Disclaimer: Characters and premise of Harry Potter belong to JKR. Jesse Aarons, and all other characters in Bridge to Terabithia are property of the wonderful Katherine Paterson. Title courtesy of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

A/N: ECverse, 1988 – 1994. Rating for a really obscene implication (or two), later in this part. Sorry about that. The character just really wanted to be an ass. Oh, and language. Definitely that.

Summary: It was up to him to pay back to the world in beauty and caring what Leslie had loaned him in vision and strength.

THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN

"Jes-see!"

Now what? Careful not to slop the milk, Jesse set the pail down, only remembering to ease the screen closed after it rattled into the frame with a bang!

Now I'm gonna catch it –

Nothing.

Frowning, Jesse eased his lanky limbs through the kitchen door. "Yes'm?"

Momma was holding a letter.

Two big sets of brown eyes belonging to May Belle and Joyce Ann were crowded at her shoulder, peering toward the envelope. Unease curled in his stomach, hissing like a rattler about to strike.

"Jesse Oliver Aarons." Momma held up the paper, frazzled gray strands floating about her face in the thin breeze from the screened door. "What is this?"

"I don't know, Momma," was the truthful response.

Whipcord anger lashed out at him. "Don't you sass me, Jesse!"

"No, Momma, really – lemme see?"

By this time his dad, Jesse Oliver Aarons Sr., had left the worn armchair in front of the television to come into the kitchen. "What's all this fussin'?"

"Jesse got a letter -" May Belle, excited, smiling. Straight brown hair, just like his own, clung to her neck in sweaty strands. Joyce Ann, the baby, was twelve and staring petulantly. She looked just like Ellie.

Paper changed hands without him even getting a chance to see the print. Jesse could only wait as his dad's eyes scanned the page. Once. Twice. Finally, finally, the letter was stretched his way.

"You gonna explain this?"

Academy of Magical Art scrolled across the top, letters perfectly curved and flowing. Mr. Aarons, we are pleased to inform you -

Stunned, Jesse looked up to find his parents and two younger sisters staring at him. Good thing Ellie and Brenda don't live here anymore. "But – but I didn't -"

"Didn't?" Momma, suspicious and not bothering to hide it.

"I didn't apply!" Jesse burst out. Something tickled the back of his mind. Oh! "Miss Edmunds." The minute he said it he knew it was right. "She must'a done it."

"That . . . hippie?" Momma said with distaste. "What right she got to be -"

"She ain't a hippie, Momma," Joyce Ann stuck in.

Girl never knows to keep her trap shut. Jesse tucked the thought deep as an argument boiled over into the kitchen, Momma and Joyce Ann and May Belle yattering on in loud, chicken-squawk voices. I got in.

"Jesse?"

Surprised brown eyes pulled from the script of the letter to find everyone was looking at him.

"I got in," he repeated, still amazed. Read further, past that first thrilling sentence. And gaped. "They – they gave me full scholarship."

Dead silence.

"They what?" his dad demanded.

Jesse read. "Upon submission of your portfolio, you have been found eligible for our merit-based scholarship program covering full tuition." He blinked at his dad. "They'll pay for everything."

"Portfolio?" was the suspicious response from Momma. Apron tied over her worn dress, thick wooden spoon in hand, the glower she was wearing scared him silly. Oh, no.

"Jesse paints, Momma."

"May Belle!" he hissed, hand darting out. Your life ain't worth nothin', girl.

Bare toes danced on worn linoleum as she scooted out of reach. "You're good, Jesse," she insisted.

"I thought you gave that damn-fool nonsense up," his dad said gruffly.

"No," was what he finally said.

"So you been foolin' around for years, wastin' time on frippery?" Momma's voice rose high. His dad was the one more likely to get angry about the drawing and painting, turning his only son into a –

Well. Jesse'd known what his dad had thought of his art when he was six, and even after Leslie . . . nothing had really changed.

But once Momma was angry, there was no saving him. He'd been there for what had happened when Brenda came home knocked up by Willard Hughes. Never want to live through nothin' like that again. They were married now, and that was all down to Momma.

Wait – where's May Belle gone off to? Dread kicked him, hard as Miss Bessie II. She wouldn't dare. "May Belle!"

"Lookit!"

Oh, Lord.

One thick canvas, stretched and stapled over a clean wooden frame, preceded her into the room; another followed. "You're dead, girl," he whispered. Least she only brought two. But two of Terabithia -!

