idea, I get upset. I guess he’s just trying to be helpful and encouraging but all it does is discourage me. He hasn’t even seen my art in real life; he’s only seen pictures I’ve sent him. I love my art, but it’s really not that great. I’m not sure anyone would really like it but me.
When I took Patricia St. Claire’s mixed media class in my first semester, I had started using my favorite quotes as inspiration for my art. Instead of writing quotes in dry erase marker on the glass picture frame on my wall, I’d written them on loose canvases, using various forms of paint, glitter, paper and decorations. I have a few dozen of them rolled up against the walls in my bedroom now. Crafting them is a stress reliever for me. It’s a way to step outside of my regular life and focus on creating something beautiful.
Park swears I could sell them. I’m not so sure he’s right. It’s easy to be an optimist when you’re a famous and fairly rich professional racer.
So that night before I had brought up the Netflix thing, when he’d mentioned his stupid idea again, I had made sure to shut it down by stating that there was no logical way for me to ship my canvases because a box would be too big and envelopes aren’t big enough, and even if they were, they’d probably destroy my art in transit. Then, just to really prove my point, I mentioned that the only digital camera I owned was attached to my cell phone and that thing doesn’t exactly take the best pictures. He didn’t even bother to argue that point.
I won. He lost.
And then I guess I lost in the end, because now he’s not talking to me.
Shoving back the twinge of pain from my heart, I step forward in the coffee line, awaiting my turn behind a girl who appears to be studying from her textbook while she’s ordering coffee. She reaches into her oversized shoulder bag, takes out an empty coffee cup and tosses it into the trash. Finals week really makes people crazy. I’m so glad I finished all of mine already.
When it’s my turn in line, I place my order and hear someone make a judgmental exhalation from behind me.
“Another caramel mocha?” The voice is familiar. I hand the cashier my debit card and turn around, lifting my eyebrow in an equally judgmental way.
“What’s it to you?” I say with a smile.
Mark Crisp shrugs back at me, hooking his thumbs under the straps of his backpack. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all,” he says with a grin. “With all the coffee you drink, one of these days you’re gonna turn into a caramel mocha.”
“Then I would be the most delicious person on earth,” I snap, heading toward the other side of the kiosk where my freshly made coffee awaits. “How was your final?” I ask.
Mark had three classes with me this semester. He was homeschooled for most of his life so he came to college not knowing anyone else here. I guess you could say we’re friends, although our friendship consists of him following me around from class to class, making fun of my coffee drinking. Bayleigh swears he likes me, and she’s probably right, so I’ve been keeping my distance for the most part, making sure I don’t do anything to lead him on. Mark is a nice guy and he’s always happy to share his notes if I had to miss class, but he’s never someone I could like in a romantic way.
He’s cute. A little short for a guy, but still cute with tanned skin and dark shaggy hair. But he’s hugely obsessed with things that I have no interest in (model trains and professional tennis) and for that reason alone, I know I’d never be able to date someone like him.
“I think I passed,” he says, falling into step with me as we walk to the parking lot. “The Delray Beach Open was on last night and I had to root for my man Donald Young, so I didn’t study as much as I should have, but I think I did okay. What about you?”
I take a long sip of my coffee. “I’d rather not talk about my final. If I passed, it’ll be a
When I took Patricia St. Claire’s mixed media class in my first semester, I had started using my favorite quotes as inspiration for my art. Instead of writing quotes in dry erase marker on the glass picture frame on my wall, I’d written them on loose canvases, using various forms of paint, glitter, paper and decorations. I have a few dozen of them rolled up against the walls in my bedroom now. Crafting them is a stress reliever for me. It’s a way to step outside of my regular life and focus on creating something beautiful.
Park swears I could sell them. I’m not so sure he’s right. It’s easy to be an optimist when you’re a famous and fairly rich professional racer.
So that night before I had brought up the Netflix thing, when he’d mentioned his stupid idea again, I had made sure to shut it down by stating that there was no logical way for me to ship my canvases because a box would be too big and envelopes aren’t big enough, and even if they were, they’d probably destroy my art in transit. Then, just to really prove my point, I mentioned that the only digital camera I owned was attached to my cell phone and that thing doesn’t exactly take the best pictures. He didn’t even bother to argue that point.
I won. He lost.
And then I guess I lost in the end, because now he’s not talking to me.
Shoving back the twinge of pain from my heart, I step forward in the coffee line, awaiting my turn behind a girl who appears to be studying from her textbook while she’s ordering coffee. She reaches into her oversized shoulder bag, takes out an empty coffee cup and tosses it into the trash. Finals week really makes people crazy. I’m so glad I finished all of mine already.
When it’s my turn in line, I place my order and hear someone make a judgmental exhalation from behind me.
“Another caramel mocha?” The voice is familiar. I hand the cashier my debit card and turn around, lifting my eyebrow in an equally judgmental way.
“What’s it to you?” I say with a smile.
Mark Crisp shrugs back at me, hooking his thumbs under the straps of his backpack. “I’m just worried about you, that’s all,” he says with a grin. “With all the coffee you drink, one of these days you’re gonna turn into a caramel mocha.”
“Then I would be the most delicious person on earth,” I snap, heading toward the other side of the kiosk where my freshly made coffee awaits. “How was your final?” I ask.
Mark had three classes with me this semester. He was homeschooled for most of his life so he came to college not knowing anyone else here. I guess you could say we’re friends, although our friendship consists of him following me around from class to class, making fun of my coffee drinking. Bayleigh swears he likes me, and she’s probably right, so I’ve been keeping my distance for the most part, making sure I don’t do anything to lead him on. Mark is a nice guy and he’s always happy to share his notes if I had to miss class, but he’s never someone I could like in a romantic way.
He’s cute. A little short for a guy, but still cute with tanned skin and dark shaggy hair. But he’s hugely obsessed with things that I have no interest in (model trains and professional tennis) and for that reason alone, I know I’d never be able to date someone like him.
“I think I passed,” he says, falling into step with me as we walk to the parking lot. “The Delray Beach Open was on last night and I had to root for my man Donald Young, so I didn’t study as much as I should have, but I think I did okay. What about you?”
I take a long sip of my coffee. “I’d rather not talk about my final. If I passed, it’ll be a
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