Shades of Darkness by A. R. Kahler Page B

macaroni and cheese and fake chicken nuggets. Oh yes, Saturdays were always good days, food-wise at least. Lunchtime was also an excellent people-watching opportunity.
    Even though there weren’t any real cliques in the bitchy sense, the kids of Islington definitely filtered into their own groups. It made sense; I mean, you spend a good chunk of your day talking ceramics with a group of people and you’ll naturally be drawn to spending your social time with them as well. It was ridiculously easy to pick out who focused in what: the dancers were all shapes and sizes, but they had a definite poise when they walked that singled them out from the rest of us clunky movers; the drama kids were—just like at public high—the loudest and most outgoing and prone to fits of overbearing laughter; the musicians were reserved and generally had that air of I spend a lot of time staring at sheet music and that’s what I’m thinking about now ; the writers just looked depressed most of the time; and the visual artists? Well, we were the ones who looked like we didn’t shower very often and had gotten all of our clothes from a more bohemian Cirque du Soleil. Myself included.
    â€œReady for the gauntlet?” Ethan asked, bringing my attention back to the present.
    â€œNever,” I muttered.
    â€œIt won’t be that bad,” Ethan said. “I mean, the scene couldn’t be that open to interpretation. Right?”
    â€œUm, really? Have you already forgotten the last one?”
    Ethan buried his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair in defeat. “I’m trying,” he mumbled. “I never knew doing a painting of flowers could release so much emotional trauma.”
    â€œYeah, well, symbolism and shit.”
    â€œI’ll never look at a lily the same way again. If I hadn’t known I was gay before, I would have after that piece of . . . art.”
    â€œI’ll just be happy if Tamora didn’t do this one naked. Her poor roommate. I don’t think I can stand to critique another piece of work done via ladybits.”
    Ethan shivered.
    â€œCan we please talk about something else?” he implored. “Something not about genitalia?”
    â€œI catch you guys at the strangest moments,” Oliver said, sitting beside Ethan. Ethan reached over and stole a chicken nugget from Oliver’s tray before the boy’s butt even hit the seat. “What’s this about genitalia?”
    â€œArt talk,” I muttered. “You wouldn’t get it. Rather, you wouldn’t want to get it.”
    â€œI think you may be right about that one.” Oliver managed to intercept another grab from Ethan. “You have your own!”
    â€œBut stolen food always tastes better,” Ethan said with a grin.
    Oliver shook his head. “I don’t understand why I love him.”
    â€œNeither do I,” I responded. Then stole one of Oliver’s chicken nuggets.
    â€œI’m cute?” Ethan ventured. “And crafty. Definitely crafty.”
    â€œSpeaking of cute,” Oliver said, and gestured with his chin to my left. And there, lo and behold, was Chris, bee-lining toward us with a tray heaped with food.
    â€œYou’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered. Ethan raised an eyebrow, but before I could answer or tell him to keep his stupid mouth shut, Chris was standing beside us. Beside me . It took a great deal of self-control not to scoot over, even though the other half of the round table was free.
    â€œHey guys,” he said. There was a tentativeness to his voice that was cute. I mean, cute if I could actually care about that. “Mind if I sit with you?”
    And I won’t lie, I almost told him we were just about to leave, but that was stupid seeing as Oliver’s tray was still full and mine was only half picked over. Ugh, what was I becoming? He was just a guy and I wasn’t interested in dating and