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“That’s part of the problem. He’s funny, ridiculously hot, and easy to talk to, but I need to stay far away from him.”

Her eyebrows raise. “Does this have anything to do with your ex?”

“Everything has to do with him.” I’m pathetic. He’s still on my mind and I can’t shake it. I don’t want him back, but he messed me up for anyone else.

Art isn’t your future, Liza. You won’t have to work when I sign my first MLB deal.

It’s a silly hobby. My games are more important.

With Layne, I doubted myself and my abilities constantly. I can’t give my heart to someone who will smash it into pieces again or dull my sparkle.

“I don’t have much experience in this department.” She lowers her head down in embarrassment. “But I imagine there’s good guys out there, too.”

Emberly comes out with me every now and then, but she’d much rather stay home. “I promised myself that I wouldn’t start dating again for at least a few years,” I remind her. “Casual is fine, but Hartley and I wouldn’t be capable of casual.”

“What are you going to do about the tutoring situation?”

“I have no idea,” I whimper. “I need to set ground rules with him.”

“Then start with that, and you can request a different student at any time.” She stares at me with a sympathetic grin.

“Thanks, roomie.” I reach over and pull her into a hug. Squishing my cheek to hers, it hits me how much I love having her as my roommate again for another year.

Reaching out from under the covers, my hand grabs for my phone to stop the obnoxious dinging sounds inches from my head. I swipe my hands through my hair and blink a few times to shake the blurry vision. Groaning at my day ahead, I try not to pre-panic. I have a full day of my favorite art classes, and I refuse to let my second tutoring session with Hartley dampen my spirits. Who knows, maybe hewilltake this seriously and keep the flirting down to a minimum.

I slide the makeshift mirror-door to the side to pick out an outfit for the day from the cramped closet. I push the tightly packed clothes to the side to check out one option, a pink sundress. I’m looking for something simpler today, so I squeeze the outfit back in. I finally land on a light-wash denim dress paired with tan sandals. My hair falls in natural waves, and I don’t have the energy to straighten it. Pulling the strands from the front of my face, I use a daisy clip to pin them together in the back.

Emberly’s classes start later than mine, so I’m careful to not slam the door when I leave. Jogging down the stairs allows the Florida sun to hit my skin from the windows and bring me to life for the day. I take the short walk to the Jennison Art Building, named after some old guy that used to go here. My first class of the day is a sketch class, and so far, it’s my favorite course of the semester. We’re learning about how to level-up our sketches, adding movement and depth. I take my unofficial assigned seat and pull out my leather sketchbook and lead art pencils. I splurged a little this summer and bought professional supplies for my new art courses. I take a few spare minutes before class starts to adjust myself at the cold table. Luckily, most of myclasses have tables instead of cramped desks, so we have plenty of space to work on our designs.

“Welcome, future world changers of the art realm!” A booming voice carries through the classroom. Professor Gibs waltzes in, dressed in his typical eccentric style. Today, his long, gray hair falls loose around his shoulders. His signature beard-braid is the star of the show along with his tie dye suit jacket and purple velvet pants. “We’ve been doing a lot of talking the past few weeks. I think it’s time we put our hands to work andcreate!” he continues on with an eager clap. The quirky artist gives us direction for the piece we’ll create in class today. The parameters are simple: create a piece with movement.

I flip the sketchbook open to the first blank page and get to work on the background elements. I land on a nature piece, since that is the simplest way to show movement, in my opinion. Channeling my Louisiana roots, I begin sketching massive oak trees, paying close attention to the knots that jut out of the grass around trees with that much history. I add in moss that curves in one direction to create the wind movement needed to show the humid breeze that bristles through the swamp. Once I begin sketching, the sounds of mumbling students and the tapping of art supplies on the table muffle out. I’m transported into a world where Ibecomethe piece of art I’m working on. The loud ringing of an alarm jolts me out of the little world I’m busy creating back to the present.

