own anger when I can’t fully deny what he’s saying. The truth is, I did think he was incompetent. Or at least, not capable of working to my standards. And maybe I still feel that way.
“Look,” I say, trying to keep my tone even, “I’m not trying to be difficult. I just know that when I do something myself, then I’ll know exactly what I’m getting. I don’t have to stress out about it, and whether or not it’ll be done how I want it to be, or if it will be any good, or if it will be done on time. And yeah, I know my life would probably be a lot easier if I could just say, you know what? Who cares? They’re just flyers and posters. It’s not a big deal. Let someone else handle it. But I can’t. I can’t just accept…” I struggle to find the right words.
Quint finds them for me. “Crappy work?”
I flinch. “I was trying to find a nice way of saying it.”
He shuts his eyes, clearly disappointed.
“For the record,” I add, “the paper did look really nice. Nicer, probably, than even I would have done it.”
His lips twitch humorlessly to one side. “Thanks for that,” he mutters. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you to admit.” Then he sighs and looks at me again. “Prudence, I’m not asking you to accept crappy work. I’m asking you to accept that maybe, just maybe, I might be better at some things than you are. Like—that presentation board you’d made up? You definitely should have let me take care of that part.”
I frown. “What was wrong with my presentation board?”
He gives me a look, like I shouldn’t even have to ask. “For starters, you used the Papyrus font for the headers.”
“So? What’s wrong with Papyrus?”
He makes a gagging noise.
I cross my arms, offended. “That board was fine.”
“I’m sorry, but I could have done better. And then we could have used my photos, too. Tied it in with the report. The whole project would have been so much better if you hadn’t insisted on doing everything yourself. And if you can’t see that…” He shakes his head, then throws up his hands in exasperation and gets out of his chair again. “Whatever. We’re just going in circles now.”
“Your photos?” I say, standing up, too. I glance up at the wall, those framed pictures again. Although those three pictures weren’t in the report, they’re similar to ones that were. “Quint. Did you take these?”
He turns toward the wall, as if needing to be reminded what’s there. “I thought you knew that.”
“And the ones in the paper, too?”
He doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t have to.
My gaze travels down the line of photos, each neatly framed. They’re stunning, each one full of emotions that dig straight into the gut. They could be in an exhibit at an art gallery. They’re definitely deserving of something better than this shoddy break room, at least.
“There! That!” says Quint, pointing at my face.
I jolt, surprised. “What?”
“That’s what I’m asking for. Just a little bit of appreciation. Is that so hard?”
I laugh, but it sounds a little dazed. Because … maybe I am. I’m definitely impressed, which is almost just as weird.
“Quint, these are good. Really good.”
He shrugs. “Naw. I mean, the subject matter is pretty intense, so…”
“No, it’s more than that. I took a one-week photography class when I was in middle school and the teacher was always talking about light and shadow and angles and … I don’t know. I didn’t get most of it. I didn’t really have an eye for it, you know? But these…”
“Aw shucks. You’re making me blush.”
I turn back to him, and though he’d sounded joking, he actually does look like I’ve made him uncomfortable.
“You’re an artist,” I say, a little bewildered.
He makes a hearty guffaw of a sound. “Um, no. It’s just a hobby. I mean … I don’t know. I’ve thought it could be cool to be a photographer, maybe, someday. I’d really love to do underwater photography.” He waves his hand. “But it’ll probably never happen.”
I slowly look up, meeting his eyes. The eyes of this boy who, it turns out, I hardly know at all. We sat next to each other for two whole semesters, and yet it feels like there’s a complete stranger standing before me.
An artist. A volunteer. The sort of person who rescues sea otters in his spare time.
He has his hands tucked into his pockets, looking almost self-conscious