“This is starting to sound like a pep talk,” she murmurs. I shoot her a stern look. “The deadline is in three days.”
“Three days? Shit. I thought it was like a month or something,” I say, and she groans loudly, pushing the sketchbook away from her as she drops her head onto the table. “Okay, okay. Listen, you are one of the strongest, coolest, funniest, and most talented people I know. I’m not just saying that cause we’ve known each other forever. I’m being dead serious. Your work is insane and so much better than half of the stuff I’ve seen around the department.”
She lifts her head up, resting on her forearms as she mumbles into her skin, “Thanks, but that isn’t going to help.”
“It better help, Ken. Youcan’tgive up on this. This is your dream. You’re not working your ass off at Florentino’s for nothing. And we all know coffee gives you a stomachache, so don’t act like you can justify it.”
“You’re right.”
“Of course, I’m right,” I say, and she smiles. I push out my seat to stand up. “I have to go back to class though. We’ll talk later, okay?”
She nods and I have three minutes to get back to my class. The only thing I forgot was that this break clashes with the freshman lunchtime, meaning that everybody and their mothers are out in the corridors. Fucking hell. This school needs to invest in bigger hallways because there is no way I’m getting back to my class in time.
Sometimes if Mr Anderson is in a particularly shitty mood, he locks us out, making us catch up with notes in our own time. Still, this is my third year here at NU and I still don’t get how he’s legally allowed to do so.
I make the brave decision to cut across the football field instead, finding this route to be more effective to get back to class. The first semester of this year only started a few weeks ago so the football team isn't exactly paying much attention to me cutting across their field, except for the one boy who does a double take when he realises that my red-bottoms are sinking into the muddy pitch.
I’m clearly not paying attention either because that’s why I collide with the body standing at the top of the stairs, in front of the doors to the business building.
“Jesus. Can you watch where you’re going?” the boy grumbles, pushing me away from him. I take two steps back, almost falling down the steps, but he latches onto my elbow, steadying me.
“My bad. I was just-” I say, the words falling out of my mouth automatically before I look up and of course it’s him.
Evan fucking Branson; the literal bane of my existence.
He enjoys getting under my skin just as much as I enjoy getting under his. He’s spent his last two years at NU torturing me, turning every class game into a competition and not to mention, he’s rich as hell, as his family’s clothing brand is one of the top in the States, rivalling mine. Also, I think it’s very important to mention that he’s blonde, which speaks for itself.
I yank my arm out of his grip as he stubs out his cigarette on the railing. I brush past him, pushing through the doors and into the corridor. And obviously, we’re walking to the same class, so I can hear his footsteps a few paces behind me.
“God, if you’re going to smoke, at least do it off campus,” I mutter, pulling my bag up higher on my shoulder. He steps in beside me, walking with me. For once, he’s not that dressed up and has ditched his usual tailored suit for baggy light washed jeans and a white tee. It makes him seem more human. Interesting.
“Thanks for the advice, Angel,” he replies. I take a quick glance at him, glaring at his insistent use of that stupid nickname. “You’reawfully late for someone who cares so much about this class.”
“And so are you,” I retort, trying to pick up the pace so I don’t have to look at him.
“Why?” he asks.
“Why, what?”
“Why are you late?”
I always try my best to keep conversation with him to a minimum because the more we speak, the closer I get to ripping his head off. He stops outside the door to the lecture theatre, arms across his chest, waiting for me to say something.
“Do you always ask this many questions or are you choosing to be extra irritating today?” I ask curiously.
“Do you always have something to say or are you incapable of shutting up?”
I match his stance, pinning my arms across my chest, narrowing my eyes at him. He has the tendency of making every single thing that comes out of his mouth sound like an insult, it’s almost like he’s begging me to strangle him. I can’t last a day at school without his stupid comments on everything that I do, disguising it as ‘constructive criticism.’ He stares back at me, and I still can’t tell if his eyes are blue or green.
I lean back on the class door, slightly pushing it open behind me as I whisper to him, “For the record, I’m not being quiet because you told me to. I simply don’t want to waste anymore of my breath on you.”
Then, because I’m petty and seeing his face pisses me off, I slip through the door, shutting it on him before walking up to my seat in the half full room.
I make it halfway up the stairs before Evan finally appears through the door and I smirk.
“Miss Voss and Mr Branson, I’m glad you didn’t get lost on your way back to class,” Mr Anderson says when I get my laptop and notebook out of my bag, pushing it onto my desk. He’s one of the greatest teachers in our department, even if most of our lessons end with a forty minute rant about his ex-wife.
I watch as Evan takes a seat at the front of the class because like me, he doesn’t exactly have anyone waiting for him in here.
