A person who never truly lost themselves could never truly find themselves, either.

Art was everything right and wrong in the world. It understood what words couldn’t say.

“Oxymoron,” Levi said as we sat and gawked in amazement at Pollock’s work of art. “Greyed Rainbow.”

“Maybe it was his favorite word, too.” Pollock’s painting was twisted with mostly black, white, gray, and silver paint, but across the bottom of the canvas were tiny strands of yellows, greens, oranges, blues, and purples. “He hardly used paint brushes. He used sticks and knives and all kinds of different tools for his splattering and dripping paint techniques.”

“I get it now, Art. I get why you love abstract: at first it just looks messy, but then you realize that it is messy, but at the same time it’s not. It’s controlled chaos.”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“That’s what we should do for our final piece. We should do three live abstract paintings in front of the crowd. Each piece will be a different oxymoron. The first one you’ll paint loud and I’ll play the music soft. Second we could do an angry painting, and I’ll play happy. Then we could do love and I’ll play hate. And you could paint using sticks, rocks, and leaves from the woods. Tapping into your own Pollock.”

I turned to him and couldn’t stop smiling.

Brilliant.

He didn’t look at me, but he kept staring at Pollock’s work. “I like the way your brain works, Levi.”

“I’ve been thinking about kissing you,” he blurted out, still staring ahead. “I think about kissing you a lot. Then I feel bad that I’m thinking about kissing you because you’re going through some things, and hell, I’m going through some things, and the last thing you need to know is that I’m thinking about kissing you because that’s pointless. It’s so nonsensical, but very, very true, and that’s not all I think about.”

“What else?”

“I think about how you have forty-two freckles across your nose and how I want to kiss every single one forty-two times. I think about how you are the only one who laughs at Mr. Jones’ bad math jokes, and whenever I hear your laugh, I laugh too. I think about how you touch your stomach and smile when nobody’s looking. It’s like it’s your personal secret that the baby makes you happy, and you get to keep that to yourself. I feel bad that I noticed because it seemed like your secret, but I couldn’t help it.”

I swallowed hard and rubbed my arms as he continued.

“I think about how you’re beautiful when you’re sad and it makes me angry when you’re mad. I hate whoever made you untouchable, because if there’s anything I would want to do more than kiss you, it would be to hold you. I like you, Aria. I know I’m not supposed to for certain reasons, but I don’t care. I like you, and I hope that’s okay because I don’t know how to stop. I’m not asking for anything from you. I swear I’m not. Just…take your time, that’s all.”

My heart skipped, twisted, cartwheeled, and cried.

He was quiet before he said, “I hope you liked your birthday gift. Sorry it was late.”

But it wasn’t. It was right on time.

Our hands rested against the bench as we sat staring at the Greyed Rainbow.

Slowly I edged my pinkie toward his hand.

Slowly he edged his pinkie toward my hand.

Slowly, nervously, quietly, our pinkies locked together.

Yes, yes, yes.

* * *

Somehow we managed to return to the train station with two hours to spare before school let out. That meant that after our thirty minute walk back into town, I’d be able to spend eighth hour with Levi working on our foolproof project.

Mainly I just wanted to spend more time with him.

Being around him felt like being around someone who saw your scars and called them beautiful when you only saw your past mistakes.

“You know your brother got into a big fight on Saturday?” Levi asked.

“Mike? Yeah, well. He and his friends are always acting like idiots.”

“It was about you,” he said, making me pause. “Someone called you a whore, and he literally kicked their ass.”

“I thought he hated me,” I whispered as I started walking again.

“Quite the opposite.” He glanced down at the ground. “Your feet are swollen,” Levi said as we walked down the streets toward Mayfair Heights.

“They’re fine.”

“We can take a break,” he offered. I refused.

“Oh! Before I forget, here.” He stopped walking and unzipped his backpack. He pulled out three packages wrapped in newspaper. “This one is for you, this one is for Avocado—”

“Mango,” I corrected. “It’s the size of an mango now.”

“What?!” He reached into his backpack, grabbed a pen, crossed out the word ‘Avocado’ on the paper, and wrote ‘Mango’. “You have to keep me updated on the stats, Art. Geez. Anyway, this one is for Baby Mango, this one is for you, and this one is for you both to share.”

I tore open the one for me and Baby Mango and smiled when I saw a new CD player with a set of headphones.

Then there were two mix CDs.

“Yours has a bit more rap music than Mango’s. I tried to keep that one PG. There are a lot of violin classics on Mango’s. You can put the headphones on your stomach for the baby to listen. Then the kid can be a musical genius like yours truly.”

“Why are you so nice to me?” I asked, a little confused. Before he could reply, a voice shouted behind us.

“What the fuck are you doing out here?!”

I turned around to see Dad sitting in his plumbing truck, his face red as ever. “Dad! What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?! Why the hell aren’t you in school?!”

Levi stepped forward. “Sorry, Mr. Watson, it’s my fault—I—”

Dad put his truck in park in the middle of the road, swung open his door, and marched over. “Of course she’s with you, you little shit. Stay the hell away from my daughter.”

“Dad!” I screamed, watching him charge toward Levi. “It’s not his fault I—”

“You told me the kid wasn’t his!” Dad hollered at me, his hands in fists. “I swear to God if I catch you anywhere near my daughter again I’ll have you put in jail.”