Fearless (The Story of Samantha Smith #1) by Devon Hartford Page B

really. I’m majoring in Accounting.”
    “Well, that’s a bigger question for you to ponder at length. For the time being, I’d like to suggest a mentor.” He grabbed a pad of paper and a pen, and jotted something down. “A mentor will expose you in more depth to a range of artistic principles we don’t have time to cover over the course of a single term. Make an appointment to visit his studio. I think you will find it fascinating to see how a real artist works.” He folded the paper in half and slid it across to me. “I’ll contact him and let him know to expect an email from you.”
    I took it without looking at it. Professor Childress was beyond humble. Based on his paintings I’d call him a real artist. I couldn’t imagine ever being able to paint as well as he did.  
    I was curious about this mentor, because if the professor didn’t consider his own amazing work “real” art, I could only wonder what mysteries awaited me at the mentor’s art studio.
    “It’s safe to say that as of the middle of the term,” Professor Childress said, “you are solidly in A territory, as far as your grade is concerned. I believe you can go well beyond that.”
    “Beyond an A?”
    He chuckled. “Well, an A is the highest grade. But I was thinking in terms of your overall potential.”
    “Thanks, Mr. Childress.” I beamed.
    He stood up and shook my hand. “See you in class.”
    When I walked outside. I don’t think my feet touched the floor until I was halfway down the hall.
    I opened the paper the professor had given me. It had a name and an email address.
    Christos Manos.
    Why did that name sound familiar?

    I was so busy studying for mid-terms the rest of the week, I nearly forgot about the mentor. But I’d taped the note to my desk lamp so I wouldn’t forget.  
    Friday afternoon, after my last exam, I sent a quick email out to Christos Manos. That evening, I received a reply. It contained a street address and requested, “Come on Saturday. Tomorrow. 1:00 p.m.”
    Where did this guy get off thinking my schedule was totally open? I mean, it was, but still, it would’ve been nice if he’d asked me when I was available.
    Professor Childress had called this Manos guy a “real artist” so maybe he was super busy. Maybe he had some big gallery show he was preparing for.
    Snooty artists. Maybe being an artist was lame and I was better off in accounting.
    Whatever, Debbie Downer. I knew I was jumping to conclusions and making rash assumptions. Professor Childress was nice. I trusted he wouldn’t set me up with some jerk mentor.
    What would this Christos Manos be like? I pictured someone like Professor Childress, but taller, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and those 1950s style hipster eyeglasses, but that was a guess. I had no way of knowing. The whole thing was so uncertain.
    I called Madison for encouragement, which she claimed required doughnuts, so she drove over to my place.
    We walked to a place I’d discovered in my neighborhood called Thai Doughnut. They made the most amazing apple fritters ever. We bought one apiece and walked to the beach with them.
    I plucked a yummy morsel off my fritter and popped it in my mouth. It was still warm. Yum! “Have you seen Jake since the beach?”
    Madison had a mouth full of apple fritter. She covered her mouth with her fingers. “You mean Lady’s Man?”
    “Literally.”
    “Hell no. He sure was flirty with me, considering he had a date with his lady that day.”
    “Guys are dogs. I’m sure they had a double date with Adonis and Tiffany, or whatever Plastic Playmate he’s seeing this week.”
    Madison and I had discovered that practically everyone on campus knew who Tiffany was. Apparently she liked to throw Delta Pi Delta parties on her Daddy’s yacht in the harbor. And tell everyone within earshot, whether they were interested or not.
    “Oh, you know what?” Madison asked, licking cinnamon glaze from her fingers. “I saw Adonis totally snub Tiffany