Page 40 of Burn Bright

Ben doesn’t seem to care about it. His smile reaches his glittering eyes. “That’s the first timeanyonehas offered that guess, so you get all the creative points.”

I make a face.

He frowns. “What?”

“Creative?” I say the word like it has necrotizing fasciitis. It’s about as foreign in my life as flesh-eating bacteria. “No one’s ever called me creative. My third-grade teacher once told me my imagination was about as vast as a puddle.”

He leans forward, and I lose sight of his face but I’m making an educated guess that he’s full of pity.

Shit.Why do I even open my mouth? “I’m not saying this for you to pity me?—”

“I’m not pitying you,” he interrupts swiftly, leaning back now, and I see the look in his blue eyes. Oh…he ispissed.

His expression flames. “What kind of shitty third-grade teacher says that to a kid?” It’s as if he wants to storm out of the lecture hall, hunt down my elementary teacher, and have some tough words with them. I am not used to whateverthisis. Protection? Defense? An armed firing squad? I don’t hate it. I’m just not sure I deserve it.

“In defense of Ms. Larsen, I had been correcting her on her geometry lessons. She wasn’t good with quadrilaterals. I was kind of a dick in grade school. I also only used the yellow crayon, which annoyed her greatly.”

Ben shakes his head. “I don’t care how much of an asshole you were at eight. You were still a kid.”

“I guess,” I say into a shrug. I unzip my backpack and take out a red pencil pouch. He casually steals one of my blue ballpoint pens as soon as it’s on my desk. Is this what friends do? Share pens?

It feels comfortable like we’ve been this way for a hundred years. Maybe that’s why I’m not shriveling in my seat with him knowing more about my childhood. Normally, I’d find ways to avoid talking about it. It’s embarrassing how much of a know-it-all I was when I was young, but I don’t feel judged by him.

Ben’s still reeling. I can see it in his eyes like a thousand wheels revolving in his head. I take it he’s not someone who can brush something aside so easily. He slips the pen behind his ear, his baseball cap on backward. He leans against my shoulder to get closer, and his voice lowers as more students file into the lecture hall. “Did you tell your parents about your teacher?”

“A little,” I say. “I told them she didn’t like me, and I mentioned the whole ‘puddle’ thing.”

His shoulders slacken in relief. “So what’d they do?”

“Do?” I slow as I flip open my college-ruled notebook.

“Yeah,” Ben nods. “My mom would have stormed the school and told your teacher that imagination comes in different shadesand sizes and if it’s yellow then it’s yellow and to not knock you down…in so many words.”

“She sounds amazing,” I say, trying not to be wistful. I don’tneeda mom like that. I’ve been fine without a legion to go to bat for me.

“She is,” Ben says fondly, but his concern has now tripled on me because I haven’t exactly answered his question. “They didn’t do anything?”

“They had a lot going on,” I say softly. “I was told to be nicer to Ms. Larsen.”

He shakes his head once more, his anger manifesting through the veins in his arms down to the clench of his knuckles. He blows out a frustrated breath. “You know my brother?—”

“Depends which one,” I cut in.

He tilts his head to me. “The smart one.”

“Aren’t you all smart?” I banter, and we share emerging smiles. Our eyes drift up and down—from our gazes to our lips. Acknowledging that we’re causing each other to smile introduces a new heat among the feather-light sensations.

Attraction is a wild beast that wants to stampede over me. I’ve never felt it this powerfully—and definitely not in the most ordinary of moments. This isn’t a date, okay. I’m in aclassroom.

About to endure the worst class on my schedule (a necessary evil).

“The smartest brother,” he clarifies in a husky voice. He clears out the noise, and I can’t even mentally categorize how hot that was because I focus on his words. “He was a lot like you. Talked back to teachers and stuff when he was little…or so I was told.”

“Or so you were told,” I repeat. “Perks of you being the youngest brother. Getting all that information second-hand. Like a little thrift shop of memories.”

“And she said you weren’t creative.” He takes his pen and bops me on the nose.

I scowl instantly. Why did I not hate that?