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 borderlineoffended.
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 Goghis 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 younotget 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 andfreezesme 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.
Emma’s trying.Really trying.
I can see how much effort she puts into staying focused, barely making eye contact, and when she does, her cheeks flush bright pink.
