Page 239 of Vicious Saint
“Shut the fuck up.”
“I’m serious…trying to get into Bromwell for C.A.”
“Drawing, huh? Doubt someone like you will have an issue.”
I should be offended by his judgment, given Craig has no idea my level of talent, but I’m not naive to how hard it is for the average person to afford college. Or how much easier it is to be accepted when you’ve got financial backing.
“I’m not like them.”
No need to clarify on who I mean, because Craig’s brown eyes are scrutinizing the privileged kids rich enough to take over a closed beach.
They soften a ton when landing on me, though. “I believe you.”
“Wouldn’t matter if you didn’t.”
“Fair point.”
“Quick to judge, but not to know, huh?” I’m about to reach for the drink again, but Craig does it for me, pretending to wipe off the bar top.
“A dick for that, I admit.” He slides the drink away after I indulge in a gulp. “What’s your name?”
A grumpy Italian demand not to answer the question comes from Carlo beside me as he slaps my bag onto the bar, scowl aimed sharp enough at poor Craig to make him scurry away.
“Seriously?” I swivel on the stool to face Carlo’s gentle-only-for me smile, but it falls when he takes in my flared nostrils.
“Cosa ho fatto di male?”
“What you didwrongis act like a caveman during mating season!”
Carlo’s slow blinking tells me all I need to know about how much he understands the reference. But instead of clarifying like any normal immigrant would do, he proceeds to remind me for the hundredth time of his stupid cardinal rules.
Give up no names. No affiliates. No residences.
If I’m forced to, then lie.
I can’t count how many times I moonlighted as a fucking Sandra.
“Fine,” I relent, tilting my head at a nervous Craig. “But I’ve got about an hour left. Can I at least enjoy it?”
This isn’t even about eye candy anymore. I found an actual sober human in the midst of drunk self-righteous twats. One who shares the same interests and experiences. Breathes the same contaminated air I used to. May not sound refreshing, but after a year of choking on filtered santal and oranges, pollution feels…nostalgic.
Besides, Craig doesn’t need to know my name for us to keep talking—and Carlo doesn’t need to know I already spilled the beans on my unicorn university.
Probably why he lets up, agreeing to surface level exchanges only.
It takes multiple reassurances and a forced smile from Carlo to convince Craig it’s safe to reapproach me. We return to chit-chat the second I light a smoke and he places a virgin Pepsi in front of me.
I snatch it, then Carlo swipes it. Sniffing before sipping.
When seconds pass and he doesn’t start foaming from the mouth, he gives me the cup back.
With a dramatic eye roll, I pick up where Craig and I left off.
Sandra.
“So, Sandra, what do you draw?”
“Comics mostly, caricatures, some portraits. I dabble in painting also, but not as much.”
