by Ibi Zoboi
I kept scrolling and eventually found other things. Quotes from Shakespeare. Langston Hughes. Tupac. Videos of Myron giving all these amazing monologues. And even pictures of him and his friends—Black, white, Latino, Asian. He looked comfortable in every photo.
I had seen all of this on his page before. I was sure that I had. I just hadn’t paid attention.
Myron was right when he said guys like you instead of guys like us. He may have been a chameleon, but deep down, he knew who he was. He could code switch, but he always knew what was real beneath the clothes and the talk.
It was about an hour later when he eventually found me. He didn’t say anything about Jess. He just motioned for me to get in the car.
Once he pulled away from the curb, he reached over to turn up the radio, but I stopped him.
“Myron,” I said, “tell me about Linton McCants.”
Warning: Color May Fade
Leah Henderson
“Almost there,” I whisper, straining as my fingers grasp for the brick ledge. Flecks of fuchsia and gamboge paint crust over bits of my brown skin. A smear of cobalt shines on the cuff of my sleeve. Evidence. The window eases up without a sound as wind screams through empty branches behind me. Heat from the radiator blasts my face as I lean in from the cold. I hoist my upper body inside. My heart thuds in my ears.
In twenty-four hours, all my secrets will come out. No more hiding. Parents’ Weekend and Mom and Dad can’t be avoided.
I close the window against the New England chill, pressing my forehead against the glass. I’ve made it. I’ve actually made it. And no one knows what I’ve done—at least not yet.
The night outside is settled, silent, even with my little commotion. No prying eyes or raised blinds meet me as I stare across the dark, sparsely lit quad. I let my bag slump to the floor and flick off my sneakers. At my desk, the never-mailed early-admission application peeks out from behind a stack of books. I should’ve tossed it weeks ago, but I can’t. Years of work went into those pages. Work I’m now willing to jeopardize.
Dad’s going to find out about it at some point soon, but not tonight.
My notebook lies open. Assignments unfinished. And despite nervous adrenaline rushing through me, focusing on medieval civilizations might calm the thumping in my chest, but a hot shower in an empty bathroom sounds even better.
Peeling off my hoodie and leggings stirs up a nose burn of turpentine, my favorite scent. The three-a.m. quiet in a freshman house is a perk of being an upper-class dorm proctor—mandatory lights-out for everyone else. I wrap my robe around me and grab my shower cap and caddy.
When I step into the hall, I overlook the beams of light streaming out from under a few closed doors—the telltale signs of all-nighters in progress. As long as no one makes a sound, this is another rule I’m willing to ignore.
The motion-sensor light brightens as the bathroom door swings open. A muffled sniffle interrupts the silence.
So much for a relaxing shower.
“Hello? It’s Nivia. Is everything okay?” I step into the stark white-tiled room that always smells of sweet pears and lilacs.
Finding someone sniffling in the bathroom in the early-morning hours at Caswell is never strange. It’s almost a rite of passage.
And it’s rarely about a crush or missing home. Pressure to meet expectations gets to all of us. Everyone cracks at some point. Mini meltdowns are the price paid for a Caswell Prep seal of approval.
I wonder if Dad or Grandpa ever bowed to the pressure when they were here. But somehow I doubt it. Mom either. Even with being some of the only Black students in a sea of white, I can’t imagine any of them being unsure of themselves or what they wanted when they went here or afterward. For them, the law has been their way up from the beginning.
“Want water?” I ask, pushing away the thoughts. I reach for a cup from the dispenser and fill it without waiting for a response.
I slide it under the stall and wait.
“Thanks.”
Without her saying another word, I know exactly who’s on the other side of the door. “You want to talk or should I go?” I say even though the shower is calling out to me.
“I’m okay, Niv. Really.”
“You know I know you’re lying, right?” A hint of a smile plays in my voice. I cross my arms and lean against a sink, waiting.
Anxiety is the nastiest beast for my old roommate. But it’s only ever this bad when she thinks she’s failed, and she never fails.
Then the toilet flushes and the stall lock slides back.
