Page 33 of Damaged Boys Don't Fall For Bubbly Girls
I settle down at my station and sort through my paints, waiting for the teacher to arrive. What I love most about art class is that you can’t fail. All you have to do is try. I’m a pretty decent student, but I get stressed out a lot about getting good grades. I don’t want anything to get in the way of following my dreams. So it’s nice to have one class where I can unwind and just enjoy myself, even if my drawings and paintings look like a five-year-old did them.
My eyes widen in surprise when Brock peeks his head inside, his gaze surveying the room like he’s not sure he’s in the right place. It’s only the third day of school and he still doesn’t know his way around.
I’m about to call out to him and ask which class he’s looking for, but he nods to himself and walks inside. Wait a sec. Is he in my art class? I haven’t compared my schedule with him like I did with the rest of the gang, so I have no idea what classes we share.
He must not see me because I’m all the way by the window and is about to lower himself at a station across the room. I call out, “Brock!” and wave my hand.
His gaze shoots to me, and a surprised and excited smile takes over his face. He grabs his backpack that he lowered to the floor and hurries over to me. “Hey. I didn’t know you’re in this class.”
“Yeah, I take art every semester. I mean, I suck at it, but I like it. Gives me the chance to sit in peace and quiet and reflect.”
“Cool, that sounds like something I might need. Is this seat taken?”
“Yeah, by Brock Hastings.”
He chuckles before lowering himself at the station next to me. “I didn’t take a lot of art classes at my old school, but I’ve always wanted to. I figured I should give it a shot this semester and see if I like it.”
“Good call. Who knows, maybe you’ll be the next Picasso.”
“Ha. More like a No-casso.”
That has me giggling.
Oh my gosh, why am I so freakin’ happy that I share this class with Brock? Maybe because like bio, I finally have a chance to have him all to myself? Okay, maybe that sounds rude and selfish, but I’ve always loved our moments together alone. I want to have them again, so desperately.
“By the way, I’m going to be thanking you a million times for bringing me that spaghetti and meatballs leftovers for lunch,” I tell him. “I’ve missed eating your mom’s cooking. She must have perfected it over the years because this was the best it’s ever been.”
Brock taps his lips as he thinks. “Maybe, but I suspect another reason.”
I lean in close with my brow raised. “Ooh, a superhero power? Maybe she has a mutation that turned her into the best cook in the world. Her new name is… Chef Woman.”
Brock bursts out laughing. “Chef Woman?”
“No, you’re right. Your mom is so much more than that. I’ve always admired how strong and independent and fearless she is. So let’s see…Kickbutt Woman.”
Brock laughs again. “She’d love that.”
I raise my chin proudly. “So you can thank Kickbutt Woman for the yummy spaghetti and meatballs.”
“And Kickbutt Man.”
“Huh?”
“I suspect the reason why the food came out so delicious was because my mom and dad cooked it together.”
“Aw, really? That’s so sweet and romantic.”
“Right?” He sits back in his seat with a content smile. “I wish I could have a relationship like that one day—”
“Good afternoon, students!” A boisterous voice says as a woman walks into the art room. “My name is Mrs. Jackson and I can’t wait to share art with all you eager young people! I know you all know each other very well, and I’d like to get to you know all as well. So let me call attendance so I can familiarize myself with each and every one of you.”
I’ve always been like the last kid called, since my name is West, so I kind of space out as she goes through the names. When she calls out Brock Hastings, he raises his hand and says “Present!” in this adorable way that makes me want to… I don’t know, like squish him or something.
He and I are getting along so well, thankfully. I mean, I still feel something between us. Something that’s still preventing us from growing as close as we were when we were kids. Maybe we’re tiptoeing around each other, both of us scared we might say or do the wrong thing?
“Alexis West?” Mrs. Jackson calls.
My hand flies up. “Lexi, please.”
