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the infirmary was located in one of the oldest buildings on campus, not far from Old Homestead, about a ten-minutewalk. I headed over immediately, beyond relieved to have a reason to skip lunch.
    Someone must have been watching as I approached the door of the old stone structure because I got buzzed in before I even knocked. I entered a hallway, long and dark, passing room after room—all empty.
    “Wickham Hall is more than two hours away from the nearest hospital, so we have to be prepared,” snapped the officious Nurse Cobbs, startling me as she exited one of the rooms and started to escort me down the hall. “Back in the day, with tuberculosis and small pox rampant, we needed our own miniature hospital to serve the students and faculty. These days, it’s not so busy.” She almost sounded disappointed.
    We entered a small examination room, and she sat me on a table and did the usual: temperature, blood pressure, reflexes. She banged my knee with that rubber hammer and nothing happened.
    “Maybe my nerves stayed in Vegas,” I joked. She didn’t laugh but instead used the moment to catch my leg off guard, successfully making it jump.
    Finally, she moved me to a little school desk to take my blood. I warned her that my veins were terrible. “Most years I showed up to school with bruises because my doctor’s nurse could never hit the vein. Usually they ended up sending me to the lab at the hospital.”
    “I’m quite skilled at this task,” she snapped. And, sure enough, she was. She smiled, pleased with her handiwork as the small vial filled. But I had to look away. I couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

     
    ALL WEEK, I APPROACHED every new class—and every walk in between—thinking I might see Malcolm. But I never did. Occasionally, I thought I saw him in the distance, part of a cluster of Wickies, but as I drew closer, it was never him. I wished he’d asked for my last name or my number, but he hadn’t. I wished I’d sent in a picture for the student directory instead of being an invisible “no picture provided” girl.
    The only bright spot of that first week was finally getting to set foot in the Art Center. Close up, it looked like a massive spiral staircase around a giant sunken outdoor fire pit where the school apparently held an annual bonfire: the centerpiece of Fall Festival. The exterior was made of glass and metal. When I stepped inside the atrium, I was shocked to see several of my drawings in one of the galleries. As I approached, I saw a sign that read WELCOME NEW ARTISTS!
    Finally, a real welcome.
    “Do you approve?”
    The voice startled me. It came from behind—the throaty voice of an older woman, one who probably smoked about a thousand unfiltered cigarettes a day. I turned around. She was smaller than her voice. Tiny, in fact. And ancient, but with that cool, weathered, I’ve-seen-the-world look of Georgia O’Keeffe or Louise Bourgeois. She was dressed like a bohemian—patterned stuff from India, Central America, Africa—nothing resembling anyone else I’d seen around here.
    “I was saving your portfolios for your arrival,” she said. “I decided I should celebrate the work.”
    I smiled, but I didn’t know what to say. I’d never seen my stuff hanging up anywhere except my own wall. This was like a real gallery. It was exhilarating. But also overwhelming and terrifying. I felt exposed.
    She could sense my discomfort. “Your art
should
be up there, Liv, for all to see,” she stressed. “But, unfortunately hardly anyone ever comes in here.” And it was true. This magnificent building was weirdly deserted.
    “I’m Ms. Benson, the head of Wickham’s art department.”
    “I’m Liv Bloom. But I guess you know that.”
    “Yes. May I take you to your studio?”
    “Yes, please. I’ve only been waiting sixteen years for this moment.”
    MY STUDIO.
IT WAS perfect. It was the kind of studio you dream about having someday, after you make it big—with high glass ceilings and