I laugh loudly and then clamp a hand over my mouth when a few classmates glance over. “Sorry,” I tell Dorien. “That’s just the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
“The most honest thing, you mean. I entered last year and got third, so this time it’s personal.”
I roll my eyes; because of course he’s entering. Of course he placed last year, and of course he’s treating this like a vendetta. It’s so profoundly Dorien I almost laugh again.
“I’m entering too,” I say instead.
His coppery-hazel eyes meet mine, and I watch the competitive spark light in them, the way his mouth curves into that infuriating half-smile. “Don’t bother,” he says.
“Wow. Your delusion is almost impressive.”
“It’s not delusion if you have the talent to back it up.”
“Which you do, apparently, despite only placing third last year.”
“I’ve improved.” He tilts his head, a dark lock of hair shifting across his forehead as he studies me. The colors in his eyes seem to intensify and—fuck me—my heart skips a beat. “You’ve improved too, actually,” he says. “Your exhibition piece was better than anything you made last year.”
I wasn’t prepared for him to compliment me. I don’t know how to respond to Dorien saying something genuinely nice about my work, so I deflect. “You’re just saying that so I’ll let my guard down and you can crush me at the Annual.”
“It’s up to you if you believe me.” He pauses, then adds, “First place gets a mentorship with a MoMA curator, you know. That’s not something either of us can afford to lose.”
I did know, and I’ve been trying not to think about it, actually, because the desire to win is so strong it scares me.
We stare at each other longer than we should, especially when neither of us is talking. The noise of the classroom fades around us, and I notice the way the afternoon light from the tall windows falls across his dark hair, the way his shoulders sit beneath his black shirt, relaxed but not soft.
And I think about his strong hands again, holding mine. Moving over my body. Touching…
I look away first.
“Hey,” I say, focusing very hard on my canvas and the new wires sticking out of it. “I wanted to say thanks. For, you know, letting Aeron tag along when you hang out with Carter.”
Dorien shifts his attention back to his piece and he sounds bored again. “He’s not tagging along.”
“You know what I mean. Including him when you don’t have to.”
“No, I mean we like hanging out with him. Carter thinks he’s hilarious, and I like his perspective on art. He sees things differently than most people.”
I don’t know what to do with this information. The idea of Dorien and Carter actively enjoying my brother’s company, seeking it out, treating him like a friend and not a charity case… Well, Carter has always been nice to my brother. I just never expected it from Dorien. He’s never wanted to hang out with Aeron before.
“He doesn’t have a lot of friends,” I say. “So… thanks.”
Dorien grunts, seemingly done with this conversation. Fine with me. The less we talk, the better.
For the rest of class, we’re pretty silent, only making the occasional comment about our collaborative piece. By the time the teacher says to wrap things up because there’s only fifteen minutes left, Dorien and I are pretty much done. Next class will be another work day, so I’m not sure what we’ll do since our piece won’t need that extra time.
“If you don’t have anything else to add,” I tell Dorien, “I’ll take this home and work on the crayon parts tonight.”
“Sure,” he says and starts packing up his stuff.
After we’re dismissed and I’m sending a quick text to Cinna, Dorien says, “Hey…”
He’s already standing, so I look up. “What?”
“Don’t let the rumors take up space in your head.”
I pocket my phone and grab the canvas. “Easy for you to say. You don’t stress about anything.”
“If anyone gives you trouble, tell me.”
