17. Dorien
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
DORIEN
The clay is cold. I’m supposed to be refining the torso study from last week, but my fingers keep pressing too hard into the shoulder, caving in the form I spent an hour building up yesterday.
Professor Cheng glances over once, says nothing, then moves on.
He knows when to leave me alone; the mark of a great teacher.
I’ve had a headache since I woke up. I smoked too much last night, sitting on the floor of my dorm room with the window cracked, going through half a bag because my thoughts wouldn’t shut up.
June’s face in the basement.
Her anger.
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.
We push through the building’s side door and Aeron says, “Hey, I gotta go to the library to study.”
“‘Kay. I’ll walk with you.”
We turn onto the path that cuts across the east lawn toward the library. The campus is unusually quiet between class changes, except for all the damn birds. A few students pass on bikes.
Aeron clears his throat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
He’s looking straight ahead, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and his walk has gotten stiffer. “Have you ever, uh, taken someone on a date? I’m sure you have, so I guess… what did you do?” His jaw is set and there’s a faint flush climbing his neck.
“Asking for a friend?” I say, holding back a smile.
“Asking for me.”
I pat his shoulder. “Who is she?”
“Just… someone.” He kicks a loose bit of gravel off the path. “I’ve never actually been on a date. I don’t know where to take her.”
“What does she like?”
He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Foreign films and flowers. Vanilla lattes. The color pink, but she doesn’t usually wear pink lipstick—”
“Uh, okay. Stalking much lately?”
He lets out a nervous laugh and his cheeks turn red. “No. I-I just know her a little.”
“A ‘little.’ Sure.” I let out my grin and pat his shoulder again. “Then take her to a movie and bring her flowers, man.”
“That’s not cliché?”
“It’s a classic date for a reason. Dinner and a movie. She’ll love it.”
He shrugs and falls silent, folding back into himself. I’m curious who she is, what kind of person caught his attention, but I don’t ask. He’ll tell me when he’s ready. Or he won’t.
We reach the library steps. Aeron shifts his backpack to the other shoulder and turns to face me.
“You entering the Alaria Prize?” he asks. “I keep hearing people talk about it. Figured you’d be in.”
I rub the back of my neck. The deadline is a week after the semester ends, and I haven’t even started thinking about what to submit. “I’ll enter. Just don’t know what to submit yet.”
He nods and gives me an unguarded smile. “Whatever you submit, I’m sure it’ll win.”
We grip hands, pull in, clap once, step back.
“See you later, man,” he says, then turns and takes the steps two at a time, disappearing through the library doors.
I stand here and listen to the birds.
“He looks up to you. Are you trying to ruin another kid’s life?”
I can see the admiration now.
The kid trusts me.
And June thinks I’m going to break him.
Maybe she’s right.
I pull out my phone. There’s nothing on the screen except the date in the top corner, and I do the math I’ve been avoiding all week.
Ten days until the anniversary I spend the rest of the year having nightmares about.
Seven days until I stand in front of a headstone and feel the cold that settled into my bones when I was a kid and never left.
I wear gloves to protect myself from that cold, yet it never goes away.
This year will be worse.
I know in my gut it’ll be worse.