Chapter 24: The First Slice

The studio hall had been cleared for the end-of-summer show.

My name was on the wall in letters Clayton had printed himself.

He stood by the door in a canvas apron with ink up to both elbows, handing out programs.

"Take one," he told a guest. "Please. I printed six hundred of them, and I counted twice."

Flynn leaned on the wall beside me with a plastic cup of cider.

"His customer service needs work," he said.

"He's been at the shop three weeks."

"He called a professor 'ma'am' and a dean 'buddy' in the same hour."

The shop had taken Flynn back in July.

The new kid had printed all six hundred wedding programs with the bride's name spelled wrong.

Flynn's old boss had called him at seven in the morning, begging.

Flynn had made him say please twice.

Then he had asked for a raise and a job for Clayton, and he had gotten both.

I looked down the hall.

Twelve walls, twelve students, and the professor moving along them in her black dress, telling people which ones to look at first.

Mine hung in the middle.

It was a window with a lemon tree outside it, painted in the hour before sunrise.

A man lay asleep in the bed in the corner of the frame.

The card beneath it said: Silver Lake, 5 a.m. Not for sale.

The painting from the lawn was not here.

Mr. Daley's mother had bought Lot 9 for the scholarship.

She had hung it herself in the office where students come to collect their awards.

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