Sassy and happy, his younger sister just shrugged, settling the oil paintings down gently on their battered kitchen table. A pink tongue poked between her lips at him. "You was gonna kill me anyways."

His eyes narrowed. May Belle was getting cunning, at the ripe old age of fourteen.

"Ohhh, Momma, look," Joyce Ann breathed, straw-like strands of hair draping in her eyes as she leant over the pictures. Jesse watched carefully, making sure she didn't touch them. "The butterflies are flyin'!"

And they were.

Delicate white drabs of paint, no more than a suggestion of plume moths, scattered themselves across dappled greens that sprang into a forest across the length of smooth canvas. Stretching high, they resolved into the branches of elm and evergreen, oak and ash, swaying in a soundless breeze. Elusive sunlight slanted into the painting from an unseen source, dripping through the leaves to bathe the shading of light and shadow that suggested the figure of a child, standing alone in a clearing. Three words graced the bottom right corner, followed by a name.

The Sacred Grove. J. O. Aarons.

"Oh," Momma said softly.

The second painting had captured his dad's attention. "Isn't this that bridge you put over the gully?" After your friend died, he didn't say.

Jesse nodded.

The boards were faded now, twining new and old where wood silvered with age had been reinforced by the gentle sands and tans of younger beams. In the painting, the gully mimicked reality, steep and brown and as many feet deep as it was wide. The bridge spanned the six foot gap, one mild trickle of water at the bottom a clear division between two different worlds.

The left-hand bank was bare of trees; instead, fields stretched into the distance, corralled by skinny fences and dotted with slow-moving cows. Out of the corner of the eye, a small grey farmhouse perched on a hilltop, with a battered red pickup truck forever kicking up a plume of dust on the winding road leading away from it.

The right hand bank was alive. Flowered vines twirled halfway across the bridge on that side, cut off as if by a razor exactly in the middle. Trees arched over the precipitous embankment; the occasional massive boulder protruded, a proud battlement, from the line of verdant growth. The very air seemed to glow, sparkling with something more that couldn't be found on the other side of the bridge. And every so often, something small would flit between rustling leaves, catching the eye with the color of children's laughter.

The depiction for this piece hid in the lower-left corner, almost sliding into the gully.

Bridge to Terabithia. J.O.Aarons.

"Jesse," Momma's eyes were bright, the anger evaporated. "This is . . . this is beautiful. You got a gift."

Joyce Ann couldn't stop staring between him and the pictures.

His dad seemed to have lost his fury as well. "I seen people pay money for pictures not half as good," he said quietly. His eyes shifted to the paper Jesse was still holding.

"Momma, Daddy," May Belle jumped in, sidling up to Jesse and hugging close. "Lookit. Jesse got a gift, like you said, Momma, and this school's gonna pay for ever'thing 'ceptin' his clothes. Nothin' like this ain't never happenin' again. You gotta let him go, you just gotta!"

"May Belle," Jesse started. They won't never let me go. I gotta stay here, help Momma'n Daddy. His dad was getting older, not as able to do the farm work after driving everyday to Washington for his job.

But his dad cut him off. "You got the talent, and you got the magic. They gonna pay for everything?"

His heart was sticking in his throat, pounding wildly with hope. Jesse swallowed it down, and read some more. "Yessir."

"You wanna go?"

A tremor ran through his hands, the way it only did when he got done running all out, sprinting, throwing himself across the fields. He knew his dad wouldn't change his mind about his art just from this, but – Lord, yes. I do. "Yessir."

"Oh, Lord."

The building was massive, made up of sturdy lines that begged to be caught by paper and graphite. Columns pounded proudly into the marble steps, rising to deep-carved words that must be Latin. Admissions Office, proclaimed the glass doors hiding beneath.

Stiff new shoes squeaked against rain-washed marble. Jesse let his battered suitcase hit the ground to wrestle with the door.

"Here. Let me get that."

An arm covered in dark wool wrapped around, the strange hand gripping the handle tight and bracing the door.

"Thanks." Jesse wedged himself, backpack, suitcase, and battered, secondhand portfolio through the opening. There was one tight moment where he feared he would pop free and lose his grip on everything, but he managed to make it into the building without dropping anything. An' the zipper's holding. Thank God. With as much as he'd squeezed in to the ancient suitcase, that was almost a miracle.

He turned to see a short, round man in an expensive suit smiling at him. "You've got everything?"

