Bette’s brow furrows as she scrolls and taps another video. A faculty showcase. Beige canvases. Watercolors that bleed into nothing. Students with hands in pockets, checking phones, shifting weight from foot to foot. She shakes her head at the screen.

She exits the video. The train rattles on as she lowers the phone, gaze drifting to the window.

Philadelphia rushes past her again. Row houses with their narrow faces. The flash of a mural, vibrant against brick. A corner bodega’s neon sign. Bette inhales, slow and deep, then exhales. “Well… shit.”

An older Black woman peers over her glasses, one eyebrow raised.

Bette straightens. “Sorry…”

The train stops with a hiss. The woman rises, grips her polished-wood cane with a brass handle, and passes Bette. “You have a good night, young lady…”

“Yes ma’am…you as well…”

The doors close. Bette leans back, eyes closing. In the darkness behind her lids, those bland student works flicker, then transform into bold strokes, raw colors, canvases that demand attention. Her fingers twitch against her thigh, already sketching out lesson plans….

***

Three weeks later….

The campus of California University feels different the moment Bette steps onto it. Definitely warmer and much brighter, very polished.

After a full tour with Phyllis Kroll, complete with strategic stops, carefully worded praise, and a few too many mentions of “potential,” Bette finally finds herself alone in her office. She steps inside and stops. A quiet chuckle escapes her as she plants her hands on her hips, slowly turning in place.

The walls are a dull, outdated beige, somewhere between tired and forgotten. Heavy brown curtains suffocate the windows, blocking out most of the California sun that tries to push its way through. The furniture is solid, expensive even, but still lifeless.

Bette shakes her head lightly, amused. “Wow…” She walks further in, her shoes soft against the carpet, taking it all in with a critical eye. She’s dressed down, jeans, a fitted t-shirt, but there’s nothing casual about her presence.

She glances over her shoulder when she hears a knock, or more like a hesitant tap against the already open door.

A young man in a suit and tie steps inside, pausing just past the threshold. He looks confused. Slightly concerned. “Hi…” he says. He then frowns, pointing lightly at her. “Uh… I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be in here.”