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I hold up my bag, expression still blank. I look at it, then look back to Zoey. “I’m supposed to have books in here?”
Her brows lowers, a glower settling on her face.
A grin breaks over my blank expression. “Kidding,” I say. I set my bag on the table and remove two textbooks and a smaller book of short stories I have from one of my English classes.
When I glance back at Zoey with a smirk on my face, her brow is still low, and her bottom lip is curled outward in an expression that looks the furthest thing from amused.
I guess it’s a good thing that she doesn’t find my jokes funny. I don’t even know why I tried to joke around. I mean, we’re not supposed to be getting any closer. Just a force of habit, I guess. I’m around a pretty girl, and I can’t help turning on the charm.
“Alright, pretend you’re studying and I’ll take a couple pictures.”
I do as she instructs. She takes some pictures of me hunched over an open textbook, of me pretending to write in my notebook, of me staring thoughtfully out the window with all my books sprawled in front of me.
Then, she asks me some questions about my classes.
Which am I enjoying the most? My English Short Stories class—I’m not as much of a reader as I should be, and I’m finding it easier to go through a couple short stories at a time than a whole novel.
Which am I struggling the most with? Psychology. The professor is totally incoherent, though both Zoey and I agree that part is probably best to leave off the social media post.
Is there an assignment I’m working particularly hard on right now? Studying for my first Biology exam. We all have to satisfy a lab science requirement, and this is the semester I’m finally getting it out of the way.
“Good,” Zoey nods, looking at the notes she’s took of our mini-interview and scrolling through the pictures on her phone. “We should be able to get a couple good posts out of this.”
“Cool,” I nod. “Anything else, then?”
“Actually,” Zoey begins, a thoughtful look on her face. “I did have one idea for a post that I think could really spike engagement through the roof.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“How about we do a post about your drawing skills?”
“No.” I snap the answer way too quickly, way too vehemently. The surprised frown on Zoey’s face makes that obvious.
I let out a sigh. “Sorry, it’s just … it’s kind of something I keep to myself.”
Hell, I never tell anyone about my drawing. Much less do I show it to anyone. But, for some reason, last week I felt comfortable sharing one of my sketches with Zoey. Don’t ask me why. I’ve asked myself that question and come up blank for answers.
“But … why?” Zoey asks, genuine interest in her voice. “That sketch you drew last week was really, really good.”
This is a subject I’ve kept a tight lid over for my entire life; and I don’t know what it is about being around Zoey, but it suddenly feels like the air-tight seal just popped, and the lid is slowly twisting off.
“It’s a long story,” I answer.
“Well, tell it to me.” This time, Zoey’s voice is free of the frostiness it’s been laced with the last two times we talked. Her voice is warm, soothing, prodding but not pushy.
When I look into her eyes, soft and deeply blue, I suddenly feel the same kind of comforting, inviting feeling I felt with her on Halloween night, the same feeling I inexplicably felt that let me pass the drawing I made to her last week.
Even though we hardly know each other, there’s something about this girl that pulls loose all the tight knots I’ve used to tie a shroud around parts of me I don’t want others to see.
Even though I know she’s angry at me, I get the sense that she’s asking me to tell this story not just because she wants to use this for her social media project. Maybe I’m being stupid, but I get the sense she actually cares.
Given the way she thinks I treated her, she shouldn’t. But I feel like she does.
And that feeling is enough to push me on.
I settle into my seat, and with Zoey’s eyes urging me on, I begin to tell my story. A story I never intended to tell anyone.
“I’ve always been a good artist. But I haven’t always been a good athlete. In fact, I used to be a terrible athlete.”