"Ah, yessir," Jesse felt gangly and a little awkward. "Thank you." Oh! Momma'd have his head if she knew he'd forgotten his manners. Jesse held out a hand. "My name's Jesse Aarons. I – I'm a new student."

A sharp, surprised glance melted into a warm smile. "Well, Jesse, it's nice to meet you." Soft skin met his own calluses. "I'm Joe Abbiati, I work for the Academy. Welcome."

"S'nice to be here, sir." Jesse took a good look around. Plush crimson carpet underfoot; walls of cream-colored marble. The doors had an old feel to them, names written in gold on frosted glass marching one by one down hallways leading off from the entrance.

" – a little early for new students to be arriving," Mr. Abbiati was saying.

"Oh, um, I expected it'd take me longer, when I left," Jesse explained. He'd really been very lucky.

"Train on time, for once?" The bald man's smile was pleasant.

"Ah, I didn't take the train." Jesse dug both hands in his pockets, face heating up a little. "'M from Delaware. Caught a ride with a trucker was headin' out this way."

"You hitchhiked?" Mr. Abbiati had gone very still.

He tried to brush it off. Train fare cross-country was expensive, planes even worse. And they only had the one car. "Was lucky," Jesse offered. "Found a guy was going non-stop to San Diego. Wasn't much to catch a ride down thisaway."

"I see." The smile was back, and to Jesse's surprise it was genuine. "Well, we're very glad to have you here. Let's see if we can't get you registered and set up in a dorm, what do you say?"

The suitcase was heavy; Jesse followed Mr. Abbiati down a thankfully short corridor, into a room marked Registrar. The blonde woman behind the desk smiled to see Mr. Abbiati, chirruping a cheerful, "Good morning, sir!"

"Katie," the older man leant against her desk with a grin. "This is Jesse Aarons, an incoming freshman. I'd like to see that he gets tested, registered, and into his dorm room, please."

What? Tested? Jesse's shoulders tensed.

Puzzlement sprang to life in blue eyes, but Katie smiled and said, "Of course, Mr. Abbiati. Mr. Aarons, would you fill this out please?"

"It's just Jesse," he mumbled, reaching for the pen and paper. Luckily, it was just a short form asking for his home mailing address.

"Thank you, Jesse." Gentle pink fingernails tapped at her computer; after a moment, Katie smiled. "Our magical tester, Louisa Lefévre, is in Room 257, just down the hall. While you go and see her, I'll pull your room assignment and key."

"Thank you," Jesse shifted his shoulders, readjusting the hefty pack against his complaining spine.

"Why don't you put that down?" Mr. Abbiati waved at his two small bags. "You can leave your things here, and Katie will watch them for you."

"Are you sure?" He could feel his forehead crease.

"Don't worry," she assured him.

"I'll show you where to go," Mr. Abbiati offered. Jesse followed subtle pinstripes down the hall to the main entryway, and down a hallway almost hidden by a huge potted plant that looked like it would rather be on a tropical island somewhere. Wow.

Louisa Lefévre scrolled across the door, but the colors were constantly shading between all the hues of the rainbow and some that definitely weren't. Hmmm. He had only a second to study the play of color before the door swung open, without either of them laying a finger on it.

Huh.

He'd seen magic before, of course. Everyone knew about witches and wizards, though it wasn't something you talked about. Just was. Doesn't make 'em any different than anyone else. At least, that was what Jesse figured. Never thought I'd be one, though.

"Joe!" The woman who burst out from behind the desk was not at all what Jesse was expecting. Wild orange curls bounced out from her head in all directions, barely tamed by a thin purple headband. Cheerful yellow robes were splotched with sequins and paint spots in equal measure. A paint roller drenched in white was held expertly in one hand.

"Louisa! How are you?"

To his surprise, the taller woman threw both arms around Mr. Abbiati and squeezed, careful to keep the paint away from his suit. "Never better. And who's this?"

"Jesse Aarons, ma'am."

"Well it's nice to meet you, Jesse." Her hand was as callused as his own, which for some reason drained a good deal of the tension from his body. "You can call me Louisa. I've heard a great deal about you."

Why? Confused, Jesse opened his mouth to reply, and then just said, "Oh."

"And let me guess." Bottle-green eyes swept back to Mr. Abbiati. "Joe here's scared you outta your wits by bringing you to be tested."

Jesse laughed before he could help it. "Somethin' like that, ma'am." I like her. Exuberant and outgoing, Louisa still managed to be nice rather than brash.

