Amber couldn't shake the image of Charles's stolen sketch on the art board, its raw pain exposed under Ethan's name. She confronted Lena after school, finding her in the art room, sketching alone, her abstract swirls chaotic, almost desperate. The room was quiet, the turpentine scent fading, the critique wall looming with its latest note: Trust is a lie.
"Why did you do it?" Amber demanded, her voice sharp, holding up her phone with a photo of the critique wall's note, its handwriting—angular, precise—matching Lena's. "You gave Ethan Charles's sketch. You betrayed him."
Lena's face crumpled, her bravado collapsing, her pencil clattering to the table. "Ethan pushed me," she said, her voice breaking, tears welling in her eyes. "He knew I was mad about last year's showcase—my piece got trashed, and he got all the praise. He said if I gave him something to use, he'd make sure I got into his exhibition. I didn't mean for it to hurt Charles like that."
"You did hurt him," Amber said, her anger a blade, her hands clenched at her sides. "And me. You saw his notebook, and you used it."
"I know," Lena whispered, her tears falling now, her hands trembling. "I'm sorry, Amber. I'll tell Ms. Abernathy, make it right—"
"Not yet," Amber said, her mind racing, a plan forming. Lena's confession was leverage, a weapon to wield carefully. "Stay away from Charles. And Ethan. If you want to fix this, prove it with actions, not words."
Lena nodded, her face pale, her eyes haunted. Amber didn't trust her fully, not yet, but she turned to leave, her heart pounding. As she stepped into the hall, she saw Marcus near the chorus room, his posture too casual, his eyes scanning the doors. Was he watching Charles? Priya had mentioned Marcus's interest in the showcase's dance category, a rival for Westlake's summer program. Amber's unease grew, a knot in her chest.
She texted Priya: Found Lena. She admitted it. But Marcus is lurking near the chorus room. Check it out?
Priya replied instantly: On it. Meet me there.
Amber hurried to the chorus room, its door cracked open, the faint hum of music spilling out. No piano this time, just Marcus's voice, low and mocking. "You're rusty, Chen," he said, his tone sharp, cutting. "Westlake won't take a quitter like you."
"Get out," Charles replied, his voice steady but strained, a thread of anger beneath it.
Amber peered inside, her heart racing. Charles stood in dance gear, his body tense, his bag at his feet. Marcus leaned against the wall, his smirk a challenge, his posture relaxed but predatory. Priya arrived, camera in hand, her breath quick. "I'll record if it gets bad," she whispered, her eyes flicking to Marcus.
Marcus left, brushing past Amber without a glance, his steps light, deliberate. Charles saw her and froze, his eyes narrowing. "You again," he said, his tone weary, exhausted. "What now?"
"I didn't leak your sketch," Amber said, stepping closer, her voice soft but firm. "Lena did. She gave it to Ethan. I'm trying to fix it, Charles."
His eyes searched hers, doubt lingering, a storm behind his gaze. "Why should I believe you?" he asked, his voice low, raw.
"Because I see you," she said, her words steady, her heart laid bare. "Your art, your dance—it's who you are. I'd never take that away."
He didn't respond, but his shoulders relaxed slightly, a crack in his defenses. Priya lingered in the doorway, her camera lowered, her presence a quiet support. The critique wall outside read: Trust is a lie. Amber ignored it, her eyes on Charles, hoping he'd give her a chance to prove herself, to rebuild what was broken.