Chapter 3
The hallway buzzes with end-of-period chaos: sneakers squeaking on linoleum, lockers slamming, the faint smell of acrylic paint clinging to my clothes mixing with cafeteria pizza wafting down the corridor. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright, too cold.
I walk out of art class with a big grin on my face—my teacher just told me I’m going to go far one day.
But after barely three steps, I slam into something solid.
A wall? In the middle of the hallway?
“Watch where the hell you’re going,” growls a tall, massive guy who gives me one quick glance—and somehow manages to look at me with full-on disdain.
“Crap! I’m sorry! I didn’t see you!” I mean, how does one not see a walking mountain?
“You’ve got something…” he says, pointing at his nose.
“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine.” I keep walking, trying to remove myself from the collision scene, but he speaks again.
“I’m serious. You don’t want to walk around school with stuff on your face.”
I turn, surprised. That’s… a kind twist coming from someone who just threatened to vaporize me with his eyeballs. “I believe you, but I don’t really care.”
He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. He clearly doesn’t believe me. “You’re a girl. Of course you care. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
“Umm, okay—first of all, not all girls are the same. Second, why do you care if I walk around with paint on my face?”
He glances away like he’s digging through his brain for a valid reason. That’s when I notice his eyes: deep, ridiculous blue—the kind that makes you stare too long. His eyebrows are thick and annoyingly perfect. Would it be weird to ask for a picture? I could borrow my dad’s camera.
“You’re right. I don’t care,” he says, turning on his heel.
As he walks away, I can’t help but stare at his butt. It’s… very round. Is he an athlete? If I put an apple on there, would it fall off? How long would it stay?
“Byeeee!” I sing out behind him, mostly to annoy him—but maybe also to grab his attention one last time.
He glances over his left shoulder, doesn’t say a word, and keeps walking.
But then he stops, takes a deep breath, and turns around. “Why the hell wouldn’t you care that you’re walking around looking ridiculous?” His tone isn’t curious—it’s borderline offended.
Weird.
“It’s not ridiculous. It’s art.”
He walks back toward me, stopping a few inches away. He’s wearing a dark T-shirt with a Roman-looking guy’s face on it and some bold lettering that reads: I know nothing.
“Art? That’s a smudge on your face. Van Gogh is art,” he says, looking personally insulted.
“I’m an artist. Which means this”—I point to my face with dramatic flair— “is art.”
He exhales hard through his nose. “It’s a stain.”
I step forward until our sneakers nearly touch. “You must look beyond the obvious. Everything has meaning, you just don’t get it. The same way I don’t get the joke on your shirt.”
His frown deepens. “It’s Socrates. How do you not get it?”
“Because I wasn’t looking beyond the surface! See what I mean?!” I’m totally pretending I even know who Socrates is.
He crosses his arms again and leans against the lockers. Is he… enjoying this argument? “So then, what does that green stain on your nose mean?”
Crap. My hand flies up too late, fingers brushing over the smudge like I can wipe away the humiliation. “Uhhh… it means that—”
He snorts, eyes crinkling as his shoulders shake with laughter. “Thanks. Got my answer.” He pivots, already walking down the hall, the swagger in his stride making me want to trip him with my backpack strap.
“It means I have a stain from my past!” I shout, voice bouncing off the lockers, earning a few side-glances from kids still loitering around.
He slows, half turning, his mouth quirking into that infuriating almost-smile. “A stain?”
“Yeah. A stain.” I shrug casually. “And since it’s right on my face, it means the past is messing with my future. Explaining it to you—” I’m on fire today “—would be pointless.”
I spin on my heel and try to make a victorious exit, but a large hand lands on my shoulder and freezes me in place.
“Not so fast. You seriously thought I’d buy that?”
“Yes,” I say, looking down, completely deflated.
He doesn’t say anything at first. I brace for sarcasm. Or worse—a lecture.
But instead… he laughs. Softly. Kind of through his nose. But it’s definitely a laugh. Then he holds out his hand for a shake. “Nice try.”
I grin, mischievous now, and take his hand. “Thanks. I’m Emma, by the way.”
“Luca. Luca Walker.”
Oh…oh no.
“Nice to meet you, Luke Skywalker. See you around.”
This time, I really do get my dramatic exit. But right before turning the corner, I glance over my shoulder, and Luca is still standing there.
Smiling.
And it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.