But . . . tested?

Louisa seemed to know what he was thinking. "It's not much of a test at all." The roller pointed to a table along the wall, which stretched beneath rows of high, open glass windows. "I just want you to walk along there, and pick a tool. It'll be yours to keep. Take your time, choose something that fits."

Something that fits? "'Kay."

Voices, one deep and the other light, exchanged themselves for any other sound in the room as he walked toward the table, getting a good look at what was on it.

Paintbrushes?

A few rollers, trowels, and thick pencils and sticks of charcoal were scattered in; Jesse even saw several graceful metal rods used for blowing glass. But mostly, he saw the paintbrushes. New and shiny, with black and tan handles, bright metal clasping stiff, clean brown bristles to wood or plastic.

Gently, he reached out and touched one that looked like it might be large enough for his hand. Oh!

Pulling his hand back, Jesse stared a moment.

Then carefully laid skin against wood, making sure he hadn't imagined the tingle that had run through him at the contact. He hadn't.

Can't quite . . .

They were wands, he realized suddenly. Artists' wands – because he'd heard tell that all a wizard needed was a focus. It could be mental, but most needed physical. In Europe they were sticks of wood, wands proper, but America was different that way – wands were tools. Useful for what the witch or wizard really did. 'Cause magic's not the answer to everything.

But this one wasn't right.

Knowing what he needed to do now, Jesse took two steps back to the beginning of the table, hands reaching out to touch each tool in turn. Sound faded to nothing as he brushed fingers across all he could reach. He even laid a palm against a sculptor's hammer and chisel set, picking up a deep vibration that echoed into his bones. But nothing seemed to fit.

Frustration gnawed on his insides. See, he could just hear them say – a voice that sounded like his Momma and older sisters with the flavor of his father's disapproval. It was every kid who'd ever made fun of him for drawing. You don't belong here.

Until he came to the end of the table.

The older tools were here, not used but less shiny than the ones that had the brand-new 1988 engraved in the handle. Jesse felt more comfortable here, without the weight of expectation demanded by the brightest tools. These were like him. Simple.

Then his hand hit bare wood, all butter-smooth grain uncovered by paint or varnish. A band of bright copper bound white bristles to cherry wood; for all he could see the dullness of age on it, the paintbrush was more beautiful than anything. A spark lit, deep in his heart.

Oh, Lord.

It felt like . . . Terabithia.

"Jesse?"

Brown eyes opened, and Jesse found himself squinting against a bright golden glow. Sunlight? But it was coming from where his fingers had settled on the brush. "This 'un," he said slowly, looking up to see Louisa smiling. Mr. Abbiati was at her shoulder, fascination on his face. "Please?"

"Of course, Jesse," Louisa bustled over to her table, snatching up a pencil to write something down. "Truth be told, I was wondering when that brush would decide to get itself out of my office and into a studio."

Warm wood slipped between his fingers, completely at home there. The glow settled, then faded into his skin.

Leslie. Wish you could see this.

"So, I want you to tell me. Why are you here?" Heels tapped easily on worn boards.

S'like no classroom I've ever seen.

Instead of chairs and desks, the students had stools and easels. Professor Sherburne weaved easily between them, her suit as crisp and professional as Mr. Abbiati's had been two days ago.

Jesse was still trying to figure out the new angle for drawing.

Someone raised a hand – a girl in the first row, with straight blonde hair scraped back into a neat bun, and wire-rimmed glasses.

"But not," Professor Sherburne turned, one finger raised, "with words. You have paper, you have pencils. By the end of today's class I want you to tell me. Why are you here?"

Why'm I here? Jesse didn't know if he could think of a stupider question. On his left, his roommate Frank had already picked up three different colors and had an extra pencil between his teeth.

A key scraped in the lock; Jesse looked up from putting the last of his socks away.

The boy who pushed in the battered door had three huge suitcases, and a clunky box, with a parent holding each side. "Hi," he stuck his hand out, muscles bunching. "I'm Frank. I sculpt."

"Jesse Aarons." Saying 'I paint' sounded too weird. "D'you need help with that?"

"No, thanks," huffed the woman who had to be Frank's mother. "We're almost -"

Bump.

"Eh, Frank'll get it all sorted out," his father assured Jesse, who was looking askance at the suitcases. The guy sure had a lot of stuff. "It's nice to meet you, Jesse. Your folks around?"

