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“No,” I interrupt. “There’s no me and Jason. Not in this universe. He’s just taken to getting on my nerves for kicks.”
That sounds fake even to my own ears after what he said, and Sophia cocks an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.
The second warning bell rings, urging us to get to class. Sophia winces. “I have to run. Later! Tell meeverything.”
Right. Just as soon as pigs soar the skies and unicorns gallop down Fifth Avenue.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Art class is my one solace, the only moment I can have some peace in this school.
Our teacher makes us build whatever comes to mind with blocks of Styrofoam for the first thirty minutes. I let my hands do the thinking for me, cutting up, gluing, and putting together something until I see a tree with a cute little house perched toward the top. Mr. Weir walks from workbench to workbench, silently judging our work and scribbling notes on his iPad.
He glance at my piece before moving along without comment.
Weir's a hardass. Tall and impossibly lean, he mostly feeds on the tears of his students by the looks of it. If Van Gogh had crawled out of his grave and painted The Starry Night right before his eyes, he would probably just nod, and give him a B- for his trouble.
I don't take it personally. In the last two years, he's improved my outlook as well as my techniques. I used to think I just wanted to draw and paint a little, because that's what I knew. Making us use various materials for short projects like the silly treehouse had opened my mind up to a lot more. Now I prefer sculpting. I love mixing clay and metal, assembling old and new in some weird, alternative art that's all my own. The biggest change in me is that now I realize that in a year, or a month, or a decade, I could take to blowing glass or assembling bottle caps.
"You will receive the grades for today's assignment on your online portal," he announced. "Now, proceed to your main project."
Every semester, we're graded on short daily projects, but also on one continuous piece we work on during the second half of each class.
Weir's helpful, so long as you have skin thick enough to take his harsh criticism. When he looks at my work, he says, "You've been building this up for one week and your structure's integrity is already questionable, Ms. Reyes. Whatever you're doing, it's likely to flatten like a pancake."
I blush, embarrassed, mostly because I see where he's coming from. The metallic base with four upright spikes is already holding the weight of a ceramic disc and I plan to add much, much more, including clay and steel scraps. If I want to make sure my sculpture will hold, I need to use stronger stabilizers. I should have thought of it myself, but well, I don't exactly start out with a straightforward idea of where things are going.
It's not too late to change the spikes holding the weight of the disc. I spend the rest of the hour heating the clay and welding metal twigs. Art is my last class of the day—the swimming club meets later—and Weir lets his AP students stay as long as we need while he grades art history papers in his adjacent office. I finish my work and wash up at the basin.
I like to linger in order to avoid the bulk of the crowd heading back to the dorms from the school.
I'm the only one riding in the bus today. The quiet's nice. Knowing that the football team is still practicing doesn't hurt, either. Their Majesties don't ever ride the bus with the plebe, of course; they have drivers to chauffeur them to and from Glass. But for a couple of hours, I'm guaranteed to not have to deal with any of them. Pierson's making them run laps in the rain.
I've managed to accumulate some homework over the last few days. I normally keep on top of it, especially so early in the year, but my personal drama has affected my focus. I catch up on the class I missed and the work I need to get done before my swimming club meets. After getting showered and dressed, I reluctantly make my way to the common room where breakfast and dinner are served in the dorm.
It's more informal than the lunch at the cafeteria—instead of rows of identical tables that can seat six, there's a huge banquet table on the farthest wall. The rest of the room's cozy, with low coffee tables, sofas, and armchairs scattered near the windows and the large fireplace.
The food changes every day, but there's usually a selection of stews, soups, freshly baked rolls, meat cuts, fish, and salads. The evening chef's better than the cafeteria team.
I serve myself a generous helping of chorizo and sweet potato stew, grab a roll and move to a couple of armchairs. Sophia wasn't here yet, but I'd come prepared, armed with a book and my headphones.
I lift my head when I see someone plop down on the armchair in front of mine, fully expecting Sophia, but it's a guy I had Chemistry with last year. I've never spoken to him and can't remember his name. With dark locks and green eyes, tall and well built, some might think of him as cute, I suppose. His leer and his smirk make me want to slap his face, and wash my hands right after.
"How is it going, Nadia?"
I lift an eyebrow, and then point to my headphones, using them as an excuse.
He lifts his hands to his ears, and gestures like a Neanderthal, motioning for me to remove them, like the thought could never have crossed my mind without his help. I consider just flipping him off, but it occurs to me that I may be rid of this idiot faster if I comply.
I sigh, lower the device, and ask, "What do you want?"
He grins at his victory, shuffling closer. "Hey. I thought we could hang, you know. There's a party at the lake tonight."
I nearly roll my eyes. "I don't even know your name."
"Rob. Rob Parry. So, how about it?"
"Pass." I redirect my attention to my book. "My friend's coming, move away please."
