“You’ve seen others?” I asked.
He shrugged again. “A couple.”
“You think it’s a student?”
“Dunno. Probably.”
Maybe someone in his class. He flipped back to his notes, but I watched his hand. His fingers tapped the pen, as if he was fighting the urge to draw. Interesting. I tucked the sketch back into my binder.
By the end of the week, I’d found five more. One stuck above the water fountain. Another behind the fire extinguisher sign. I pulled them all down, every single one. They ended up pinned to the bulletin board over my desk, right next to my soccer medals. Right where I could look at them.
Tru kept catching me watching him. Not the sketches—him.
Was he impressed that I’d tuned into something that mattered to him? Or did he think I’d finally lost my mind, collecting random art and pretending I understood what it meant?
I met with the career counselor on Wednesday.
“You don’t want to study pre-law?” she asked, blinking down at my file.
“No.” I leaned back in the plastic chair. “That’s my dad’s thing.”
“What’syourthing?”
I opened my mouth, closed it again, then drummed my fingers on my thigh.
I liked the outlet sports gave me, even if soccer wasn’t my dream. I liked the way Tru’s art made peoplefeelsomething. Maybe I wanted that too—to do something that mattered. Something that didn’t make me feel like a fraud.
“I don’t know yet,” I said finally. “For now, let’s stick with the prerequisites until I figure it out.”
She smiled like that was enough. I didn’t believe her.
Friday after lunch, I spotted Tru talking to Fuckface.That guy from last semester. The one Tru said was“nice”.He was leaning into Tru’s space, smiling like he thought he had a shot.
“You still owe me that coffee,” he said, voice slick.
I knew that smile. Hell, I’d invented it.
I slowed down, watching. Tru laughed, but it was tight. Then his eyes flicked up and found mine. I didn’t even have to say anything. I just shook my head once, and it was enough.
“No thanks,” Tru said quietly. “I’m good.”
I didn’t stop walking, but as I passed, I shouldered the guy hard enough to knock his backpack sideways.
“Hey,” he snapped. “Watch it.”
I didn’t bother replying. The look I gave him said everything before I turned to Tru.Mine. Fuck off.
Tru didn’t scowl. He didn’t smile either. Just watched me walk away.
I had news for him. Fuckface wasnota nice guy. And neither was I.
Later, Tru slipped into our room and tossed his backpack onto the bed. I was at my desk, one of the sketches pinned above it.
He stopped. “You kept that?”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He shifted, biting the inside of his cheek. “It’s dumb.”
