“Wow, I didn’t realize I was that funny,” Chris said.
“You’re not,” I said. “And thanks.”
He handed me a milkshake and picked up the tray of deliciously greasy food.
“You’re welcome. And also, ouch.”
I nudged him with my shoulder as we walked over to a little table by the window. Outside, a couple of underclassmen—and a few seniors—were knee deep in a snowball fight.
“It’s weird,” I said, watching the kids duck and throw and generally reinforce the idea that art kids aren’t good at sports.
“What? Their technique? Because you’re one hundred percent correct.”
“No, this.” I gestured to the caf and the store with its couple of students looking at books and hoodies and the kids outside playing war. “It’s like there’s this gut-deep human need to gloss things over and move on.”
“I don’t think it’s glossing things over,” he said. “I think it’s honoring the dead. I mean, what better way to celebrate the life they lived than live a life yourself?”
I glanced at him.
“?‘What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?’?” he asked.
“What?”
“Antonio Machado,” he said. He winked. “What, you think you’re the only one who reads poetry?”
I grinned, half tempted to ask him to recite the rest of it, when the door opened and Ethan and Oliver walked in.
“There you are!” Ethan called out, bounding over. “See, Oliver? I told you my stomach always knows best.”
“You just wanted cheese sticks,” Oliver muttered, only a few steps behind his boy.
They were both bedecked in full winter apparel: puffy snowpants and coats, beanies, scarves, and—
“Are you wearing matching mittens?” I asked.
Ethan just grinned and held up his hands. Yup. Big purple mittens.
“You two are adorable,” Chris said, shaking his head. “That’s the problem with gay couples: We straighties just don’t stand a chance in terms of matching adorableness.”
“Truth,” I said, gesticulating the point with a breadstick. “I mean, have you seen Neil Patrick Harris and his family? Their Halloween costumes put us all to shame.”
Ethan snagged a few fries while I was talking.
“You better pay for those,” I said.
“I’m sure Chris takes credit.”
“What are you two lovebirds up to, anyway?” Oliver asked.
Oliver sat down and Ethan went for another fry. I slapped his hand and he gave me an exaggerated pout. I just stuck out my tongue and then glared at Oliver—I hadn’t missed that “lovebirds” slip.
“Just chilling,” Chris said. “Somewhat literally.”
“I know, right?” Oliver said. “It’s amazing out there.”
“Finally a man who appreciates good weather,” Chris said. “You deserve a fry.”
“Oh sure,” Ethan said. “Playing favorites now are we?”
“Yup,” Chris replied. “And your boyfriend’s winning.” He tossed a fry at Ethan, who chuckled and threw one back. They were going to get us banned for life.
? ? ?
I wandered back to my room alone, leaving the boys to chat. Elisa wasn’t in, which I felt bad for being a little relieved about. She would have asked me about Chris, no question, and that wasn’t a conversation I looked forward to, mainly because I knew she wouldn’t let me live it down.
It was only when taking off my coat and feeling a familiar rustle in my pocket that I remembered the note Jonathan had left for me. Shit. Not that I’d really intended on going to the tutorial, but I felt guilty for forgetting. It was clear it was important to Jonathan, and I really did appreciate him as a teacher. But I just couldn’t handle anything else right now. My plate overfloweth.
Besides, I was trying to stay away from talk of gods and the supernatural. A study group devoted to just that would be my downfall. So I grabbed a book and started my reading for American Civ. Spending the day with Chris had been a nice diversion, but it didn’t actually accomplish any of the work I’d set out to do. Not that I could really focus; all I could think about was the sketchbook crammed under my bed and the sketch of Jane, and whether or not the art studio would confirm my growing fears.
When it was five, I put on my coat and left for what was easily the most stilted dinner I’d had at Islington. My stomach turned with the thought of what we were about to do and how difficult it was to act normal with Elisa at the table. I tried to focus on making idle chatter about the upcoming production of Marat/Sade. It didn’t work—the play was filled with sex and death and revolution, which really didn’t take my mind off things.
At five fifteen Ethan and Oliver excused themselves. At five twenty, Chris left to “get some work done.” Which left Elisa and me alone for a few minutes while I waited for enough time to pass before I could leave without being suspicious.
“He’s really cute,” Elisa said. I nearly choked on my fry.