Volcano in hand, I trudge down the hallway, trying to dodge students bustling out of their classes while also doing my best not to trip and fall. Luckily, school just ended, so the amount of students slowly dwindles down. Still a fire hazard, though.

Rounding an empty corner, I spot a janitor wheeling out a large trash can and a stand with a broomstick on it into the bathroom. Our gazes connect for a second, and I manage to muster enough strength to return a smile.

Heading across the dimly lit corridor, I halt in front of Ms. Valdez's classroom, where she is collecting a few stray beakers left on the lab tables into a clear container. Upon my arrival, she instantly perks up, her pink lips spreading into a slow smile.

"Wow Remi," she says, approaching me as she pulls off her lab coat, "this looks awesome. Can't wait for the freshmen to use it in their experiments."

"Where do you want me to put this?" I ask, arms very much sore from having to carry this up a flight of stairs. It's by no means heavy, I'm just extremely out of shape.

"You two can set it in the back table where all the chemicals are," she answers pointing to the table in question, which is situated beside the wall with all the windows that are open, the blinds allowing sunlight to cascade into the room.

Two? Hesitantly, I steal a peek over my shoulder, and sure enough, Blaise is idly leaning on the doorway, hands stuffed into his beige pockets, his volcano on the floor next to his feet. In horror, I quickly turn back around, scrambling to the back tables, almost stumbling in the process. Not gonna lie, the only reason why I decided to turn this project in so late in the week is that I figured that he'd be done way earlier, and I could avoid bumping into him outside of class. Clearly, that plan failed, so now I have to resort to retreating as fast as possible. Confrontation is something I chose to avoid at all costs, and it doesn't help that what he said really fucked with my head. After further consideration, I realized how I must've come across in those situations, so maybe what he said had an ounce of truth to it in that respect. Still, that doesn't mean I'm willing to admit it out loud and it sure as hell doesn't mean I want to see or talk to him after that argument.

Immediately after plopping my volcano onto the table, I practically bolt out the doorway, leaving before Ms. Valdez can say goodbye.

Walking as fast as my legs can possibly go, I head toward the stairwell.

To my dismay, the sound of someone calling my name ricochets off the walls. Crap.

Slightly panicking, I slip into an empty classroom, where all the desks are clustered into fours, the chairs are placed on top so that the custodians will have an easier time cleaning. If I recall correctly, this is Mr. Arburtia's classroom, which explains why there are geometry proofs written in cursive handwriting on the chalkboard and the paper number line bordering the ceiling.

Unsure of what else to do, I sit on the floor by a redwood desk, leaning my back against the side. This way, you can't see me if you just peek through the door. It's as good of a hiding place as any.

I realize that my master orchestrated plan has failed when I hear the pounding of footsteps growing closer and closer. Internally, I groan. There's no way I can escape now. I just have to pray that I'm not seen.

"Remiya? Are you hiding from me?" The question was meant to be serious, but that doesn't stop a note of amusement from leaking into his tone.

Forcing myself not to look at him, I focus on my hands, folding my fingers over the sleeve hem of my sweater. The grey lines are worn out, and there are threads fraying. "...No."

"Then what are you doing back there?"

"Um..." Pause. I finally crawl out of my hiding spot. "This is a part of my routine. I always do this."

Of course, he knows I'm fucking lying. But surprisingly, he's nice about it, only nodding in response.

Rubbing the nape of his neck, it appears like he's contemplating a decision. Then, after an awkward beat of silence, he sets down his backpack and takes a seat on the floor nearby, making sure to put enough distance between us so I'm comfortable.

Is it too late or rude to sprint out of here? It doesn't look like he's planning on moving anytime soon.

Abruptly, I clear my throat, making a move to stand up, however, he grabs my wrist before it can happen.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, pulling his hands onto his lap.

"Apology not accepted."

"Really?" he grimaces, "really?"

"I don't know why you're so surprised, that wasn't a sincere apology."

"What do you want me to do then? Beg?"

"That's exactly what I want."

"You're killing me here," he murmurs, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. "Fine. I'm sorry for being such an asshole and that wasn't right to say to you. I fully take back my actions and I'm pleading for you to accept my apology, your majesty. Better?"

"Yeah."

"So does that mean all's forgiven?"

"Nope."

He gives a pointed look. "Really? C'mon, what else do you want? My dignity can't handle this right now."

"Man, you really must want that hot pot huh?"

"Of course I do. But that's beside the point. It's going to be much more awkward now when we do those assignments..."

"I don't know," a poorly suppressed smile threatens to form on my face, "you really really hurt my feelings. I couldn't sleep for weeks."

"It hasn't even been a week since I said that!"

"That's how badly I was hurt. It literally transcended time."

"Then what do you want me to do?"

My interest piques. "So what you're saying is you'll do anything?"

"That's within reason," he amends, cringing, "jeez, what am I getting myself into?"