"Ah, no."

"Well. You must be excited to be here," Frank's mother said, primping her hair and sighing from the heat.

An hour of that, and then two more that evening getting to know the other guys on the hall during RA-organized activities. Jess didn't see how trying to tell whether someone was lying about something helped you get to know them, except for now he knew that Frank lived in Barcelona for a year, and Tim down the hall loved ferrets but hated mustard.

His hand had taken a pencil, but Jesse had never felt so uninspired. Looking around, he could see a beautiful mansion growing out of quick pencil strokes – faces of people the other students loved, places and animals and things. A stereo?

Jesse shook his head, bangs brushing his eyes. Stupid.

'Why are you here?'

An old, familiar friend took up tiny residence in the center of the page. The little hippo was falling end-over-end, always, and the lines were crude and rough, the way they'd been when he hadn't known how to properly hold a pencil. Still don't really know.

Another memory drew itself, and then another, flicking behind his eyes and slipping out the tip of the pencil in varying shades of grey.

For classes? Intro to Drawing, Foundation Seminar, Time-Based Studio, Practical Painting, Sculpture: Expansive Objects?

For magic? Potions and Paints, History, Transfiguration?

"Time."

Jesse blinked. Looked at the clock – and realized he'd lost an hour and a half. How did –

Then he looked at his paper.

The hippo, tumbling from a cliff edge, still held center seat. But blossoming out from that point were snippets he'd drawn across his life since then – an ostrich with a banana stuck in its throat, a few other cartoony characters that were old friends from childhood. Bits of landscapes dropped like islands on the white expanse, all spiraling out to cover the page with bits and pieces of his life.

And trailing down one side like a border was an old, tattered length of rope with knots to grip and a foot-loop to brace anyone who decided to swing.

That's why.

It might have taken a whole class-period to find it, but Jesse knew the answer. Carefully, he pulled the paper from the pad, scribbling his name in the corner. Set the pencil down, and added his answer to the pile spilling over Professor Sherburne's desk.

"You do that assignment for Potions, Jess?"

Damn lines. Why is this so hard? "Yeah," he twisted his head, trying to get a better handle on the Sculpture assignment that was currently plopped on a desk he'd swept clear. I'll pick it up later.

Frank was rifling through his desk. "Where the hells did I put that Merlin-cursed -"

"You can borrow my book. If'n you help me figure out this damn Sculpture thing," Jesse bargained.

"Done." Frank eased over, and took a good look at what he was doing. "Ha!"

"What?" Jess growled, snatching his drawing from Frank's hand. "It helps me think."

"Look," Frank yanked the hand-sized statue of twisted wire closer on the desktop. "I will never get how you can take 3-D and flatten it into 2-D and make it look real. And I really don't get how you can just reverse it. But this isn't dealing with 2-D at all, so forget it. It's a crutch. Stop."

He frowned at his blunt friend. I thought we were supposed to 'recreate' it. Why can't I just draw? "But -"

The edge of a chisel waved almost in his face. Jesse jerked back. "Lord, Frank! Watch where you're pointin' that!"

Genuine chagrin swept over blue eyes. "Sorry."

They tended to forget their tools also were their wands. Comes of having only two real magic classes.

"Anyway," Frank started turning the tangle of wires this way and that with one solid hand. "You're supposed to do what you're not comfortable doing, so that you can work on getting better. Now. What does 'recreate' mean?"

"Remake," Jesse answered. Frank had a way of explaining things that always seemed to start somewhere completely unrelated that Jesse understood, and pull back into the project with a brand new perspective. He'd told Jesse he was going to be a teacher before he got his acceptance letter.

Wait a minute. Remake. Make again. Make new.

"So, if you look at the -"

"Hold on," Jess interrupted, reaching for his assignment pad. "What did Shanklin say? Exactly?"

Frank thought for a moment, then recited, "'Take this sculpture. I want to see you remake it, however you choose, in one week.' And given that it's Shanklin and it's sculpture class -"

"He means in 3-D."

That was the good thing about Frank; he might like football way to much for Jesse's taste, but he did know when to shut up and when to talk.

"Thanks, Frank," Jesse focused in on the sculpture. It really was just a bunch of wires twisted together. Not even glued or welded. "Y'helped a lot."

"If you say so. Can I still borrow your textbook?"

"Let me borrow your camera, and you got a deal."

Frank dug out the Polaroid camera from an overflowing drawer and handed it over. "Why d'you want this old thing?"

