Sitting restlessly in the car, Joanna glanced curiously at Mrs. Evelyn, unsure of their destination. As the torrential rain drummed rhythmically against the vehicle's roof, she shivered slightly, prompting Mrs. Evelyn to hand her a thin blanket from the back. Her eyes scanned Joanna with the precision of a discerning appraiser, leaving Joanna feeling like a head of lettuce under scrutiny. 

“Too rigid,” Mrs. Evelyn murmured, resting her chin on her hand. “Needs transformation.”

Clearly, this lettuce wasn't up to par. Hugging the blanket tighter, Joanna felt a growing panic.

“Not too warm, is it?” Mrs. Evelyn inquired.

May's warmth was hinting at summer, and Joanna loosened her hold on the blanket slightly. Mrs. Evelyn nodded approvingly. “The timid look suits you.”

Joanna said nothing as they arrived at their destination, finally understanding her role. Mrs. Evelyn, under a dark umbrella, led her into an upscale salon.

Mrs. Evelyn confidently escorted her upstairs, where the opulent decor clashed blatantly with Joanna's plain school uniform. At the reception, Mrs. Evelyn removed a plaque bearing the name of the head stylist and nudged Joanna forward. “This one,” she declared.

Settling into a plush sofa in the VIP area, Mrs. Evelyn sipped tea and divvied through fashion magazines as the designated stylist took Joanna aside.

“Let's try curls,” suggested Mrs. Evelyn, gesturing towards Joanna's long hair. The stylist obliged, transforming Joanna's loose locks into voluminous tumbles that cascaded to her chest.

Satisfied, Mrs. Evelyn beckoned Joanna over, gently caressing her curls. “Keep it long from now on,” she instructed.

In the mirror, Joanna glimpsed the girl with soft waves framing her face, her wide eyes projecting vulnerability—irresistibly pitiful.

“Her clothes need to change,” Mrs. Evelyn criticized, eyeing Joanna’s drab uniform with distaste.

She paid with her gold card and whisked Joanna off to a friend’s boutique.

The store boasted exclusively vintage European styles, bearing a hefty price tag. Its founder had contributed to the costume design for an award-winning Hollywood film two years prior.

Once again, Mrs. Evelyn nudged Joanna forward. “She can try something with a forest vibe,” she instructed. “The clearer her aura, the better.”

The attending staff, clad in chic black blazers, politely guided Joanna into the fitting room.

Each corner of the Baroque-style store was finely crafted, as though stepping into 18th-century British royalty. When Joanna emerged in an emerald gown, Mrs. Evelyn was on a phone call.

Though she couldn't hear the conversation, she saw Mrs. Evelyn pacing anxiously. “I don’t care if he appreciates my work or not,” she declared. “But he pointed out a truth I can’t ignore—my art lacks passion, consumed by routine. Can you imagine how dreadful that is? I can paint a canvas with my eyes shut from sheer habit. What’s the point? It feels lifeless!”

Noticing Joanna, Mrs. Evelyn gestured for her to sit and continued, “I’ve got new inspiration now. Within three years, I’ll unveil a fresh exhibition! The theme? ‘Flowers and the Girl’—cliché, I know, but I promise my work will stand out.”

Joanna fidgeted aimlessly, flipping through a styling book.

“You’ve never faced my kind of deadlock,” Mrs. Evelyn emphasized to the person on the line. “See that rain out there? Three hours ago, under ominous clouds, I stood painting. The moment…”

A staff member offered Mrs. Evelyn a glass of water, which she accepted gratefully and continued, “I felt the sky pressing down, yet there was Joanna—Liam’s little find—racing toward me amidst the storm. Dark clouds against her innocence—then I understood: vitality!”

Joanna’s hand trembled, dropping her book with a loud thud.

“Black and white, light and shadow, girls and flowers—it’s the essence of life, right?” Mrs. Evelyn mused before sipping her water with a knowing smile. “Perhaps it’s less about creating a masterpiece than fostering one.”

Joanna peered up in confusion, as Mrs. Evelyn, having ended the call, approached and patted her head approvingly. “Not bad at all.”