"Obviously. I'm not a monster. I just want to see what's in your sketchbook."

His expression softens. "You really want to see it huh?"

"Duh."

"Alright, alright," he obliges, zipping open his Jansport backpack, and I steal a glimpse of its contents. Mostly school stuff that's in pristine condition like his binder, pencil case, notebooks, and textbooks. With a firm, yet hesitant grip, he hands me his prized possession and sighs. He's definitely not crazy about this idea. "All yours for now."

The book's a lot heavier than it looks, but the cover is surprisingly sturdy. It'd be in immaculate condition if the binding wasn't hanging on by a thread. Excitedly, I flip through the brittle pages, marveling at the careful designs. The vast majority of his artwork is just a realistic replica of everyday items and sights like scrunchies, a crushed can of soda, and a broken CD. His medium of choice seems to be colored pencil, which he uses quite tastefully. Occasionally, there will be a 3D graffiti design or abstract work of art, but those are much more sparingly. He obviously put a lot of time and effort into these pieces and it shows. Easily the most impressive works of art I've seen in person.

Weirdly enough, it appears like he started a few sketches of what looks like a face or body, but gave up halfway and never came back.

"You really don't like drawing people huh?"

He shrugs, and a lock of hair curling over his forehead graces the faint scar on the bridge of his nose. Up close, I see his eyelashes cast feathery shadows on his cheekbones which are so sharp yet so delicate. "They're hard to get right. It's difficult to capture that sort of emotion in a 2D piece. I've learned that if I ever draw someone, I'd have to know them very well."

Each page has his signature on the bottom right and the date on the top left. The first date is from 2007. If I'm doing the math correctly, he would've been 12.

"Didn't you mention you wanted to be an artist when you were younger?" I ask quietly.

"Yeah."

"What changed? I mean, these are really impressive."

He exhales a sharp breath. "A lot of things, actually. Grew up and learned that life's not as simple as finding your passion and pursuing it. I realized how difficult the industry is to navigate. And I'm afraid that doing something I like for a monetary value or extrinsic validation seems to make it feel like a chore rather than a hobby."

Slowly I nod. "I get it. School kind of killed my passion for English and writing in general too, I guess," I agree, shrugging as I flicked through the rest of his worn-out leather sketchbook. Watercolor bleeds through the thin sheets of paper, but the washed-out quality unintentionally added a nostalgic touch to the drawings. The concentration of pigment varied depending on their distance from the light, but some of the splotches were out of place, suggesting that he has quite a bit of skill from teaching himself. "No offense to Mr. Tsega, but a book report doesn't leave much room for creativity. I feel like all the argumentative essays we do in class follow the same 5 paragraph template that we just fill in. That's no fun, especially because with writing, the possibilities are endless."

"Is that why you joined the journalism team?" he asks, leaning his back onto the desk.

"Partially," I confirm, "the other reason is that my sister was a part of it before she died and that seemed to help her get into Harvard."

"Your writing is really good," he says, more casually than I'd like, "your piece about how Congee reminds you of home was genius. The use of metaphors to describe Chinese culture blew me away. Seriously."

Fuchsia flushes my cheeks at the mention of the mini-essay I wrote that I'm not particularly proud of. "Dude, you remember that? That was in freshman year and I didn't think anyone actually read my column, much less our monthly newspapers."

"Are you kidding me? Your section is probably the best part of all the editions, and I'm not just saying that. You write some truly profound stuff."

"You should join then."

"Naw," he shakes his head. "I'm not much of a writer, actually. A drawing can get the same point across with less effort and it's simpler. Besides, art is a language everyone can speak. It's so universal."

"You have a point, I guess," I admit. "But it's so up for interpretation. Hardly a good way to communicate."

"I mean, can't you say the same about literature? I kind of like the grey areas it drawings provide though. It's not like math, where everything is so straightforward. It's much more complex."

"I kind of like the way math is so reliable, though. It's comforting knowing something is constant."

"That's not real life, though. Things change. They always do."

Despite the hostility that was brewing in the atmosphere moments ago, I couldn't help but smile. Because even after competing against each other for years, we were able to find a common denominator. Maybe math is right–differences do cancel out.

But math can't prove everything. I used to think that the path to my future would be a linear one, guided and molded by numbers.

At 18, I thought I'd be going to the number 1 college in America.

At 26, I pictured myself with 2 degrees.

At 28, I hoped I would be making a 6 figure salary.

Now, I'm not so sure. As I've learned, life's not as simple as a plug-and-chug equation. You have to account for those pesky confounding variables and extraneous solutions.

One thing's for sure, though: only I can figure it out.

"So are we cool now?" he tries, snatching the book from my hands.

"Yeah," I grin, scrambling onto my feet. "We're cool."

"Good," he says in relief, wiping the imaginary sweat off his forehead, "you're kind of scary when you're mad. Didn't want to deal with it any longer."

I can't help but scoff. "And don't you forget it."

"Trust me, I won't."