Portrait of Us (14 page)

I
think I'm the winner,”
he said in a quiet tone. It wasn't gloating, though.

I still wasn't sure how to respond. I handed him back his phone. “Hm. Maybe you are.” Even without the picture of me, he'd gotten some interesting images. “So what does this mean?”

“I have some ideas.” He looked up at the sky and grimaced. “I have to be heading home soon though, before the twins make my mom go crazy. If you have time, can we talk about it more after class tomorrow?”

“Sure.” I straightened my back and tried to shake off the weird, unsettling euphoria that had settled in my chest. I didn't want to go. I wanted to stand right here, suspended in time, in the warm glow of a summer dusk with this guy. He surprised me, made me laugh.

Stole my breath away.

“Let me walk you home,” he said.

“Oh, I'm fine. Really.”

He raised an eyebrow. “My mom would kill me if I didn't escort you.”

That euphoric feeling sank just a bit. So he was doing it out of a sense of duty. I swallowed back my disappointment. “Fine.”

It was a little over a mile to my house. The first chunk was walked in quiet. The street was pretty quiet, with only the occasional car zipping by.

“Why do you like to win so much?” Matthew asked, breaking the awkward silence between us.

“Don't you like to win?” I fired back. After all, he was in this competition with me. Plus, he played basketball, and sports thrived on the art of winning.

His steps were quiet beside me. Cicadas and crickets chirped in the grasses and trees around us. “Sure I do. But I kinda get the feeling you like it more than the average person.”

Maybe so. Winning was how I felt special. It gave me tangible goals, evidence that I could succeed at whatever I wanted to.

It made people respect me. It made my parents notice me.

The realization squeezed my throat, and I dragged in a quiet breath, trying not to give away the rush of emotion. “I . . . need to be good at the things I do,” I admitted. “I just happen to do a lot of things.”

“You seem to be a bit of an overachiever.” The words were soft,
but they might as well have been a slap across my face.

So that was how he viewed me? In such a negative light? The word “overachiever” wasn't a compliment. It meant someone who was a workaholic, like my parents. I sped up my pace, my feet clipping along the sidewalk.

“Hey,” he said, darting back up to my side. “What's the deal?”

I froze in place, and he stopped a split second after me. I planted my hands on my hips. “Why is wanting to win a bad thing? I set goals, and I go after what I want. But you know what? I don't need to rationalize any of that to you.” Who was he to judge me, anyway?

A tiny thought niggled at the back of my mind.
You judged him first,
it declared, despite my efforts to ignore it. But this was different. This was below the belt, hitting me in a particularly sensitive spot.

“I'm fine to walk home alone,” I continued, proud of the way my voice didn't wobble with all of my emotions. “I'll see you tomorrow in class.” With that, I spun and walked away from him. My face burned with frustration, irritation, mixed with a healthy dose of mortification.

When I reached our front door, I tossed it open and ran right up for my bedroom, offering a mumbled hello to my parents, who were sitting on the couch. I closed my door behind me and plopped down on my bed.

It took me a good ten minutes to finally shake off my immediate feelings of frustration. And once I did, guilt edged in. It wasn't
Matthew's fault I was oversensitive about the topic, torn between wanting to please my parents and wanting to be my own person. He was still getting to know me. No way could he have realized it was one of my personal triggers.

In fact, after replaying it in my head again—this time with a more unbiased perspective—his comment hadn't even been that harsh.

I bit my lip, remembering the picture he'd taken of me. How I'd almost looked ethereal. Was that how he saw me? Yes, he'd called me an overachiever. But had he been wrong in that? He was just being honest.

It was painfully clear now, upon thinking things over with a clear head, that I'd overreacted.

I swiped a hand across my face. I'd judged him without question or hesitation when we'd first met. I'd thought he was a dumb jock, and he'd proven me wrong time and again. He was sensitive, smart, witty. Had he really been judging me out there, or was he just commenting on something that was a fact?

I'd gotten hotheaded and walked away, letting my emotions run rampant. Who was the bigger jerk here?

I dug out my phone and stared at it. Should I call? Text? I started and erased several messages. Nothing seemed to say what I wanted to say. Maybe it would be better to talk in person tomorrow, when he could see my face.

Plus, to be honest, I needed to shake him off for a bit. The fact that I reacted so strongly to his words, had assumed the worst,
disturbed me just as much as the words had themselves. He was getting under my skin beyond just a stupid crush. The realization freaked me out and made me want more all at the same time.

I needed time with my best friend. I jumped to my desk and opened my laptop, firing up my messenger.

FoxyCori: U up? I know it's late, lol.

I glanced at the computer and did the mental math. Scotland was five hours ahead of us, so it was almost two in the morning. Odds were, Ava was probably unconscious right now.

FoxyCori: Msg me in AM? I'll be up at 6 (11 ur time). Just want to say hi!

With that, I closed down my computer and set about my evening. The routine of shower, brushing teeth, and reading was soothing, though it didn't diminish my angst. What was Matthew doing right now? Was he mad at me?

By ten, I was ready to call it a night, especially if I hoped to talk to Ava in the morning. But it took me quite a while to actually fall asleep. My guilty conscience kept me awake long into the night. I couldn't get Matthew's hurt face out of my mind.

AvaBee: Im here! You awake?

