Page 96 of Vicious Little Snakes

“Shouldn’t you say good luck?”

She smirks. “You don’t need luck—you’re pretty decent at the whole art thing.”

I laugh, “Only decent, huh?”

She’s not looking where she’s going, not that she has to, because I snap my fingers at the idiot standing a few feet behind her, who’s not looking.

“Hey, pay attention, dude. Move.”

The guy looks up and shuffles out of her way as she passes him, with her eyes fixed to mine the whole time, answering my question.

“Yes, decent. Stop fishing for compliments. It’s embarrassing and beneath you.”

I close the distance, quickly making her eyes grow wide, and her feet stop moving as I bend down, saying quietly in her ear, “Well, a compliment from Caroline Whitmore is worth its weight in gold, so—”

She giggles.Whoa.I’ve never heard that before. Her mouth clamps shut, looking embarrassed as I pull back, but I fucking love it.

“Was that a giggle, Carebear?”

She narrows her eyes, then hooks a finger over her shoulder. “Eww. I have to go hang out with my real friends now.” She spins around, looking over her shoulder. “See ya, Brooks.”

So mean. And I’m hanging on every goddamn word.

“Fine. Go,” I say, licking my bottom lip. “But don’t be mad when I watch you leave.”

She doesn’t look back, not even once.

I don’t know what just happened, but I want it to happen again, even if sirens are blaring in my head saying, don’t fucking do it. I take a few steps backward before turning around and hightailing it to my next class, replaying that giggle in my mind over and fucking over.

* * *

It’s hot. That’s all I can think of sitting in front of the man about to decide my future. This interview couldn’t have gone better. We talked about art—other people’s and my own. He asked me about where I saw myself in five years—to which I gave a perfect textbook answer.

I’ve nailed this damn thing, but I’m still so fucking nervous. I just want to hear the words: “Welcome to the program.”

“Well, Liam, I think that wraps it up. I want to thank you for coming in today. The Painting concentration is a highly coveted track within the Columbia School of the Arts. We only have four spots to offer this year.”

I’m nodding. “It’s incredible to just be considered.” I sound like an Oscar nominee.Shut up, Liam. “I know you probably get this a lot, but when should I expect to hear the committee’s decision?”

He folds his hands on the table and looks down for a moment. It’s long enough that my stomach drops.

“I’ll cut to the chase, Liam. The committee doesn’t feel your work is ready for this particular program. Although we happily welcome you to the undergraduate art program, we’re declining your acceptance into this concentration.”

“I don’t understand.”

I’m telling the truth. I don’t. The ringing in my ears is too loud, and I feel incapable of blinking. What the fuck. Everything I worked for, all the months I prepared—the years I’ve poured my heart into painting, all of it, for “we’re declining your acceptance.”

Fuck that.“Why?”

His hands flatten to the table. “We feel your work lacks real-world experience. There’s no honesty in it. Go out and have your heart broken, live a little—”

“Been there, done that.”

He looks confused. “I’m sorry?”

I rub my forehead. “I don’t understand. I researched my ass off. I know you gravitate toward impressionism, while three others on the committee prefer paintings with a contemporary flair. Fuck, I even know that last year you admitted more applicants that painted with oils over acrylic. I paid attention. I did the work.”

His face is somber. “No. You didn’t, Liam. We don’t care about medium or style—we care about the statement. We want to know what you have to say.”