I STAY IN THE ART room over lunchtime, clearing up my equipment. Something indecipherable steeps it when it's empty; an intoxicating freedom.
Running the brushes under the tap, I watch as rich hues of coloured water swirl down the drain in a kaleidoscope, before they're propped up in an old mug, the bristles left a dark brown and dripping wet, diamond droplets of water slipping down the chipped wooden handles.
Soft music emanates from my phone, the recording of mine and JJ's performance from Saturday. I sing along lightly, a spring in my step as I take a damp tissue back to my workspace, attempting to scrub the paint stains from the otherwise pristine wood; leaving a trail of soapy water in my wake.
The door opens as I bend over the desk, wiping furiously at a stubborn slash of orange paint. The pattern of the footfalls is rhythmic and familiar, and so I'm not surprised when Archer greets me, boosting himself onto the dry section of the desk.
"Hi." I flick my wrist, releasing the tissue from my grasp. It makes an arc, airbourne, before colliding with the side of the bin and falling to a miserable heap on the floor. I cross the room to get it, tossing it directly into the bin before joining Archer on my desk.
"Hi," he says, his voice rising above the looped recording. "You were really good. You are really good,"
"Thanks." I fold the pleats of my skirt, pressing them against one another. "I wish good was good enough."
"Maybe if you let other people hear you sing," Archer murmurs. "Saturday was a step up, you know? But I know you could go further, if you invested in some singing lessons, started a channel online…"
Stick it to Rebel's face. The words are unspoken, but I hear them leave his lips one and the same. It could be all he cares about; could be the true anger flaring in his blood, but part of me wants this to be about me, not Rebel. I don't want to be addenda to her name, anymore. I don't want everything I do to be about her.
"Maybe," I agree regardless, nodding my head with little conviction. "But right now, I'm here, and―wait, why are you? Weren't you supposed to be getting lunch?"
"I'm not really hungry," he admits, seeming to make a face at the thought. Features carved out of iron, as a stricken expression flashes across his face, no more than a snapshot before it fades away. "You know, those last performers. I can't get them out of my head."
"Which ones?" I wrinkle my nose in thought, forcing the memory to resurface in my mind. In a glare of fluorescent lights and twisted perception, my brain dredges up sharp smiles and bleeding fingers; a flautist and a harpist, who I was sure I would never forget. "I know who you mean, but why not?"
"I can't get their faces out of my mind," he exasperates, his fist clenching. "They just have this uncanny resemblance to Thomas Garcia Bracero and Santana Flores D'Ávila, and it's stupid, but I can't seem to shake that thought."
���It is stupid." I laugh. "You and I both know them and Elina moved away years ago. The whole family picked up and left when we were like, nine."
He frowns, an indentation into his forehead seeming to encompass the depths of his confusion. "That's what you know...but I thought after what happened to Elina all those years ago, the rumour was that they went missing? I mean, after the accident, who could blame them?"
What? His words pull me up short. Suddenly, I'm fish gasping for air on the end of a hook, though externally, my composure remains, save for my tightening grip on the edge of the tape. "What? Nothing happened to Elina. There wasn't an accident."
Archer's permanently black eyes flicker with a lightning bolt of realisation. "How could I forget? There can't have been an accident if there was no accident."
"Archer?" His name slips off my tongue, uncertain, but he's already sliding off the table and starting towards the door. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
He only turns when my fingers wrap around his elbow. "What does that mean?" I repeat again, quieter, afraid of all the walls closing in on us and crushing us beneath the pressure.
"Honestly?" A faint smile, scrubbed away by uncertainty, trickles across his lips. "I don't know, Ivory. I don't want to believe it, but I'm not sure. See you around."
Archer shakes off my touch and walks away.
Even as the door swings shut behind him, he doesn't look back.
☆☆☆