I PURPOSEFULLY TAKE A LONG time packing away my things. Everyone knows this is where Archer spends his time, and I need the classroom to clear out so I can talk to him.
As soon as the bell trills its screeching rhythm, everyone's out the door. Archer's head remains bent over a fresh sheet of paper, his pencil scratching in time to the ticking of the clock.
It's against what Rebel would want, and the feeling itches at me as I approach. But then again, I console myself, as I fall into the seat beside him. She doesn't know about the drawing.
Though my presence is apparent beside him, Archer doesn't look up.
"Hey," I test. His pencil stills, but he offers no acknowledgement before he continues to sketch. "Hey. Archer, I'm talking to you."
"Talking to me or sending a message?" He quips, his pencil finally clattering to the desk. He finally glances up to meet my gaze, and his obsidian eyes pierce into mine. "I want a conversation with you. Not Rebel."
"Well, I have a few questions," I insist, jutting out my chin. From my pocket, I reveal the piece of paper, unfolding it and smoothing it out in front of him. "What the hell is this supposed to mean?"
"You're an artist." His eyes are level on me. "It's not that difficult to interpret."
"I understand what it means." My spine bristles. "I just want to know what you're trying to tell me, by drawing this. It's not enough to know what it means if I don't know what you're trying to say."
"Look." He shuts his sketchbook, the pages falling closed with a flutter. Standing to full height while I'm sat down, Archer towers over me as he pushes a hand through his unruly waves. "I'm an artist. I make observations. Then I turn them into pretty pictures. Yours might be less pretty, but it's still an observation. Rebel is trapping you. She doesn't let you be who you wanna be."
"That isn't true." I rise to my feet, steadying myself on the stool's footrest. "You can take your observations, and leave."
"Even the one about you not even wanting to be here?" His eyes twinkle, issuing a deadly challenge. "I've always heard you sing while you work. It's so much more passionate than anything in your sketchbook. So, why are you here?"
"Because I like art," I utter, a sense of unease creeping up my spine. I don't know who Archer thinks he is, watching me too closely and knowing too many details about my life, but I suppose with no friends, it's hard not to absorb everything. "I didn't really think I was cut out for a Specials in singing, so I chose art."
"You chose art, or Rebel chose art for you?" He takes one step closer. I'm a Witch and he's an ex-IP, but like at the party, he doesn't seem to be afraid of me at all. Despite our social divisions, he speaks as if he's above me.
"I chose it," I say, as my heart pulls in my chest. I know Archer catches the small catch of my breath when he smirks.
"She chose it,��� he says, and a devastating feeling pulses through me that he's right. I remember the moment clearly as we were signing off our forms, even more vividly when he adds; "She was too scared you'd get the spotlight, otherwise. Rebel Montenero felt threatened by you, so she manipulated you."
"I'm not a threat to Rebel. She's my best friend." Hands on hips, smouldering. "She wouldn't do that to me anyway. She doesn't need to. She's a Montenero. I'm just Ivory Blue."
"Or, maybe…" All at once, he falls back in step, starting to pack away his things and swing a bag over his shoulder. "That's all she wants you to be."
"Wait." I stumble off of the stool and run after him, my hand on his shoulder grabbing him back. "You can't go. I'm talking to you, and you should take this back, anyway"—my hand fumbles in my pocket again, brandishing the drawing—"I don't need it."
"You should keep it." His eyes are fixed on me once more, his low voice resonating throughout the echoing room. "You might need it someday. A reminder, of who helped you out when you were blinded."
"Finley—," I don't mean to say it that way; it slips out by accident, but it extricates a laugh from his throat.
"It's Archer now. Screw your system, and screw Rebel." A flush overtakes his face, a wicked grin pulling at his lips. "Watch yourself, Ivory Blue. You're treading on a minefield."
He disappears at the moment where the world becomes a standstill, and the door swings shut behind him.
I don't understand most of what he told me, but it sounds like a threat.
☆☆☆