Snowflakes, Brennan. Not spanking.
“You’re going to sketch the shadows that our snowflakes produce.” He explained how they would tape the snowflakes to the windows and Cliff would draw the shadows they made on the wall, gaining more experience with shading techniques as well as interpreting shapes.
Cliff gave him a warm smile that was no help in Brennan’s concentration efforts. He regularly looked at Brennan like he was still the cool older kid, not the fuck-up he actually was. “Thanks for putting actual thought into this. I thought you were going to have me, I don’t know, do paint-by-numbers or something.”
“We actually did this assignment at my old college. None of the students took it seriously until we realized how hard it could be.”
“Florida School of the Arts?” Cliff pointed at Brennan’s shirt. The college name was written in block aqua blue letters.
“Good ole FSA.” He remembered the fun energy of classmates cutting the most complex snowflake shapes they could manage as a way to challenge each other. Even with a paper snowflake, their talent shined through with intricate designs. It was one of the nice memories from FSA, before Paul entered the picture. Funny how one person had the power to change things.
Brennan clipped away at his snowflake, cutting out interesting shapes, things that would be a fun challenge for his student. He looked over and saw Cliff giving the assignment the same amount of focus. His tongue peeked out from his pink lips.
“Shit.” Brennan cut his snowflake in half, concentrating on the wrong thing.
“You ruined art class.” Cliff reached over and crumpled the erstwhile snowflake in his palm. “Is that new?”
He pointed at the mini-basketball hoop affixed to a column above the wastebasket.
“It is.” Brennan found it while walking through town the other day and thought of Cliff.
“Nice.” Cliff sank the paper ball into the hoop and watched it drop into the wastebasket.
“You got game.”
“I’ve had a little practice.”
Brennan crumpled up another piece of paper and slid it over to Cliff. “Double or nothing.”
And with just as much ease as the last time, Cliff went two-for-two.
“So what do I win?” Cliff’s lips lifted into a cocky smile, and something told Brennan the world didn’t get to see it nearly enough.
Brennan deliberated and scanned the room.
“Am I going for three in a row?” Cliff asked.
Brennan grabbed his neuroscience notebook off his bed and ripped out a page of notes on the cerebellum. He could feel drops of sweat condensing on the back of his neck. He crumpled the page into a ball and tossed it to Cliff. “Let’s see how you do with some defense.”
He stood in between Cliff and the wastebasket, ready to defend his hoop.
Cliff tossed the ball in his hand. “You sure about this?”
“Positive.”
“Is this on the art curriculum?”
“It’s half your grade,” Brennan growled out.
Cliff stood up and hunched his toned frame into position. Even though it was all for fun, Brennan could tell he was taking it seriously, sizing up his competition and the court. Brennan fanned out his hands, but Cliff easily pivoted around him, his feet defying the laws of physics. His moves were swift and light, and Brennan didn’t know what happened until he heard the paper hit the rim, then the wastebasket.
“Fuck.” Brennan got his ass handed to him. He was aware he was playing against a real athlete, but his competitive spark had already been lit; there was no going back. “Again.”
“Best out of three?” Cliff asked. He removed the paper ball from the wastebasket and handed it off to Brennan. “I’ll go easy on you.”
“Oh no you won’t. I want you to give me your best. That’ll make my victory much sweeter.”
“Did you see what happened five seconds ago? Get ready to get your ass whooped.”
