table, and announcing to everyone that I’m responsible for Hudson being back. Oh, and by the way, the rumors are true. I totally make a kick-ass statue.
It would probably be better to just get it over with quickly, kind of like ripping off a Band-Aid. But I’m so tired right now and everything that’s happened is pressing down on me, making me feel like I might crumble at any second.
I hesitate in the hallway, my gaze meeting Hudson’s, and it seems like he doesn’t know what I should do, either. His uncertainty has me wobbling on my feet before I shake it off and turn in the other direction.
I grab a pack of peanut butter crackers out of the nearest vending machine and head out to the art studio to get to work on my painting that I’m behind on now. Hopefully, a few extra hours down there will help me kick my funk mood, too.
The rest of the afternoon goes by pretty uneventfully, as long as you count Hudson talking nonstop uneventful. He’s got an opinion on everything—even things no normal person should have an opinion on.
He thinks the art teacher looks like a flamingo in her hot-pink dress. And while he’s not wrong, it’s hard to focus on what she’s saying with that picture in my head now.
He’s convinced T. S. Eliot shouldn’t be included in British Literature because he was born in Missouri—I get an hour-long diatribe about that particular offense.
And right now…right now he’s arguing about the way that I mix black paint.
“I’m in your head so I know you’re not blind, Grace. How can you possibly think that’s an attractive shade of black?”
I stare at the color in question and then mix just the barest hint of blue into it. Partly because I want to and partly because I know it will upset Hudson even more. And after the last four hours, I’m all about pissing him off any way I can. Payback’s a bitch like that.
“It’s subtle and I like that.” I dab a little on my canvas, and it’s still not quite where I want it, so I go back and add just a touch more of midnight blue.
Hudson throws his hands into the air. “I give up. You’re impossible.”
Thankfully, I’m the only student left in the art room, so I don’t have to worry about other people thinking I’m talking to the stool next to me. “I’m impossible? You’re the one throwing a hissy fit about my painting.”
“I am not throwing a hissy fit.” I can tell he’s offended—all the crisp British syllables are back in his voice, even as he stretches his legs out in front of him. “I am merely trying to provide some artistic feedback based on my long history of art appreciation—”
“Oh, here we go again.” I roll my eyes. “If you bring up the fact that you’re old one more time—”
“I am not old! I’m older. Vampires are immortal, in case you’ve forgotten, so you can’t judge our age the same way you judge human age.”
“Sounds to me a lot like a justification for getting around the fact that you’re old as dirt.” I know that I’m poking a caged bear, know that he’s going to end up taking my head off if I keep needling him, but I can’t help it. He totally deserves it after everything he’s done to annoy me.
From the beginning, he’s had the upper hand during most of our arguments, and now that I’ve found something that bugs him, I can’t help rubbing it in a little. That probably makes me a terrible person, but I’ve had a psychopath inside my head for nearly four months, so I figure I can’t totally be to blame for this new mean streak of mine.
“You know what? Do whatever you want with the black. The fact that it’s dull and is going to ruin your painting is your problem—”
“I’m sorry, could you say that a little louder, please?” I put a hand to my ear in the universal “I can’t hear you” gesture.
“I said it’s dull.”
“No, not that part. The part about it being my painting. Mine. Can you say that again?”
“Whatever,” he huffs. “I was just trying to help.”
“Yeah, I know. What is it about guys that always makes them want to help—even when no one is asking for it?”
“Do what you want,” he answers, and when he doesn’t say anything else, I think maybe I’ve gone too far. But when I sneak a