“Put down the power drill. Slow strokes. Love this stone like it’s a person.”

“Let’s call it a day. You’ve been battling this piece all night. You are not in sync with it. You are at war.”

Vaughn was struggling with the piece, and I wasn’t at all sure he’d submitted any other project for the internship. That gave me hope. Maybe I did have a chance. At least I’d handed in my piece in a timely manner.

“Sit down,” Papa instructed with a tired groan, pointing at a huge, untouched stone in the corner of the room.

I brushed away Human Anatomy for Artists by Eliot Goldfinger, which sat atop it, and did as I was told, crossing my legs at the ankles. I ignored the huge horizontal piece covered by a large, white sheet standing in the corner of the studio. I knew how intimate an artist’s relationship was with his work. It was like being pregnant, knowing the baby inside you was growing each day—more cells, longer limbs, more defined facial features.

I also knew that was Vaughn’s piece, and I was not supposed to see it.

“You are going to receive a letter from the board, but I thought this warranted a more personal conversation. Let me start by saying that your assemblage piece was phenomenal. The way you worked the tin, the little escape wheels for eyes, the detail—it was fantastically executed. It evoked many emotions in all three of us. Your Uncle Harry called you a genius, and Alma said yours was by far her favorite. I’ve never been prouder to call you my daughter.”

My breath fluttered in my lungs, and I tried to keep my smile at bay. It was happening. I was getting the internship. I’d already decided what I wanted to show at Tate Modern. I had it all planned. I needed to sketch it first, but the bones were there. It had come to me in my sleep, the night I bit Vaughn.

“Thank you. I—”

“Lenny, you know I love you, right?” Papa crooned, his head falling into his huge, open palms all of a sudden.

Uh-oh.

“Yeah. Of course,” I faltered.

“Do you really, though?” he asked from between the cracks of his fingers, peeking through them like a little boy.

Suddenly, I was pissed at him. Because he wasn’t a little boy. He was a grown-up man. And he was taking the easy way out, playing on my emotions.

“You sound like you’re sending me off to a boarding school on the other side of the world. A bit late for that, Papa.” I kept my tone light, clearing my throat.

Then it hit me. My stupid joke turned into a brutal reality.

No. No, no, no.

Papa dropped his hands from his face and averted his gaze to the floor. When I said nothing, he started pacing the room, back and forth, his hands knotted behind his back. He stopped after a few seconds, as if deciding what course of action he wanted to take, and pivoted toward me, leaning down and putting his heavy hands on my shoulders. He caught my gaze, the intensity radiating through his eyes almost knocking me down.

“You’re enough,” he said.

“Of course,” I managed, feeling the walls of the tiny studio closing in on me.

This wasn’t happening. God, please. I’d worked so hard. This was all I’d ever wanted—to have my work exhibited at Tate Modern. I didn’t enjoy sordid relationships and midnight blow jobs at rich kids’ pool parties, or flirt with drugs, fights, and the wrong side of the law. My parents weren’t Californian royalty. I didn’t have football friends and popularity and the entire, bloody world at my feet.

All I’d ever asked for was this internship.

“You are. And one day, you will see that I mean this, but Lenny…you didn’t get the internship.”

I closed my eyes and took a shaky breath, refusing to let the tears fall. I wanted to believe him. But if I were the best, I’d have gotten the internship. We both knew that.

“Vaughn Spencer?” I heard myself asking. I didn’t dare breathe. I knew if I twitched, or even moved a finger, I would go berserk and crash, break, and destroy everything in sight—knock over the statue Vaughn was working on, rip the walls down, and jump headfirst into the pool, praying to hit the bottom and die.

I’d sat back and let Vaughn do this—worm his way into my father’s good graces, right here in Todos Santos. I’d let him into my kingdom, into my family, into my house, every single day, and watched as he stole the only thing I cared about, night after night. Because I stupidly thought my work would speak for itself, that he couldn’t cheat his way into the gig.

I was exactly the naïve little idiot he saw me to be.

“Yes,” my father confirmed behind the fog of my red anger.