A second later, Ryan emerges, sandy blond hair matted, blue eyes rimmed red, blotches on her pale cheeks. “Should I even ask why you’re still up?” she asks, sniffling, and throws the crumpled cup in the trash.
She’s always been good at deflecting questions she wants to ignore.
“Why are you?” I throw back.
She reaches up and scratches at the side of my face, flicking away a tiny patch of dried glue.
Her gaze settles on the tiny cerulean splotches on the back of my hand. “You been finishing your project?”
I shove my arm deeper into a fold of robe. “Something like that. You good?”
She twists on a faucet and scoops water into her mouth to gargle. Then she turns to me. Her eyes always tell a different story than the rest of her. This time I can’t read it.
“Do you know your truth?”
I don’t have to ask what she means. Her brain is filled with the same thing as mine—the Tri-school Jabec Beard Art Prize, which besides carrying major bragging rights comes with a prestigious summer course at the illustrious Beaux-Arts de Paris and a monthlong shadowing of an eminent artist. The prompt of this year’s prize is imprinted on every senior art student’s brain. If tomorrow were your last, would you have told your authentic story? Every time you create art: Tell. Your. Truth.
“I mean, we’re only seventeen. How are we supposed to know our truth if we always do what’s expected of us?” Ryan asks.
“Then don’t do what’s expected.” This escapes my lips as if I’ve always believed it. As if I’ve always challenged expectations.
“Like it’s that easy.” She tucks a few loose strands of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit. “We only have two days left, and everything I show Ms. Teresi isn’t deep enough.” She throws up air quotes. “What does that even mean? You think kids from Eldridge or Alcott know how to get deep?”
“Let’s hope not,” I confess. Competition is steep enough between Caswell seniors. No way I want to think about what our sister schools are bringing to the table.
“I don’t know what to do anymore. My entry has to be the best, Niv.” She says this like there’s no other option in life.
“Don’t create what’s expected then. Do what you want.” I love how I can shell out advice but can hardly take it myself.
“It’s not that simple.” A slight whine creeps into her words. “You wouldn’t understand.”
I ignore the sting. Ryan has always carried her own spotlight. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, my truth is still working its way out of me too.”
“I feel sick every time I think about it.” Ryan traces a finger along the tiled wall. “They’re all going to be there. I have to win. If I don’t, they won’t understand.”
Her “they” is her family during Parents’ Weekend. For her, art has always been the way up. Though I’m not sure how much higher she actually needs to go. While policy and legislation are my family’s universe, art is her family’s world. They’re gallery owners, collectors, architects, and ginormous donors to everything art-related.
And she’s right; they won’t understand if she doesn’t get the prize. It’s all about the bragging rights for them. Her family’s connections pretty much guarantee her entry into any art school she’s interested in.
“I have to win,” she says again, as if I hadn’t heard her the first time. But I don’t want to hear her. She’s not the only one who wants to win.
White campus security jeeps create a barrier in front of Eckhart Gallery, blocking students’ entry to their classes downstairs. But Headmaster Ewing hustles through in his signature navy suit and Caswell hunter-green bow tie, disappearing inside the highly coveted addition to our campus.
“What’s happening?” someone asks as I reach the cluster of students decked out in their uniforms.
“Vandalism, I think,” an underclassman I don’t know offers. “I heard a Jabec piece got torn down.”
“No way!” My classmate Logan readjusts the faded baseball cap turned backward on his head. “The real police would be all over that. No way rent-a-cops can handle this.”
The idea of real police has me ready to turn the other way, but Caswell would rather handle problems in-house than cast the school in an unfavorable light. There won’t be police.
“Headmaster Ewing, is everything okay?” Ryan comes out of nowhere, stepping up beside me in her tailored navy school blazer and skirt, and hunter-green school tie and sweater. Her hair, flat-iron straight now, is held in place by a hunter-green scarf, the exact shade of our school colors, patterned with tiny foxes and tied like a headband. The same scarf she gave a couple of us as welcome-back presents after fall break. And of course it’s school-code approved. Her perfectly arched eyebrows meet in concern. Not a blotch or dark circle in sight. Like her midnight meltdown never happened.
