ANYTHING BUT ENEMIES

36. a celebratory handshake

IT'S JUDGEMENT DAY.

Again.

Yeah, this is getting repetitive.

I click the top of my pen anxiously, foot tapping under the table as Ruby relays the events of some 'wild party' that she went to a couple months ago.

Obviously I stopped listening some time ago, but she hasn't noticed yet.

"Hey, Cleo, are you even listening?"

Dammit.

"Yeah, yeah. Totally."

She cuts her eyes at my response before laying her hand over mine, effectively silencing the pen clicks. "Are you that nervous about the rankings? I thought you said everything worked out in the end."

"I mean, yeah. It did."

"So what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I'm just...filled with anticipation, I guess."

"Right," Ruby drops her elbow onto the table, watching me with narrowed eyes.

I'm about to respond defensively when the chair across from me is pulled out, and Dane sits down, eyes meeting mine.

Something like a smirk tugs at his lips for all of a half-second before he shifts his eyes down to the table to pull out his folder and pen.

My teeth grit together, and I quickly look away, scowling when I notice Ruby saw the whole exchange.

She gives me a knowing look that I try my best to shake off, settling to the back of my seat to arrange my pens. My leg bounces up and down under the table, and the sound of shuffling fills the room as I hastily arrange all my papers.

Where the hell is Frances?

"Hello everyone! How are we feeling today?"

An answer to my call, our writing instructor waltzes in, tote bag tucked under her arm and a big smile on her face.

A chorus of different answers is the response to her question, and she chuckles as she sets her stuff down on the table.

"If you said 'scared,' don't be. You all have been working on this piece together for quite some time, pushing your talent to places it's never been pushed before, trying new things, and making compromises. Today's just another exciting day of collaboration. We'll run through the ranking process one more time before the big solo project where we'll have a professional panel making the decisions.

Can we all pass up our pieces to the front?"

Out the corner of my eye, I can see Dane flip open his folder, pass our piece down the table toward the head where Frances is.

My leg bouncing worsens the longer I sit here, so close to him, awaiting our fate.

I can feel his eyes on the side of my head but decide not to move my gaze from Frances, not wanting anymore smirks or encouragement or questioning looks or whatever the hell he wants to offer me.

"Alright, let me get out the forms," Frances grabs a stack of sheets from her bag before sending it around the table. We each take enough papers to review each story. Then she distributes the story copies.

Time passes by at a snail's pace, each time the buzzer goes off to signal the end of a grading period feeling like an eternity.

By the time we're done, my writing hand is cramping and I feel like I'm drifting away from my own body. I accidentally look up, making eye contact with Dane again. That, very quickly, pulls me back into the present.