James lightly places Hort’s natural shedding on the table in front of us with a smirk. “It’s tedious work. You can take your frustrations out on it.”
“I don’t have any frustrations.” I don’t know why I lie. Every time I’ve had to hide my power I’ve been frustrated. At the auction house I was frustrated I had to concede one of the easiest of procedures to James. It seems pretending has become a habit I cannot shake, my own armor.
James leans back in his chair. “Huh, didn’t think you were the type.”
I try to ignore his baiting. Because I have no idea what he means.Ignore him, I chant.Ignore him and his smugness.
But I can’t take not knowing. “What type?” I blurt.
“The type to try to make me do the work for you.”
“That’s not what I was doing.” I grab for the silver, but James crafts it an inch out of my reach, the metal skittering across the table. In retaliation I craft too, pulling at the power like engaging a bicep. The silver smacks into my palm before James can play a game of keep-away.
“Damn.” He looks at me then. Impressed? I’m not sure. Surprised maybe. Slowly, he reaches for the silver. “Could… could I try something?”
“What?”
He sets the silver scale in the middle of the table, equal distance away from each of us. “On three we both craft.”
It’s a common game. For kids in year five. For beginners. “You want to play tug-of-war with me?”
“I want to test how much stronger you are.”
“Why?”
“To see how much catching up I need to do.”
I can’t help smiling. “Murphy, you’re never catching up to me.”
“Sounds like you’re afraid you’ll lose, Walsh.”
I huff. “Okay, count us off. This will be over embarrassingly quick.”
James rolls up his sleeves. He’s wearing the light-blue dress shirt of our school uniform without the tie or coat. An interesting combination of how I’ve seen him every day, yet different. “One.”
I almost forget why he’s counting, the gesture of rolling fabric drawing at my attention for some reason. I’m mesmerized by how good he makes the simple act look. “Two.”
Right. A game. A game I’ve just bragged about winning when I don’t in fact know if I’m stronger than James. I mean, this is silver not gold.
“Three.”
The silver lifts in the air, hovers. I will it to come to me, but James pulls in the opposite direction. I’ve never done this with silver, never thought I would have the chance. The earthy grit of iron, the rich smoothness of tin, and familiar tang of copper, I’m well acquainted with each and I’ve faced every kid in school. Silver lessons were unimaginable.
With an extra tug the silver flies into my hand. Or maybe I don’t need silver lessons.
James’s dimples appear. “I did better than I thought.”
“That’s because I was distracted,” I admit outright and without thinking.
“Distracted? By what?” He sounds baffled.
I’m ashamed of my excuse, even if real. How in the world was I distracted by his forearms? Two months ago, I never could understand when girls would giggle about a boy’s cuteness. Not just that they were cute, but the genuine sexual attraction, even if they barely knew the guy. Now, I’m speechless with distractions. “Nothing. Just wasn’t concentrating,” I stammer.
James places the silver back on the table with a thunk. “Again then?”
“Again.”
I win nine out of ten. The kettle whistling knocks us out of round eleven and the metal clatters on the floor, closer to James.
