxedo stands in front of… my sketchpad.

“Uh, that’s mine,” I mutter, staring in disbelief at my work on display to Paradise Hill’s elite. It’s open to one of my last drawings. A broken human figure surrounded by swirling tendrils of fiery red, orange, and yellow. Blue, green, and purple intermingle within patches of deep black. A therapeutic piece from when I first arrived at The Hill.

“Ember?” The man in the tuxedo asks as he points the mic towards me.

Looking around, my throat closes, everyone’s attention on me.

“It is,” Gray responds for me.

The crowd around us burst into applause with approving smiles and nods. It's the first time in The Hill that I'm the centre of good attention. No bullying. No secrets.

The man in the tuxedo beckons me forward, Gray pushing me towards him. “Go ahead,” Gray urges. “Have a moment.”

Tuxedo turns to me with a bright toothy smile. “Your artwork has helped raise ten thousand dollars for charity.”

I blink at the man’s words. “My artwork did what?”

He chuckles, and so does everyone around me. “Your piece is currently the highest bid piece tonight. Tell us, how long have you worked on your art?”

“Uh, since I was a kid,” I mutter into the mic.

“And what was your inspiration here?”

“Um, belonging?” I wince, doubting anyone will understand. But the crowd erupts into applause again.

“Wonderful,” Tuxedo says, smiling to the audience around him. “I’d now like to showcase our top bidder tonight. We know her well.” He reaches for a card next to the piece on the easel. “Cara Walsh.”

Wait—

My hand comes to my neck, a butterfly replacing the locket I’m looking for.

A woman in a copper dress that matches her hair clacks towards me, freckles dotting her face. She’s tall and thin, her green eyes dazzling under thick eyelashes. When she stands there, smiling at me, I can’t believe what I’m about to say.

“Mom?”

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