The Songs in Our Hearts: A Young Adult Romance(17)

“Uh-huh.” Micah laughed.

“Shhh.” I pushed a finger to my lips and scanned the room to make sure the librarians wouldn’t come to yell at us.

“You need to live a little, Charlie. Really! You’re so scared of what people are going to think of you in every little thing that you do or say.” Micah sat back in his seat, easing his hands behind his head.

“Who cares if I’m a little rowdy? Everyone is noisy once in their life in a library. Just like having a crush on a guy—who cares? You’re not the first girl in the world to like someone. God help you if you are!” He chuckled. “You’re so afraid of allowing yourself to step out of the box you’ve so securely trapped yourself in, and I don’t get it. What are you so afraid of?”

I didn’t like being put on the spot, and I certainly didn’t like that Micah thought he had me figured out. He was far from right. I wasn’t afraid of liking him. And I certainly wasn’t afraid of living. It was the vulnerability that scared me to death. It was the possibility of once again being that young girl of my past, sitting in the mall, watching Samantha walk right by me on the arm of the guy she knew I liked. What if Samantha suddenly changed her interest from Daan to Micah? What if something did happen between Micah and me, and Sam took him away, too?

“I think our definitions of ‘living a little’ are different. And you clearly don’t know anything about me.”

“Exactly. Because you haven’t given me the chance,” Micah replied. “Thankfully, you’re pretty easy to read. You’re not as complicated as you may hope to be.”

“You think living a little is going out to the football field and smoking pot with your friends. You probably think drinking is cool, too, and that subjecting a random girl in your English class to an endless amount of teasing about kissing is the way to go.”

“It’s a joke. You know, when I say something funny and you laugh? Or, let me guess, you don’t know how to do that, either?”

I wanted to flip him off and storm out of the library, but it wouldn’t help me in the long run. I still had to work with him on the stupid project.

“I think we have different interpretations of what constitutes a joke,” I retorted. “We have nothing in common.”

“Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be, Charlie? We’re different people. We have different groups of friends, different hobbies.” He sat up straight, crossing his arms over his chest. “But it doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

“Maybe I have no interest in becoming your friend. I’m only sitting here with you because I have to be.”

“Ouch, as if your words could get anymore prickly.” Micah glared at me. “Trust me, it’s mutual. I have no interest in being your friend, either.” He picked up his notebook and grabbed his backpack from the floor, swinging it over his shoulder.





“Bad Blood” (Live Piano)

Bastille





I DIDN’T STOP HIM. I couldn’t have cared less. He was irritating and beyond infuriating. I was relieved to finally be away from him.

But, as soon as he disappeared from sight, I was flooded with guilt. Why was I always snubbing him? I ignored the clock on the wall and the lurking twenty minutes I had left of study hall. I decided to pack my belongings, and signed myself out of the library. Spending my last period of the day in the art studio was the sort of emotional therapy I needed.

I was relieved to see the room was almost empty when I arrived. Daan was working quietly in the corner on the pottery wheel, while a few underclassmen painted. I always enjoyed watching Daan mold something new with his hands. Sometimes I would tease him by singing “Unchained Melody” until he’d smirk and say, “I’m not Patrick Swayze.”

“A girl can dream,” I’d reply with a playful wink. We always had fun together.

I sat beside Daan, dropping my backpack to my feet. He looked up.

“Hey, Charlie. What brings you here?” Daan returned his attention to the pile of clay in his hands, dipping his fingers into a cup of water on the table, near his knee.

“I just wanted to hang out with you. Where’s Mrs. Swartz?” There was no sign of the art teacher anywhere.

“It’s just me. Mrs. Swartz had to run to a faculty meeting. I guess I’m the one in charge until she returns.”

“Should I call you Mr. Scott?”

“It’s ‘Great Scott’ to you,” he teased. “Want to make something?” He stopped the pottery wheel and wiped his hands on the long, paint-stained apron he wore over his blue jeans and shirt. His hands had a few layers of clay on them. “I have some clay you can use. I got a bit too much.”

I smiled at Daan. He always knew exactly how to cheer me up. “Sure,” I replied. I didn’t want to think about Micah or the fight we just had. It was stupid. Daan gestured to the other station with his dirty hands.

“Just bring that over…and the clay is on the table there.”

I got everything set up, along with a cup of water, and started moving the clay between my hands. I enjoyed getting the slimy substance between my fingers. I never made anything that was worth saving, no matter how many tricks Daan showed me. He tried to teach me how to make a cup once; it ended up looking like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.