Super Crush (BxB)

Artist to Spy

Even as grade-minded as I am, I can honestly say that I have never been to school on a Saturday. But there is something strange and kinda cool about it. Almost like a secret club or something. We head around the side of the building to get to the back door of the art room. Clay hands me the boba he picked up on our way out of Cuppy's. He asked if I wanted one, but I had already made myself look like a coffee shop heifer, so I declined.

Instinctively, I take a sip of the cold tea. Taro flavor–great choice. Abe and I have no boundaries when it comes to sharing things, but I momentarily forget I'm not with Abe.

"Hey," Clay says, pretending to be mad.

As I munch on a tapioca ball, I laugh realizing what I have done.

"It was the boba handling fee." I play it off.

Clay: Half smile. Me: Full heart pounds.

"Understandable. But remember tea tariffs led to rebellions."

Such. A. Nerd.

But more heart pounding. Like whoa.

With a beep, his student card unlocks the security scanner. I shake off any of the festering theories of whom he made a shady business deal with to get weekend school access. Looks like he is telling the truth. Clay motions me in as he holds the door. I oblige, playfully nudging his solid left pec with my shoulder as I pass. 

My artist buddy sets up shop in the pottery and sculpting annex off the main section of the art room. Right away, he picks up some kind of needle-looking tool and adds some hashes to the back of the minotaur. I am amazed to see how much progress he has made since I saw his work last. I think back to our last meeting here weeks ago and compare it to his sculpture. He seemed so cold and uninterested then. Much like the raw mound of earth that he had just started making a figure out of.  Now, it's a different story. His piece has detail and depth. Anyone could tell what his goal is now. And, likewise, there is no denying that I have made a friend in Clay. His saving me from a lonely afternoon is perfect evidence of that.

But as I watch him, I wonder if his insides get jumpy and his palms get sweaty too when we interact. If he sees me and wants to talk to me, or more, take me in his arms. Coincidentally, he leans over the table to focus on where its tail meets the minotaur's bottom, and I can't take my eyes off Clay's bottom.

"Wow. Almost thirty minutes and you haven't said a word," he pokes without looking up from his craft.

I can't even act insulted. We both know I never stop talking.

"I am enjoying the view."

Shit. Could that have sounded any creepier?

"Oh?" It's less question and more accusation.

"I mean," I quickly try to save myself, "it's not every day I get to see a piece of art emerge so spectacularly from an artist's vision."

"So, you were talking about the sculpture?" He looks over his shoulder at me and winks.

Fucking hell.

"Your dad," I spurt.

This causes him to stop completely and turn to me. "Come again?"

Whatever color red is darker than a beet is the shade I know my face turns.

"You said you lived with your mom. Where is your dad? But now I am also realizing it could be a super personal question, and I feel like an asshole for asking."

"Yup, a real pendejo."

His soft chuckle and return to work let's me know that I didn't insult him.