“Yes, yes, it’s all in hand,” Headmaster Ewing says. His voice is always the perfect balance of polite authority and rigid expectations. I wonder if he, like Ryan, ever tires of being so put together. He gives a nod. His ash-brown hair, sprouting gray at his temples, remains in perfect place. Then he turns to the rest of us. “Apologies for the delay, everyone. There’s an unexpected addition to our gallery; however, it will not disrupt the day any further. Please make your way down to the class wing in an orderly fashion.”
Everything Caswell students do is orderly. That’s part of the programming.
“Nivia!” Headmaster Ewing calls out, and tips his head my way.
I nearly jump out of my skin. He and Dad were Caswell football teammates in ancient times. So him saying hi shouldn’t be a big deal. But it is.
“I look forward to seeing your father this weekend.”
I’m not sure if I give a smile or a grimace. Until that very second, for almost an hour I’ve successfully blocked out that my parents are coming, even though they’ve never missed a Caswell parents’ event since my brother and sister went here. I try to speak, even grunt, but before I can, Headmaster Ewing moves on.
Now I’m the one who’s gonna be sick.
“You okay?” Ryan asks, holding up her palm so I don’t step on her foot as I sway backward.
I manage a squeak in response.
“Move along, everyone,” Mr. Ivers, the art history teacher, advises in a harried tone as students file into the gallery and head for the basement classrooms. But that doesn’t stop anyone from looking, especially me. I lag behind, near the railing, taking an extra moment to peer inside the main exhibit hall.
There it is. Loud, proud, colorful, and speaking some kind of truth.
“This is serious,” Mr. Ivers complains to my teacher, Ms. Teresi, who stands in front of my favorite Jabec work, Broken Reflections. She taps the tip of her reading glasses against her lips—something she does while thinking. I linger just out of their view. “This is a definite call for expulsion.”
“Perhaps, but are you even looking at the work?” She leans toward the wall.
“How can I avoid it? The transgression is right in our faces.” Mr. Ivers jabs his finger at the explosion of color and brushstrokes that climb the once-white wall around Jabec’s 20 x 20 canvas. Broken Reflections, with its shards of tile and mirrors, has birthed something new since yesterday. A larger work spreads across the wall using the original piece as inspiration, paint shining and fresh. A rainbow of cadmium yellow, magenta, viridian, and other colors splits a silhouetted body of dark fabrics. They wrap around Jabec’s canvas as if scooping up pieces of mirror to construct a new whole, creating a seamless reflection.
I swear I hear Ms. Teresi breathe, “The bravery,” but I can’t be sure.
“This is the kind of thing Jabec would’ve done,” she says, and stretches her hand toward the exhibit banner announcing the new permanent collection of the street-artist-turned-fine-artist’s work.
“Well, I don’t think we ought to applaud such blatant disregard for private property. Reckless acts warrant severe punishment,” says Mr. Ivers. He’s one of the most buttoned-up teachers at Caswell, and that’s saying a lot—since most of them are stuffy, old white men who don’t have time for change.
Ms. Teresi is different though. So is Headmaster Ewing. They’re at least open to more.
“Every year someone pushes boundaries,” Mr. Teresi says, “tries to go beyond, but this . . . this is just more literal.”
“You say it as if it’s to be admired?” he scoffs.
Ms. Teresi turns away from the wall, noticing me for the first time. “Nivia, is there something we can help you with?”
Yes, I want to say. Do you admire it? Since she was one of the Jabec Beard Prize judges, her thoughts matter. “Um, no, I’m good.”
She nods toward the stairs, her salt-and-pepper hair toppling out of a messy top bun. In long graceful strides, she heads my way.
“Neither of us needs to be later than we already are,” she says, reaching me. She’s all but forgotten Mr. Ivers’s question. “Tell me, what do you think of the new addition to our gallery?”
My brain freezes. “It’s okay, I guess.”
