I’m already fleeing toward the exit. I need to escape before I do something stupid, like flirt, notice more colorful patterns in his eyes, or forget why I’ve spent the last decade keeping my distance.
Life can change in an afternoon; never forget that.
He follows me to the exit, keeping pace.Dammit, don’t follow me!
I can’t just break out into a screaming run, so I give up on trying to escape. We walk through the corridor side by side, our pace slowing to an amble. The hallway swallows most sound, one of those architectural quirks of the old buildings, so the quiet feels amplified. It’s so strange to be this close to Dorien without the verbal sparring that usually keeps us apart.
Why is he so non-defensive today? Maybe the surprise of sharing a class shocked the sarcasm out of him? It certainly did that to me.
“Never expected you to be interested in mixed media.” His voice breaks the quiet. “You’ve always been ride or die with painting.”
“It filled a gap in my schedule.” I keep my eyes forward, watching the leaded windows cast patterns on the floor. “It was the only one available this late into the semester.”
“Ah.”
More silence. But it’s a little less awkward, more like two people who’ve accidentally stumbled into a ceasefire and don’t know what to do with it.
I want to say something and the urge surprises me. I want to ask about his project again, or what materials he’s using, or literally anything that keeps this strange moment going. I actually don’t mind existing next to each other like normal people, like we used to, a lifetime ago.
I open my mouth to ask about his project, but we’re already pushing through the doors into the main entryway of the building. This part of Morrison Hall has high ceilings and worn leather couches where students relax or study between classes. A few people are scattered around, scrolling through their phones, flipping through textbooks, doing the usual between-class decompression.
One of them looks up as we enter.
Her eyes land on me and then widen like she knows me. She stands abruptly, gathering a messenger bag covered in enamel pins, and moves toward us with the kind of purposeful hesitation that makes my stomach tighten.
“Are you June Belrose?” She’s maybe a junior, with box braids and worried eyes. “You had a piece in the student exhibit, right?”
I don’t know her, and I’m certain I’ve never seen her before. I glance at Dorien, who’s watching the interaction with quiet curiosity, then back at the woman.
“Yeah. That’s me.”
She looks uncomfortable now, fidgeting with the strap of her bag. “Okay. Um. I just wanted you to know...” She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a bright orange folded paper. “Sorry. These have been scattered everywhere in the history building. I grabbed one in case I saw you around, so I could show you. If you didn’t already know.” She holds it out to me.
I take it, still not understanding, and unfold it.
My face stares back at me. It’s a photo from my social media, one I posted last spring, cropped and blown up to fill half the page. Below it, in bold black letters:
JUNE BELROSE SUCKS COCK FOR ATTENTION.Ask how she REALLY got into the exhibition (hint: it wasn’t through merit).
I read it a few times, just to make sure I’m actually reading the words correctly.
“I’m really sorry.” The woman’s voice sounds far away. “I don’t know who’s doing it, but you can report it to the school. I think you could go to the main office, or I think there’s a way to report bullying on the website. I just thought you should know.”
“Thanks.” The word comes out flat and automatic.
She nods, clearly relieved to have delivered the message, and heads for the exit. The door swings shut behind her.
I’m still staring at the flyer. At my own face and the words beneath it.
Dorien snatches the paper from my grasp. His eyes scan the page and I watch his expression darken. The easy calm from moments ago hardens into a fierceness that tightens his jaw and makes his eyes narrow.
“What the fuck is this?” Fury is rumbling just under his words. “June, this is—who would?—”
I take the flyer back. My fingers feel numb. “See you in class.”
“June—”
I’m already walking away. I’m out the door, down the stone steps, into the bright afternoon light that feels too cheerful for what just happened. I don’t look back to see if Dorien is following. It’s awful enough that someone is spreading these flyers around; I don’t want Dorien seeing. Strangely, I’m embarrassed about it and don’t want him to know.