The intricate emerald dress flirted with Joanna’s ankles, fluttering lightly. Mrs. Evelyn’s faith in her choices never wavered, moving ahead with her vision.

Mrs. Evelyn, undaunted by skepticism, enrolled Joanna in ballet classes at the local art center—a hub famed for nurturing tomorrow’s artistic talent. The ballet instructor was honest, “Starting this late, given her stiffness and demeanor, becoming a ballerina might be a long shot.”

Many parents sent their kids to the center hoping for more than just artistic pursuits—an investment not justified by mere hobbies. Despite hearing the instructor’s reservations, Mrs. Evelyn signed Joanna up without hesitation.

“If she had elegance and grace, why would she need classes?” Mrs. Evelyn retorted.

While they spoke, Joanna roamed the hallway, admiring artwork by students that adorned the walls, all bearing quality beyond their years. “Moonlit City” caught her eye—not for its technique but its daring palette: shadows under moonlight, azure walls, fiery horizon—unsettling and stunning. 

She checked the artist’s name beneath: Ethan.

“Seems we meet again,” Joanna thought, bemused.

Mrs. Evelyn reappeared, introducing the teacher to Joanna. “Every Friday evening, the driver will bring you here till nine. This is for relaxation—like morning exercises at school.”

Hidden from Mrs. Evelyn’s view, the teacher rolled her eyes.

Perhaps painting ballet in such poetic terms was uniquely Mrs. Evelyn’s gift. Joanna harbored little interest but bowed to Mrs. Evelyn's intent—truthfully, Friday evenings were free.

When Liam learned about the ballet, his greeting to Joanna was customary, but his attitude toward Mrs. Evelyn shifted, “Mom, I understand your dedication, but please don’t treat people as mere instruments.”

Mrs. Evelyn seemed unperturbed—she saw no harm in mutual growth between her and Joanna.

Ballet thus entered Joanna’s weekly schedule.

As weeks raced towards finals, Joanna’s pace didn’t relent. One morning, she awoke to a pounding headache, her body feverish and flushed.

Aunt Lisa handed her schoolbag at the door, sending her off on the bus. The summer sun was relentless, her skin ablaze, cheeks unnaturally crimson.

For the finals, class seating was shuffled, scattering students across various rooms. Joanna barely made it before the final bell, her entrance unnoticed amidst the teachers preparing exam papers.

Dizzy, stars danced in her vision. Last night’s frantic revision, compounded by sitting by the window with wet hair during a blowing storm, had brewed this furious fever.

She clung to consciousness long enough to finish her paper. As morning exams concluded, classmates thronged the cafeteria in clustered duos and trios, exchanging answers and hypotheses.

Sickly and solo, Joanna stood out amid the crowd. Nearby, Ethan wove similarly through the throng alone.

The cafeteria's entrance led them into each other's path. Joanna greeted him weakly, “How... was it?”

Hands shoved casually in pockets, Ethan’s response was cool as ever, “Same as always.”

Joanna echoed a small “oh”, taking a step forward when Ethan abruptly tugged her back, his hand landing on her forehead with a roughness that startled, “You're boiling—why are you even here?”

Joanna brushed off the shock, “I’ll be fine by afternoon.”

Ethan persisted, “Take sick leave and go home.”

Illness stirred her temper, “Since when did you care so much?”

When silence fell, remorse crept in. Joanna was about to apologize when Ethan seized her wrist, dragging her forcefully out of the flow.

“I’m not leaving,” Joanna argued, unable to free herself. “Do you know how hard I've worked to be here? Leaving wastes it all.”

Ethan was resolute.

“Let go!” she snapped as curious eyes followed their passage.

Before she knew it, Ethan deposited her unceremoniously at the school nurse’s office. “Enough time for an injection and rest before the next exam,” he stated flatly.

Given the circumstances, accepting Ethan’s kindness was wise. She endured the sting of an injection administered awkwardly, her movement truncated into an indignation-filled hiss.

Ethan returned, savoring her struggle with a smug demeanor pressed into his lips.