“You guess? Come now, Nivia, someone as talented as you must have an opinion.”
I half smile. Her Visual Culture class sophomore year was everything for me. It taught me how images transform moods and relay messages deeper than even words can. That certain visual experiences challenge people to feel, notice, and continue the visual conversation. I glance back up the white marbled stairs but can no longer see the conversation started on that wall.
As if reading my thoughts, she adds, “I actually see glimpses of you in that work. But it’s riskier and a bit more honest than anything you’ve ever dared put forth. Can you learn something from it? Do you think it speaks the element of truth that’s been missing in your pieces?”
I want to tell her yes. That it holds exactly what’s missing—but I’m still unsure. Art isn’t like math. There’s no right answer.
Ms. Teresi opens her classroom door. Work and supplies are spread across most of the tables as students concentrate on their midterm projects. “I’m glad to see you aren’t wasting valuable time. Tomorrow morning’s deadline quickly approaches.” Her linen layers swing around her.
Grabbing my supplies, I head to my table, right behind Ryan’s. Classmates’ whispers buzz in my ear.
“Ryan, just let go,” Ms. Teresi encourages, eyeing her work. Then she gives a light laugh. “Haven’t you ever dabbled outside the lines?”
Ryan’s brow furrows. Her work is controlled perfection. Like her. Nothing she creates is out of place or haphazard.
“It’s evident you’ve been taught well,” Ms. Teresi says. “But don’t let it trap you. Explore.” She taps the paper. “Stop obeying the lines and challenge them.”
I don’t need to see Ryan’s face to know she’s cracking.
“Ms. Teresi, aren’t we going to talk about what happened?” Keegan asks from a front table. “Was that someone’s submission?”
“Fat chance.” Logan leans back on his stool. He hasn’t bothered to open his folder yet. “They would’ve needed to take credit to get credit.”
“I would,” Isaiah, the only other Black kid in class, says almost to himself. “I mean, not that I’d take credit for someone else’s stuff, but if I’d done it I would’ve signed it. The style’s sick. None of us is putting out work like that.”
“Okay, settle down, everyone. Focus on the work at hand. There
are only a few precious hours before midterm projects are due,” Ms. Teresi says, shutting down the conversation before it starts.
“But Ms. Teresi.” Emily, an underclassman who has an answer for everything, shoots her hand into the air. “It speaks about the truth Jabec always talked about. Whoever did it is showing the weight of mirrors reflected back on us by society, filled with everything we’re supposed to be for everyone, and making them something new.”
“Dude, you got all that from it?” Logan asks. “You might need your glasses prescription checked.”
“Hold on now, Logan,” Ms. Teresi interrupts. “Great art has the ability to be different things for different people. What did you see?”
“Honestly?” Logan’s front stool legs crash against the floor. “Confusion.”
“That’s the point,” Isaiah interjects.
Ms. Teresi gives him a look to let Logan finish.
“It’s a shadow split six ways, like it doesn’t know what it wants to do,” Logan continues.
“And the mirrors? What did the mirror mosaic mean for you?” Ms. Teresi asks him.
Logan shrugs. “I didn’t think they were actually reflecting anything specific,” he adds. A couple of others nod. “And things get bizarre with all those colors. Someone’s pretty out of control—”
“Or torn,” Ryan says, almost too quiet for anyone to hear, but I do since I sit right behind her.
“I disagree, Ms. Teresi,” Isaiah speaks up. “It’s not out of control at all. The shadows are trying to break free. To show their colors. To be visible.”
“Who agrees with Isaiah?”
A number of hands go up around the room.
“I get what that’s like,” Lakshmi says. “Being in a shadow is never just as simple as stepping out of it. Shadows can camouflage a lot of things.”
“Like?”
“Differences. Here we’re all supposed to want basically the same things and are expected to be the same, but outside of this bubble we aren’t all the same. And we aren’t seen that way either. I think people forget that sometimes,” Lakshmi adds. She started Caswell Prep’s thirty-three-member Students of Color Alliance.
