9. June #2
“I didn’t say it’s nice. I said it’s necessary.” He bends another piece of wire, and I catch my reflection in a mirror shard attached to it. “If you let them get in your head, they win. That’s what this sick fuck wants. They want other people to hurt because they hate their own lives.”
“I guess.” I take the canvas back and bend the wire Dorien just poked through. It now curves around the edge toward the front.
“I like that,” Dorien says. He pokes another wire through.
“Do you think someone is just jealous about the exhibition?” I ask. “Like they didn’t get picked?”
“Could be, but the exhibition isn’t even that important. It’s a student show.”
“That’s what I keep thinking.” A chunk of crayon falls off the front as we’re working on the canvas. I set it aside so I can melt it into the back later. “It was an honor to get into the exhibition, but it’s not like it’s the Alaria Annual or something.”
Dorien snorts. “There’s no point in anyone entering that because I’ll be winning.”
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.”
I pause in the middle of grabbing my bag off the floor and just stare up at him. Tell me. Like he’d do something about it…? Is he offering to stand between me and whatever’s coming?
I feel it in my whole body—a flush of warmth that starts in my chest and spreads outward. It’s the idea of Dorien protecting me, of having someone in my corner who isn’t family or Cinna, someone who’d step up because they wanted to, not because they had to.
It’s exactly the kind of feeling I can’t afford to have about him.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles,” I say as I grab my backpack and head for the exit. “I can handle it on my own.”
“As you wish,” Dorien says behind me.
I hurry into the hallway. I try not to think about the fact that for one brief moment, I wanted to say yes.
Yes, I’ll tell you.
Yes, take my hand.