Ethan joined me at lunch. I spied Oliver in line, waiting to get his macaroni and cheese and fake chicken nuggets. Oh yes, Saturdays were always good days, food-wise at least. Lunchtime was also an excellent people-watching opportunity.
Even though there weren’t any real cliques in the bitchy sense, the kids of Islington definitely filtered into their own groups. It made sense; I mean, you spend a good chunk of your day talking ceramics with a group of people and you’ll naturally be drawn to spending your social time with them as well. It was ridiculously easy to pick out who focused in what: the dancers were all shapes and sizes, but they had a definite poise when they walked that singled them out from the rest of us clunky movers; the drama kids were—just like at public high—the loudest and most outgoing and prone to fits of overbearing laughter; the musicians were reserved and generally had that air of I spend a lot of time staring at sheet music and that’s what I’m thinking about now; the writers just looked depressed most of the time; and the visual artists? Well, we were the ones who looked like we didn’t shower very often and had gotten all of our clothes from a more bohemian Cirque du Soleil. Myself included.
“Ready for the gauntlet?” Ethan asked, bringing my attention back to the present.
“Never,” I muttered.
“It won’t be that bad,” Ethan said. “I mean, the scene couldn’t be that open to interpretation. Right?”
“Um, really? Have you already forgotten the last one?”
Ethan buried his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair in defeat. “I’m trying,” he mumbled. “I never knew doing a painting of flowers could release so much emotional trauma.”
“Yeah, well, symbolism and shit.”
“I’ll never look at a lily the same way again. If I hadn’t known I was gay before, I would have after that piece of . . . art.”
“I’ll just be happy if Tamora didn’t do this one naked. Her poor roommate. I don’t think I can stand to critique another piece of work done via ladybits.”
Ethan shivered.
“Can we please talk about something else?” he implored. “Something not about genitalia?”
“I catch you guys at the strangest moments,” Oliver said, sitting beside Ethan. Ethan reached over and stole a chicken nugget from Oliver’s tray before the boy’s butt even hit the seat. “What’s this about genitalia?”
“Art talk,” I muttered. “You wouldn’t get it. Rather, you wouldn’t want to get it.”
“I think you may be right about that one.” Oliver managed to intercept another grab from Ethan. “You have your own!”
“But stolen food always tastes better,” Ethan said with a grin.
Oliver shook his head. “I don’t understand why I love him.”
“Neither do I,” I responded. Then stole one of Oliver’s chicken nuggets.
“I’m cute?” Ethan ventured. “And crafty. Definitely crafty.”
“Speaking of cute,” Oliver said, and gestured with his chin to my left. And there, lo and behold, was Chris, bee-lining toward us with a tray heaped with food.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered. Ethan raised an eyebrow, but before I could answer or tell him to keep his stupid mouth shut, Chris was standing beside us. Beside me. It took a great deal of self-control not to scoot over, even though the other half of the round table was free.
“Hey guys,” he said. There was a tentativeness to his voice that was cute. I mean, cute if I could actually care about that. “Mind if I sit with you?”
And I won’t lie, I almost told him we were just about to leave, but that was stupid seeing as Oliver’s tray was still full and mine was only half picked over. Ugh, what was I becoming? He was just a guy and I wasn’t interested in dating and there wasn’t any more to it.
“Not at all,” I said, sliding out the chair. Playing nonchalant was my best way out of this becoming awkward. In theory.
The next ten seconds of silence were potentially the most cringe-worthy of my life. Especially because Ethan was leaning forward with his hands clasped before him, a slight grin on his face, like he was about to do a job interview. Thankfully, Oliver came to the rescue.
“You ready for the Russian Lit quiz Tuesday?” he asked, popping a nugget in his mouth.
Chris’s face lit up at the bone Oliver threw him.
“Not really,” he said. “I still have to finish the last fifty pages of Tolstoy.”
“Ugh, have fun,” Oliver replied. “At least it’s not Nabokov anymore. Guy made me want to shoot myself.”
“Isn’t that the whole point of Russian literature?” Chris asked innocently.
I chuckled. “Well played, sir. Well played.”
“Speaking of shooting ourselves, we were just talking about Painting Studio,” Ethan said. “And how excited we are for Tamora’s piece.”
Chris laughed—it was one of those laughs that was too loud for the situation, which just made it even funnier.