AvaBee: Scotland is so foggy so far, lol.

FoxyCori: Hey, yes, Im awake! Kinda. ;-)

I rubbed sleep out of my eyes. The room had an early morning glow, with soft light pouring through my window.

A photograph of rolling fog over a scraggly, grassy field,
complete with several roaming sheep, popped up as a link on the messenger screen. The green stretched as far as the eye could see. It was gorgeous; I could almost smell the damp-tinged air.

AvaBee: Mom and Dad r getting ready. Going to tour castles 2day. How are you?

I sighed, wondering what I should type. I didn't want to be a downer. While I ached to unload all of my frustration on Ava's shoulders, I also didn't need to be
that
person.

FoxyCori: Oh, not bad. Class in a couple of hrs.

AvaBee: Almost convincing. LOL. Wassup? Tell me or I'll be forced 2 make somethin up in my head.

She always could see through me. I laughed quietly under my breath. In a few sentences I summed up what had happened yesterday, including the picture and the argument.

AvaBee: Wow. I think he likes you a lot.

I blinked. Not the response I'd been expecting from her. A warm flush stole across my cheeks as I thought of his smile. Then the guilty turbulence came back in my stomach. We were partners. I needed to stop daydreaming about him. Besides, he was probably mad about the way I'd stomped off.

FoxyCori: Hard to tell. Sometimes I think so. Other times he plays it cool.

AvaBee: I keep telling u that u shld give it a chance. He's nice.

FoxyCori: *shrug* We'll see. Take tons of pics! And find a cute bf while you're there.

AvaBee: *blush* There is this v cute guy in our hotel . . .

FoxyCori: MORE DETAILS PLS

I laughed. Leave it to Ava to be in Scotland and already attract a guy. She was a magnetic person, though, so I had no doubt that by the end of the trip, the guy would be begging for her to stay in touch.

We spent the next twenty minutes just chatting about Scotland, her mysterious cute guy—who apparently was British with a “darling accent,” as she put it—and how many castles she wanted to buy. I was relieved to have the focus of the conversation off me and my drama. As much as it had felt good to spill it all out at the time, it had also made my flare-up of guilt return with a vengeance.

I needed to talk to Matthew and sort this out, not run from it and let my hot head rule. There was no way we could work together with this between us. And I had to admit, I didn't like the idea of him being upset with me. Part of me wanted him to see me as more than just an overachiever.

I ended the conversation with Ava and set out my clothes, then took a quick shower. I took a little bit of extra care with my makeup and then my hair, twisting it into small spiraling braids. Then I headed downstairs.

Charlie was stuffing cereal into his face. Dad was at the table, sipping coffee, and Mom was washing her coffee mug.

“Oh, hey, honey,” she said. She raised an eyebrow as she eyed me. “You're looking very cute today.”

I gave a casual shrug and poured a glass of juice. My stomach
was too nervous to eat anything—I took small sips and hoped she'd drop the subject.

“How's your project going?” Dad asked as he grabbed a section of the newspaper. “You and that boy figure out what you're going to do?”

I gave a weak nod, hoping the wobbly smile on my face appeared genuine.

Dad looked up, and a deep line furrowed his brow. “What's wrong?”

Dang. He always could read me too easily. I was afraid to let them know about the argument or how badly our project was going. Because if I heard
you should have just stuck with focusing on academics
from them, it was going to crush me.

I kept seeing Matthew's mom's face, full of pride as she gushed about his art. I craved seeing that look on my parents' faces too. All the more reason why I needed to win this competition. They could see how talented I was in something other than schoolwork and be proud of me.

“Nothing's wrong,” I made myself say. “I . . . got up early to talk to Ava, so I'm just a little sleepy.”

He eyed me for a moment, then grunted, sipping his coffee. “I hope she's having fun. But you gotta get more sleep, Corinne. Try to plan out your conversations better with her in the future.”

I nodded and finished the last of my juice. Mom took the glass from my hand before I could rinse it myself. “I gotta run to class.” Time to man up and face Matthew.

My stomach lurched. No, it was going to be fine. He was a reasonable guy—and if he held a grudge even after I apologized for my rash reaction, then that was his problem, not mine.
So stop stressing about it,
I ordered myself.

Still, my heart raced the entire way to the studio.

Chapter
Fourteen

I
showed up at class
right before it was supposed to start. Matthew wasn't there. My lungs squeezed in disappointment and relief.

Then worry.

He was always here on time—was he going to cut class because he was upset with me? I grabbed my tub of paint and started putting out my shades on the palette. But my hand was trembling, and I got a few splotches on the table.

“You okay?” Henry asked as he studied me. “You seem . . . a little off today.”

I nodded and wiped the paint clean. “Oh, yeah, I'm just a little distracted.”

Teni wandered up the aisle to look at our progress. She stood behind me and Henry. His image was a house in shades of
purple—it was creepy, like something in a Victorian nightmare. “Henry, this is great. I love the vibe in the image. Dark, gothic. Very nice mood. Make sure you remember how paint texture can also add to the scene. Don't be afraid to show your paint strokes.”

He beamed, pleased by her compliment. “Thanks, and good idea.” He started dabbing at an almost-black window, and the thick clump made it look like there was a shadow lurking behind a curtain.