"Don't you pay no nevermind," Jess said absently, still focused on the sculpture. I'll need it from all angles. "Book's inna shelf."

"Yeah, I saw it, Jess," Frank grinned. In the corner of his eye, Jesse saw Frank help himself before creakily settling himself down on his bed with a notebook. "What page was it?"

"Forty-three." Jesse hefted the camera, peering through the lens. I guess the Photography class is going to come in handy. Leaning over the ten-inch high tangle, he hit a button.

Flash!

Setting aside the first picture the camera spat out, Jesse captured the ugly mess from all three hundred and sixty degrees, and then from the top too, just in case. He had six photos by the time he was done, quietly developing themselves off to one side of the desk. "S'Muggle film?"

"Yep. Did you find the answer to question seven?"

"It's in there," Jess said distractedly. Metal was cool under his fingers. This one goes through here, wraps off underneath – so's I gotta get this one out first, before I unknot the center –

Frank's hand hit his shoulder as he peered over Jesse. "What are you doing?"

"Recreatin' it. Hush."

Instead of going back to the assignment for Potions & Paints, Frank watched as Jesse pulled the wire tangle apart, to come up with twenty-eight wires of varying widths, lengths and colors.

"What now?"

This was where sculpture failed him. Three dimensions just didn't make the same sense that two did. That don't matter none, Jesse Oliver. Just . . . do something new. So he took a wire. Coiled it absently around his finger. Stuck another one through it; wove two more together, and gradually shapes started to emerge. Nothing that made sense, nothing he could see – but then one curl of wire tuned into the bill of a duck. Another became its foot; then a wing took shape.

"Heh. I'll be damned." Frank stared at the final product, absently slipping his finished Potions & Paints assignment into a folder. "Recreate, huh?"

"Yeah." Jesse scratched at his bangs. "What'd you do?"

"My object was an empty Pepsi can," Frank grimaced.

Jesse settled his new sculpture out of reach. "Damn."

"Yeah. So," and Frank reached into his closet, digging down under shoes and dirty laundry to pull out a massive –

Oh, Lord.

"So I drank a lot of Pepsi to 're-create' the empty Pepsi can, and then stuck 'em all together to 're-create' the sculpture. What d'you think?"

"I think I'm still pickin' my jaw up from the floor somewhere," Jesse told him.

Frank scowled. "Idiot."

"Dork."

"Painter."

"Hacker," Jesse shot back.

"Wh- what!" Frank sputtered. "I do not -"

"Well I sure don't call what you do sculpture," Jesse said meanly. "You're hackin' away at that marble you got there, not carving it."

"That's it," Frank announced. The massive Pepsi contraption was delicately returned to its nest of stinky shirts and moldy socks, closet door sliding carefully closed. "For that, you will pay."

Jesse drew himself up, and said, in his most kingly voice, "I think not."

"Oh, yeah?"

Two seconds later they were wrestling across the room; Jesse was pushing for the door, and Frank trying to get him in a headlock. C'mon, just a little –

"No way," his roomie grunted, "am I letting you out so's you can use those freakish long legs."

Jesse ducked out of the attempted headlock, slipping a foot behind Frank's ankle and tripping him up. "No way am I lettin' you get your meat hooks 'round my neck again," he declared, vaulting onto Frank's bed and over the desk.

Landing right next to the door.

Ha!

One hand on the cool brass knob, Jesse smirked.

Frank froze, half-lunging over the bed. "Okay," he said, real easy-like. Two hands came up. "Let's not do anything hasty, here, Jesse."

"Hasty?" Jesse inquired, innocently as he could. The knob turned with a satisfying click.

"Okay, okay," Frank sighed. Stood out of his lunge to his full height of six-one, an inch shorter than the roommate who never let him forget it.

Jesse grinned. Oh, victory!

"Truce?" His roommate offered a hand.

Suspicious brown eyed him, considering. Well. He'd eaten a lot at dinner, and it would weigh him down a little. Not enough to make a difference in whether he got away or not – but enough to make sure he wouldn't be feeling too good when he stopped. "Truce."

They shook, once.

Then Frank's fingers tightened around his own, yanking Jesse forward and down into a headlock. Yaaah!

"This," Frank announced, dodging Jesse's attempts to whale him one in the head, "is why growing up with sisters will always put you at a disadvantage. I had a brother. He would never fall for that. Anymore, at least."

