Page 54 of Spearcrest Prince

I give her the middle finger. She returns the favour.

“Are we going to do some work?” she asks. “Or shall we keep trading insults?”

“The assignment is due next week, so we should probably get some work done,” I say. “You couldn’t keep up with me, anyway.”

She gives me a look.

“I was talking about trading insults. Get your mind out of the gutter, trésor.”

An annoyed expression flashes across her face, but she purses her lips shut, as if she’s holding back the words she wants to say. I glance at her pursed mouth. Her pout is perfectly kiss-shaped.

I glance away. Not the train of thought I need to be following right now.

With great reluctance, I get to work.

Intheend,wesettle on the idea that there are different interpretations of truth and that fine art expresses a wider array of those interpretations.

It’s a pretentious idea and absolute bullshit, of course. I don’t believe for one second that a fairy prince painting of me is more truthful than any given photograph I have of Anaïs. But there’s a sort of moving conviction to Anaïs’s ideas that’s weirdly compelling. Most importantly, I’m confident Weston will eat this shit right up.

I don’t even mind losing the debate to Anaïs, and to her credit, she’s graceful in her victory. She doesn’t gloat the way I would have. Once we’ve exchanged notes, she closes her laptop and stands up.

“Where are you going?” I ask, looking up in surprise.

“I’ve got everything I need now. Until the exhibit, all we need to do is write up our essays, but we can do that on our own, right?”

“Don’t you want to discuss the exhibit?”

“No, students are doing separate displays.” She frowns. “Did your teacher not tell you?”

“He told us, yeah. Something about some stupid prize.”

“Stupid or not”—she grins—“I intend to win that prize. So I’m not going to give you a chance at sabotaging my display, thank you very much.”

I lean back in my chair to get a proper look at her as she packs her stuff away. A strand of hair is tucked behind her ear. Her lips gleam slightly from the Carmex she’s just put on.

“Since when do you care about prizes?” I ask.

“I don’t. I care about that lovely grant that comes along with it.”

“What do you need that grant for? You’re rich.”

“I’m not rich,” she says. “My parents are rich.”

“Only rich kids say that,” I sneer.

“You don’t say that,” she points out, slinging her backpack on her shoulder.

She gives me a little wave and starts walking away, but I grab her elbow. “You better not use that stupid painting of me for your display!”

“Oh no?” She leans over me so quickly my heart leaps in my chest. She speaks into my ear. “Too bad. It’s going to be my pièce de résistance.”

I turn my head, hoping to catch her cheek with a kiss, but she’s already pulled away, yanking her arm out of my grip.

“You better not!” I call after her in a whisper-shout. “You better throw it away!”

She turns back, a wicked grin on her lips.

“Make me,” she mouths.

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