Page 53 of Beyond the Lines
The select seminar isn’t just another class.
It’stheclass.
The one that could be my gateway to professional art, to a life beyond hockey if that’s what I want, or if I don’t get drafted. And now my chances rest partly in the hands of Lea Altman, who currently looks like she’d rather set fire to me than collaborate with me.
Fucking great.
eleven
LEA
The wind isa sadistic bastard today.
As I wait outside the art building, I’ve got my arms wrapped tightly around my torso as if it’s the only way to hold my ribcage together. The sudden cold snap caught half the campus off guard, including me in my criminally thin sweatshirt and jeans that might as well be tissue paper.
“Stupid weather. Stupid Declan. Stupid Professor Lucas,” I mutter.
I’ve been pacing this spot for ten minutes, waiting for Declan to emerge from the building. I could have been inside where it’s warm, but no. I wanted neutral territory for this confrontation. Somewhere private enough that I can say exactly what needs saying.
Look, Andrews, we’re stuck together for this project, but I have rules, and this doesn’t mean we’re friends…
I rehearse my speech in my head for the ninth time. I will be professional. I will be calm. I will absolutely not think about how his stupidly perfect face, or how his eyes show laugh lines at the corners when he laughs, or how his lips?—
No.
He’s Declan the Dick.
Remember him lying.
Remember him crushing your artwork.
You need to be as cold as the wind.
I stomp my foot, partly to get blood flowing and partly to physically crush that particular memory. But a gust of wind cuts through my sweatshirt, and I hiss. At this rate, they’ll find me as a popsicle, my final expression frozen in a scowl directed at the art building’s double doors.
Fitting.
Frustrated while waiting, I decide to call Em. Pacing as it rings, finally she picks up, but I don’t even give her the chance to speak. “Fuck my life,” I say.
“Uh, hi!” she says. “What’s up, Lea?”
I sigh. “Declan the Dick and I are going to be partners in an art project. For six weeks. For thirty percent of my grade.”
“That’s… uh…” Her voice trails off for a second. “Lea, why didn’t you just pick a different partner?”
I glare at the phone and will it to spontaneously combust, but unfortunately, it remains a regular iPhone. Instead, I sigh again. “I didn’tpick, Em…”
“Oh,” she says, sounding distracted. “Well, just ignore him and communicate only through passive-aggressive Post-it notes for the entire project.”
“Not an option,” I glance at the door again. Still no Declan. “We have to actually work together…”
“Then, put your big girl pants on, and tell him how it’s going to be. Like: ‘Listen up, Declan the Dick, here are my boundaries, and if you cross them I’ll stab you with my charcoal pencil…’” her voice trails off again. “Uh, Lea, I’m going to have to call you back in a few minutes, OK?”
“OK…” I say, frowning in confusion. “Em, whatexactlyare you doing?”
“Nothing!” she says, and hangs up.
I stare at the phone, confused, then laugh despite my current predicament. I’ve got no idea what she’s doing, but I’m sure I’ll find out later, and itwon’tbe boring. Because Em is chaotic, brilliant, and possibly the best random roommate assignment in college history.