Ow, damn – what's that smell – eugh, gross - "Okay, okay," Jesse grunted. Long arms swiped at Frank, fingers curling around the bicep that had pulled him tight to the bulkier boy's ribs. "Uncle!"

"The undefeated champion!" Frank pumped a fist into the air, and Jesse snorted as he bowed to an invisible crowd.

"Yeah, champion o'stink," he said rudely. "Ain't you never showered?"

"Man, Jesse, only you could get away with the backwoods double-negative," Frank's head shook, white teeth gleaming against olive skin.

Jesse snorted again, dropping against the scratchy blankets rumpled over a firm mattress. Time to try out a new California word. "Whatever."

"I knew it! I knew Cali was getting to you, man, I knew it!" Frank's grin was impossible. That's it.

Jesse's pillow sailed across the room with perfect aim.

It landed square in Frank's face.

"Huh." What's he doing here?

"What?" Ryan stopped poking the meatloaf with his fork. Green eyes were eagerly distracted, turning Jesse's way.

"Nothin'." Jesse swallowed his own bite, waving a knife toward the line of students with trays and cutlery waiting to load up on food. "Just. That's Mr. Abbiati. What's he doin' in the freshman's cafeteria?"

"How can you eat that?" Frank was looking at Jesse's half-empty plate in disgust.

"S'good," he said thickly, through another mouthful of food. Better'n May Belle's cookin', for sure.

"Dude," Ryan's tray slid toward the center of the table as he pushed it away. "It's the night the Dean was going to come eat with us. Mingle with the students, or whatever. Which is why we've got such weird food – it's all stuff he ate when he was a student here."

Wait a minute. Jesse paused, spoonful of corn halfway to his lips. "Mr. Abbiati's the Dean?"

Frank finished sucking down soda with a contented ahhhh. "Man," he burped. "Please don't tell me you got through half the year without knowing who the Dean is!"

"No, no, I know him. Seen him around, y'know, talked to him and stuff."

"You have?" Frank's brow wrinkled. "When?" he asked at last.

"Move-in day," Jesse shrugged. It wasn't that big a deal, he guessed. "I showed up early, and he helped me get settled and stuff."

A snort came from further down the table. "Yeah, because you're this year's golden boy."

"Shut up, Tim," Ryan threw back rudely.

"No, because I got here early," Jesse snapped.

"Right," the blond boy drawled, pushing back his chair. "I forgot. Hitched your way across America, 'cause you're so tight for money. Got a trucker to give you a lift. And just how did you pay for that, Aarons? On your knees?"

He couldn't remember being so furious since Leslie died. "Fuck off."

Tim smirked. "No, that would be you."

Hands on his shoulders were the only things that kept him from lunging at the asshole. Frank. His roomie had an iron grip. "Chill, Jesse."

"C'mon, man, cool it." Ryan sneered at Tim, green eyes spitting fire. "Jealous bastard just wants you to beat the crap out of him right in front of the Dean."

Quick as it appeared, the fury vanished, banished by reason. Ryan's right. He'd lose his scholarship, and that was the only thing that even let him be there at all.

Jesse met Frank's eyes, conveying It's okay and Thank you with a nod; the bulkier boy let him go. "Let's get out of here," he said, keeping his voice steady.

Tim grinned, maliciousness in every line of his face. Mr. Abbiati, however, was glancing their way, preventing him from saying anything.

"Alright," Frank announced the minute southern California's winter chill smacked them in the face. "Council of war, meeting at Ruloff's. As Councilor calling the meeting to session, it's my treat. C'mon."

"We're gonna get him," Ryan vowed, ducking into his hoodie against the chill. Their feet turned from the dining hall, and toward Collegetown. "And not get caught," he added as an afterthought.

The grin caught him by surprise. Jesse had no idea how, but he'd ended up with friends.

"End-of-year projects."

A collective groan sounded through the studio; Jesse snickered at the look of torture on Frank's face. Ryan had slumped tragically against his easel, the very picture of despair.

Professor Sherbourne's grin could only be described as wicked. "Go see your advisors. They'll hand you your assignments – all of your professors have collaborated, looking for your weak spots. That will be your assignment; your weakest point."

"Crap," Frank swore as soon as they'd handed in the day's studio assignment – an interpretation of something new into something old. "What d'you think it's gonna be?"

"Mine's photography." Ryan glumly scuffed sneakers against a doorjamb. Horror took up residence on usually smiling features. "Merlin, what if I have to do another photo-montage?"

