Chapter 3 — Constellations （Nora） #2
I didn't move closer. That was the whole problem — I wanted to and didn't. My pulse hammered in my ears. My lips parted. I stared at his hand and his hand stayed, hovering, steady, waiting on me.
I pulled back first. He pulled back at the same instant. We both laughed, short and shaky, and the sound broke the spell without breaking anything else. My face burned. His ears went red at the tips.
“Sorry,” I breathed. “You — go. Your board.”
“You're fine,” he said, low. “It rolls. It always rolls.”
I forced my eyes back to the constellations. My pen shook a little when I lifted it. “You always see it like that? All connected?”
“Only if you stop sitting like the room's going to bite you.”
“Hey,” I said. “I'm relaxed. This is my relaxed face. Ask anyone.”
“Your relaxed face is watching the door,” he said. “It's okay. I do angles too.”
“Yeah?” I said. “What's your angle right now?”
“This one,” he said. “Right here. It works.”
Footsteps scuffed in the hall. Deon stuck his head back in, grinning wider. “Somebody's working hard in here. I can hear the flirting through the wall.”
“We're studying,” I said fast. “Routes as — constellations. It's academic. Very platonic stars.”
“Platonic stars,” Deon repeated. “That's the worst cover I've ever heard and I've heard Beck lie about ice cream.”
“I don't lie about ice cream,” Beck said. “I prioritize.”
“See?” Deon said to me. “Genius. Anyway. Pruitt's doing walk-through in ten and he wants the room. You've got like — five minutes, tops.”
My stomach dropped. “Seriously? We're just getting somewhere.”
“Seriously,” Deon said, sympathetic now. “Sorry, tutor. Steal what you can.”
Beck nodded once, all business again. He turned to the board and wiped one corner clean with short, precise strokes, over and over till the ghost lines vanished. The felt squeaked softly. His jaw relaxed as the white came back empty. He lined the markers back on the tray, caps aligned.
“Board stays clean. Easier to think when it's empty,” he said.
“You do that every time?” I asked. “Wipe it down?”
“Every time,” he said. “Start fresh. No ghosts.”
“No ghosts,” I echoed. “I like that. My notes are all ghosts. Cross-outs everywhere.”
“Your notes work,” he said. “Different system. Same field.”
I stared at his clean corner, then at the stars still blazing beside it. My chest felt full and tight at once. I thought about the depth chart and the scout team and the way Deon had talked about him like a secret weapon nobody ever used. My fingers itched to copy every line before they were gone.
“Can I ask you something?” I said. “Why do pictures work better? Like — what's different?”
He capped the green marker slowly and thought for a beat. “Words move,” he said. “Pictures hold still. I can walk through them.”
“Walk through them,” I repeated. “Like you're on the field.”
“Like I'm there,” he said. “Every time.”
Something clicked behind my ribs. My pen stopped. I saw it all at once, the way his mind laid the field flat and walked it, the way the program kept testing him in words when he lived in pictures. Leverage, quiet and bright, settled under my sternum. I got him. Maybe better than they did.
“So I just need to learn to read your map, huh?” I said.
“You already do,” he said. “You saw it. Most people don't.”
“Most people are slow,” I said. “I'm extremely nosy. It helps.”
“Keep being nosy,” he said. “It helps me too.”
“Show me the corner again,” I said. “The one where the safety spins. I want to draw it myself.”
He uncapped the green marker and handed it over handle-first. “Slow. Stem first. Then break. Don't chase the red.”
“Don't chase the red,” I repeated. “Got it. Very wise. Very mysterious.” My hand shook going up to the board. The marker squeaked loud in the dark. My line wobbled off his straight trunk, and I groaned. “Mine looks drunk. Yours looks printed.”
“Again,” he said. “You've got the shape. Trust your wrist.”
I tried again, slower, tongue caught between my teeth. This time the stem held. The break snapped clean off it. My whole body buzzed like I'd just caught something heavy one-handed. “Oh. Oh, that's good. Look at that break. Look at it.”
“Told you,” he said, and his grin went crooked. “Same play. Your hand now.”
“Okay, quiz me,” I said, capping the marker and tossing it an inch in the air. “Freeze the frame and point. I'll call the route.”
He clicked the remote and the footage jumped and held. He jabbed a finger at the slot man. “Him. Third and long. What's he running?”
I squinted at the frozen white bodies. My knee bounced under my chair. I pressed a palm flat to my thigh to still it. “Post. No, wait. Corner. He's stemming inside, so — corner. Sharp to the pylon.”
“Corner,” he confirmed. “You read it.”
“I read it,” I said, and my laugh came out bright with the snort riding shotgun. “God, say that again. I want it on record. Tell the class I did one thing right.”
“You read it,” he said again, softer. “Most people stare at the ball. You stopped watching it.”
My cheeks heated under the projector glow. I ducked my head and fiddled with my pen so he couldn't see how big I was smiling. “Well. I've got a good teacher with extremely bossy markers.”
“I've got a good student with extremely loud opinions about chairs,” he said. “Even trade.”
“Hey, this chair is perfect,” I said. “Screen, door, you. Everything I need in one sight line.”
“Good sight line,” he agreed. “Keep it.”
Deon called from the hall, half laughing. “Five minutes, Picasso. Somebody with a clicker and a speech is coming.”
“Heard,” Beck called back without looking away from the board. “We're almost done. She's drawing now.”
“She draws?” Deon called. “Oh, it's serious. Guard the markers with your life, tutor.”
“No promises,” I called back. “The green one's already mine.”
The door swung wider. Light flooded in, harsh and yellow after the soft screen glow.
I squinted and threw a hand up. A thick silhouette filled the frame, keys jingling, voice already talking before he was fully inside.
My pulse jumped at the sudden noise, then settled when Deon leaned back in past him with a grin.
“Yo, Picasso,” Deon called. “Draw it like last time, Picasso.”
Beck looked at me, not at them. The board glowed behind him. The markers sat lined up and clean. The room buzzed, too bright and too loud now, and our five minutes were gone. He tipped his head toward my door-facing chair with the smallest smile I'd seen on him yet.
“Next time,” he said, eyes still on mine, “you take the marker first.”