“You talk about money every time I talk about art.”
“Because money exists.”
“So does art.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is to me.”
Darnell rubbed one hand across his face.
He was tired.
Too tired for philosophy.
Too tired for sixteen.
He picked up the helmet.
Then looked at the drawings underneath it.
A face stared back at him from the page.
His own.
Darnell recognized the heavy crease beside his mouth, the tired eyes, the faint scar under his chin from a shop accident years earlier.
He had not known Eli drew him.
The portrait was not flattering.
It was not cruel either.
It looked like a man who had worked.
Darnell looked away first.
“Get your homework done.”
he said.
Eli’s expression closed.
Darnell hated that.
Still, he walked toward the kitchen.
Then the doorbell rang.
Neither moved.
It rang again.
Darnell checked the clock.
5:36 p.m.
“Expecting somebody?”
“No.”
“Your mom?”
“She would call.”
That was true.
Eli’s mother, Monique Carter, lived twenty minutes away and almost never arrived unannounced. Darnell and Monique had been divorced for six years but had worked hard enough at co-parenting that people occasionally mistook civility for reconciliation.
Darnell opened the front door.
A Black woman stood outside wearing a dark navy blazer over a cream blouse, a portfolio folder tucked beneath one arm and a large manila envelope in her hand.
She looked to be in her late forties.
Hair pulled into a low bun.
Gold earrings.
Professional.
Calm.
She smiled.
“Mr. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“Darnell Carter?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Dr. Simone Avery.”
She adjusted the folder.
“I’m with the Aster School of Art and Design.”
Darnell said nothing.
Behind him, Eli went completely still.
Simone saw him.
Her smile widened.
“There you are.”
Darnell slowly turned toward his son.
Eli looked as though he wanted the dining-room floor to open.
Darnell looked back at Simone.
“I’m sorry.”
“What is this about?”
Simone’s expression shifted.
“You haven’t received our messages.”
“What messages?”
Now she looked at Eli.
Eli looked away.
Darnell felt something cold move through his chest.
“Eli.”
Simone immediately understood she had walked into something larger than a missed phone call.
She chose her next words carefully.
“Perhaps I should start again.”
Darnell opened the door wider.
“No.”
He glanced at the envelope.
“Start right there.”
Simone nodded.
“I’m director of admissions and community fellowships at Aster.”
Darnell knew the name.
Most people in Denver did.
Aster School of Art and Design was a private secondary arts academy downtown with a national reputation in illustration, industrial design, photography, architecture, animation, and fine arts.
Tuition was absurd.
Darnell had seen the number once when a coworker’s niece applied.
He remembered thinking no sixteen-year-old needed anything badly enough to justify that amount.
Simone continued.
“Eli submitted a portfolio to our Young Makers Fellowship in August.”
Darnell turned toward Eli again.
“You applied to a school?”
Eli’s jaw tightened.
“A program.”
Simone gently corrected:
“The fellowship includes admission to Aster’s two-year upper-school studio program if the student chooses to accept.”
Darnell looked back.
“What?”
Simone held out the envelope.
“Eli was selected.”
No one spoke.
Darnell stared at the envelope.
Then at Simone.
“What does selected mean?”
“Full tuition.”
The room changed.
Eli looked down.