I’m familiar with the anger. I’ve memorized every variation of her anger the way I’ve memorized her stride, her delicate nose structure, and the way she holds a brush when she’s working on something that holds meaning.
What I can’t stop seeing is the moment the anger broke.
“I’m scared.”
The crack in her words.
Her chin dropping.
Underneath all that fury was the girl standing with me, holding my hand so hard it was painful, whispering,don’t move, don’t move, don’t move.
I press my thumb into the clay shoulder and it collapses inward.
Je m’en fous.
It’s only art. Does art matter on a cosmic scale?
Art isn’t life or death.
I peel the ruined section off the armature and start wedging fresh clay against the table. Slam, fold, turn. Slam, fold, turn. My palms flatten and push and I let the repetition carry the noise out of my skull until my breathing steadies and the headache is only a mild throbbing.
Aeron is two tables over. He’s not working on his passion piece today, only sculpting a small head. The clay is on a dowel, like a head on a pike, and he’s using small tools to work on the delicate facial features.
Oddly, it kinda looks like Cinna.
He’s not wearing his hoodie and his sleeves are pushed past his wrists for once, and his fingers move with a sureness he doesn’t show outside of class. I watch him curl away a thin strip just under an eye, then he leans back to study the proportions, tilting his head the way Cheng does when he’s assessing a student’s work. He doesn’t know he picked that up.
Class ends. Students pack up and filter toward the door. After storing my piece for next class, I wipe my hands on the rag draped over my stool and wait, because Aeron takes longer to leave. He wraps his piece in damp cheesecloth, making sure every surface is covered before he slides it onto a storage shelf.
“Hey,” he says when he finally turns around and notices I’m still here.
“Hey. Where’s your hoodie? That’s like your second skin but I haven’t seen it on you the past few classes.”
He shrugs. “Lost it.”
We walk out together, then fall into step in the hallway. It’s empty and our footsteps bounce off the concrete floor. I like this about being around Aeron—quiet. Carter is my best friend, and I wouldn’t trade him for anything, but his energy fills a room and sometimes I need the room left empty. With Aeron, the quiet is enough.
“So,” I say. “About last weekend?—”
“My sister can be a real bitch.” His tone is casual but his posture has tightened, his steps more rapid than usual. “She’s controlling. Sorry if she gave you shit when I left.”
“Yeah, but I gave it back.”
His steps slow a little and he glances over with a smirk. “Really? What’d you say?”
“I said you’re an adult who can make your own decisions.”
“Fuck yeah.” He holds his hand out to dap, so I do it. The clap echoes through the hall. “I like hanging out with you and Carter. She doesn’t get to decide who I spend time with or what I do.”
I nod. But the words she threw at me are still sitting undigested in my gut.
“Are you trying to ruin another kid’s life?”
I want to believe Aeron is fine and believe I’m not the problem here.
Connard.The word surfaces on its own, aimed at myself. Asshole.
Wanting something, no matter how desperately, doesn’t make it true.
