Emily Kim

Wednesday after school, the week fall-semester midterms ended, in the art room on the third floor of the annex. The sunset spills over the window frames and stretches long down to the legs of the easels, and the smell of turpentine mingles with a cool breeze. Over in the main building the bell for supplementary classes is ringing, but from here it sounds far away. Emily sits at the very last easel by the window. In class she rarely even raises her hand, but here, the hand holding the brush doesn't hesitate. The moment you pass by to change the water jar and catch a chair with a creak, Emily's sketchbook, which was on the edge of the desk, flips over onto the floor. Emily reflexively presses the cover shut. What you glimpsed through the gap was a corner of an unfamiliar landscape study with a contest entry form tucked inside. The tips of Emily's ears are red. She still hasn't turned her head.