“Time’s up for the day.” Professor Gibs skips to the front of the room with a huge smile on his face. “I ended a few minutes early to explain a semester-long project you’ll need to start working on.” Scooting my chair forward, I lean in to hang on his every word. My interest is piqued. “Each of you will create a ten piece portfolio that you will turn in at the end of the semester.” My face lights up at the thought of creating more pieces to add to my ever growing collection of original art. “The piece youcreated today is entry number one. . .but there’s a catch.” He smirks mischievously. “The following nine pieces must have a consistent theme that is different from the piece you created in class today.”

What?My comfort zone has always been natural scenes, specifically things unique to New Orleans or the South. The whispers buzz around the room, others feeling similar to me.

“There’s a method to my madness.” He fake cackles as if he’s a Disney villain. “Whatever you sketched today is your comfort zone. Humans have an instinct to go to what they’ve always known. We all need a push to be great, but that doesn’t define our greatness.” My classmates’ heads nod up and down, and silently acknowledge that he’s got a point. “The artists that begin my class seldom recognize the ones that leave.” He looks to the side and grins, lost in thought. “Now go break the barriers of your confined artistic abilities! As always, I’m here anytime for advice.” With that, the class scuffles out the door. No doubt all of us are igniting ideas for the sketch portfolio project.

Hartley

4:54 p.m. glares at me from my cracked iPhone screen. I have six minutes to order and make it to the study room on time. Our first session was. . .awkward. I can understand Liza’s apprehension about tutoring me. I don’t carry the best reputation around campus, and I’m sure she thinks I’m an academic blow-off who only cares about partying. The only version of me she sees is the plastered flirt who makes reckless decisions. Cool for a friend, not so much for boyfriend material. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. As a result, I’m waiting in this ridiculously-long Starbucks line to order her favorites as a peace offering. Once I finally reach the counter and place her order, I do another time check: 4:58 p.m. Thankfully, the coffee shop is attached to the campus library, so I’ll have no issuesmaking it right on time. To my surprise, I’m greeted by an empty study room, so I take a minute to place her treats on her side of the table and wait.

Rushing in with heavy breaths, Liza says, “I’m so sorry, I got caught up–-” Once the door gently closes behind her, she lifts her head up and stops cold at the items in front of her. “What’s this?” Her face goes pale as if she’s seen a ghost and not a sugary beverage and treat.

I flash her a dimpled-smile that stretches across my face as I lean over the table to get a closer look at Liza’s expression. She’sbreathtakingin all denim with those little flowers in her hair I crave the sight of. “Your favorites.”

“How do you know my favorites?” She walks to the table and picks up the dripping plastic cup and tilts it around a few times. The cut strawberries dance around the ice cubes as she watches. Setting the drink down, she opens the crinkly paper bag to take out the chocolate cake pop sprinkled with edible confetti pieces.

“Well, I hate to blow my cover, but here it goes. . .” I close my eyes in faux worry, then take a deep breath before cracking my knuckles. “I’m kind of obsessed with you.”

“Yeah, right.” A soft giggle releases from her chest as she walks around the desk to playfully shove my shoulder. “Thank you, Hart. This made my day sweeter.”

If that doesn’t swell my chest with pride. I may screw up a lot of things, but I live for moments like this where I get it right. “Anytime, and look, I’m sorry if I caught you off guard last week. I’m serious about this.” My smile fades to a stoic seriousness. “Coach put me on academic probation. If I don’t get my grades up this semester, I’ll be benched or potentially kicked off the team.” I grip my thighs as worry washes over me. Liza doesn’t respond. Instead, she listens intently as she bites her bottom lip in concentration. “I know you probably think I don’t take anything seriously, but that’s not the case.”

“What is it then?” she asks.

“I have ADHD.” I grip the back of my neck and rub, methodically to keep my composure. “I want to do well. It’s just hard to focus. By the time I take a test, all the information feels like it’s dumped from my brain. I don’t know how to fix it.” I’m typically an open book, but Violet is the only other person who knows about my in-depth struggles with ADHD. I don’t need anyone’s sympathy, but it’s important for Liza to see thereal mebehind the show I put on for the rest of the world.