ANYTHING BUT ENEMIES

12. red pen wars

"GIVE ME YOUR PAPER."

Dane's sitting in the seat next to me now, Ruby—the traitor—having moved next to Eric after being ordered away by Frances Delaney.

"My paper? Why?"

"So I can read your poem."

The words have the effect of a valley girl duh.

"I know you're just gonna talk shit about it."

In response, his eyes flash up from the loose leaf in my hand, brow raising. "Maybe you should have written a better poem then."

I scoot back in my chair. "You haven't even seen it yet."

"I know you were out all last night. In your jammies." He leans forward slightly, and a chill goes up my spine. "Out of curiosity, what were you up to, Cleodora?"

"See, that's a secret I'll never tell." I unfold my paper to slide it over to him before snatching his own and holding it up to the light.

He bristles at the movement, lips twisting in annoyance. "If you want something you should ask politely."

"Leave me alone?" I bat my lashes with faux sweetness.

"There you go. Just add less sarcasm next time, and people just might start to think you're a respectable member of society."

"Cute, Doggy. Real cute."

He only hums, red mark carving itself down my paper. I can feel my teeth start to grit together.

Pissed, my eyes start to flit across his poem, mouth parting slightly as I take in the words because holy shit Dane Anderson is a romantic.

His poem is about angels. Angels—and I cannot make this up. The kind up in heaven who do good and say do not be afraid and have wings and shit.

The kind that do God's bidding and become guardians on Earth, cherubs waltzing across the ceiling of the the Sistine Chapel, heavenly beings.

It's melancholic and hopeful, bitter yet sweet, a stream of consciousness piece with an abrupt ending.

And as much as it pains me to admit it, it's really fucking good.

"Say, Cleodora, did you perhaps write this with a concussion?"

Broken out of my stupor, I scowl. "Did you write this after god told you she hates you?"

"She?"

"God's indisputably a woman."

"God's a being beyond our comprehension."

"Correction, yours—for example, a woman. And just out of curiosity, did no one teach you how to hold a pen correctly?"

His eyes narrow, the red piece of plastic in his hand slightly bending under white knuckles. "What does that mean?"

"I had better handwriting as a newborn. I bet you can't even read your own work."

"All those red marks on my paper, and you didn't understand a word? Looks like someone's behaving a little irrationally."

"Oh, I don't have to be able to read it to know improvement is needed. Gut feeling."

Now he scoffs, tugging the paper from under my palms, but I quickly reach out to take it back.

"Ah, ah. I'm not done yet, sorry. I guess it's one of the downsides of not being well-versed in hieroglyphics."

"Very amusing, Cleodora. In that case, let me continue to give you feedback." A violent scratch on paper ends his sentence, and I glance over to see a huge mark cutting through to the table.