She ignores me completely, sweeping past and hugging Mrs. Hook tightly before snagging the book out of my hands. "You're stuck in left-brain mode again," she says, all dramatic. "That'swhy you don't get the genius of'Dalí.'" She even says his name like she's impersonating him.
Mrs. Hook laughs, clearly loving this girl.
Me? I’m just staring. "Giving flamingo legs to elephants isn't genius," I shoot back, enjoying riling her up.
"Luke, how many times?—"
"Luca," I correct her immediately.
She narrows her eyes dramatically. "LUCA...you gotta think bigger."
"Bigger, huh?" I mutter, but now I'm not looking at the painting. I'm checking her out: her eyes are bright green, her hair is a messy mix of blonde and brown, she has a straight nose, and her face is shaped like a heart. She's pretty—but not in the way girls at school usually are.
Mrs. Hook breaks in, clearly sensing the tension—though she's reading it wrong. She thinks I'm annoyed, but it's something else. Took me a minute to figure it out myself.
"Luca, were you looking for anything specific today?”
I glance back at Mrs. Hook, who shifts nervously. Dad says my stare makes people uncomfortable. "If you promise those books tomorrow, I'm good."
"Definitely, they’re all yours."
As I back towards the door, I catch Emma’s gaze again and smirk. "Better slip Emma the one on Socrates. Seems like she needs an introduction."
School always feels weird after hours. Without the usual chaos of students everywhere, it’s just a dull, ordinary building.
My footsteps echo in the empty halls, stopping suddenly when I notice a classroom light still on. Curious, I step back and peek through the small window in the door. Emma’s standing there, painting on a canvas. Looks like still life, copying an image she taped to the canvas's edge. It’s pretty, a bit sad, but accurate.
Before I can move away, she turns and catches me staring.
Damn it.
I start walking casually again, like nothing happened, but her voice catches up to me down the hall.
"Hey, Skywalker! Not so fast!"
I spin around, annoyed by that nickname—and by her repeating exactly what I said to her last week. She’s wearing overalls splattered with paint and beat-up white canvas sneakers. Typical Emma.
"Thought I was the only one here this late," she says, stepping closer.
I look down at her easy smile. How does she do it? Always spontaneous, never overthinking things. "You know you're not the only student in the school, right?"
"Sometimes feels like it," she says, thoughtful. "All day, my brain just bounces me from class to class, and after school, I get stuck in the art room. By the time I notice, it’s nighttime. Did you eat yet?"
I almost laugh listening to her ramble. Her inner monologue must be exhausting. I get it—my brain’s busy too, but my thoughts are mine alone. "No," I say, glancing toward the exit. "My family's probably expecting me."
"Yeah, mine too,"—she shrugs—"but sometimes I'd rather just grab something quick. I can’t really focus at home."
Was she about to ask me to eat with her? Suddenly, the idea feels tempting. "What were you thinking about eating?"
She taps her cheek, looking adorable as she thinks. "Hmm…maybe something quick? A burger from Sonic or something."
"Want a ride?" The words slip out before I can second-guess them. What am I doing? I should be heading home.
But Emma’s eyes widen excitedly, and I can’t help but smile back.
Yeah, this girl’s going to be trouble.
Luca gets up from his chair like the seat caught fire under his ass and walks right out of the office without another word.