"Oh, God, Potions & Paints." Dark eyes widened. The number of students in the hallway petered out as they got further down the corridor. "They'll – they'll make me mix up a full friggin' pallet – I'm so screwed!"

"Sculpture," Jesse winced. Less said 'bout that, the better.

Ryan was the first to peel off from the trio, ducking into his advisor's office with a wary grin. "Wish me luck."

"Dude," Frank snorted. "I'm gonna need all my luck, can't go givin' it away on a lost cause -"

Ryan threw a punch, which was absorbed by a bulky shoulder; Frank just laughed. But Jesse's roommate was headed directly across the hall, throwing him a wry glance.

Louisa Lefévre was sparkling on his advisor's door. He knocked.

"Come in!"

The door opened on tie-dyed robes. Professor Lefévre's curls bunched into a bun at the base of her neck as she sat behind the desk, papers piled neatly across its surface. "Jesse!"

He stepped forward only just in time to politely shake her hand. "Hi, Professor."

"Let me guess. You're here for your close of term project assignment."

Cloth cushioning, streaked with paint and spotted with bleach, gave way beneath him. "Yes'm."

"Well, then, let's see." Praper rustled, and Jesse watched fingers delve into stacks, searching. "Here we go." After a minute or so, Louisa looked up. "Why is it that you never do portraits, Jesse?"

His breath caught, somewhere deep in his lungs.

Louisa was waiting for an answer.

"Can't," he managed, real careful-like. Can't. There was a face stuck in his mind, blurred by time, that got in the way whenever he tried.

"You're not lacking in talent," she frowned, missing the point entirely.

"No." Jesse shook his head, knuckles whiting on the arms of his chair. His eyes found a specific spatter of pain on the walls that looked like a breeze, and stayed there. "Can't."

Gentleness, now, beating over him like the flutterings of a bird's wings, or tufts of dandelion down. "Why not?"

"Can't catch a soul that's already . . . gone," he managed, quietly. Couldn't say, the only real friend I ever had died when we were ten, that she was the only one who had believed in him, for the longest time. That if he ever wanted to paint a portrait, it would be hers.

That he couldn't remember her smile, not after nine years.

"I'm sorry, Jesse," the Professor replied.

Jesse blinked. What'd 'sorry' ever do for anybody?

"But that is still your assignment."

Ah. That explained the apology, then.

Shoving away from his chair, Jesse managed a polite nod before sliding out the door and into the empty corridor. Damn.

Oblivious to any observers, May Belle was twirling across painted grass, a crown of greenest ivy tangled in her hair. Second Queen of Terabithia, proclaimed small white words at the bottom center of the canvas, peeking out from beneath her toes and between blades of darkest emerald.

Settling the canvas on his easel in the gallery of freshman end-of-term projects, Jesse scrubbed a nervous hand through his hair. Taking two steps back, he surveyed it again, head tilted to one side.

On the edges of the painting encroached trunks and vines, grass and berries – the slightest hints of forest alluded to in the background. But all the detail and attention had been given to the girl of fifteen dancing in the sunlit center, barest hints of the woman she would be shining through in face and body.

It was a portrait.

May Belle had sent him the picture of the family that Momma had taken for Easter, and Jesse had pulled her out of the side of the image and onto canvas after many fruitless sketches of a form without a complete face, what little he could remember of Leslie.

Shoulda been her.

But he couldn't remember his Queen's visage properly; had no pictures to guide him, and without something other than his memory, he would never be able to do her justice. As it was, this portrait was a little strange in the proportions when she moved, and she couldn't leave the canvas or speak because he didn't know the proper spells for something that complex.

But it was a true reflection of his sister's soul, and that was the most important part.

S'not so bad, I guess. But it didn't thrill his heart, the way other challenges did when he defeated them. He didn't . . . love this portrait. And Jesse had no idea why. It wasn't bad, by any means – if it wasn't for his reluctance to place a bit of his sister's soul on display, and the spellwork that went with it, he'd say it was his best painting. It had dimensionality, depth, and color; all the lines were perfect.

It just. It could be so much more.

And it just wasn't. Some of it was that he hadn't been taught the proper spells yet. May Belle would love it when he gave it to her for her birthday, but the littlest thing made her happy.

There was the noise of other students wandering the gallery, getting closer.

Jesse took one last look at May Belle's portrait, in a line of paintings large and small, and turned his feet toward summer.