His hands were warm on top of mine, just like I’d imagined they would be. They looked strong whenever I would sneak a glance at him. Now, it was just us and he would not let my hand go, holding it tight, hanging in the space between our legs. 

    “I don’t want to be here Jack.” I said. “I'm never going to finish this project.”

    “I still have to finish it too.”

    “Well you come in late every day to class so of course you haven’t finished it yet.” I said. He always came waltzing into class, with a smirk on his face as he takes his seat next to me. 

    “Miss Jones? Mr. Walters? Are you ready to begin?” 

I yank my hand from Jack’s and my cheeks flush with embarrassment, wondering how long Mr. Smith has been in the room ogling our game of handsies under the table. 

    “We’re both ready sir.” Jack answers for the both of us as he shifts his chair closer to mine. Our elbows slightly touching on the charcoal table beneath us. 

    “Let me remind you both that this project counts for ninety percent of your grade.” I see Jack roll his eyes and huff a sigh of frustration. It is an absurd rule that tests and projects count for ninety percent of our grade, and with only one project this quarter, I really needed a good grade on this, as I assumed Jack did too. 

    “You have one hour to complete your project. Make use of it, because it will be your last hour. No excuses this time.”

I had to make an emergency appointment to fix my nail I broke in gym class was no excuse. My project would have looked worse than it does now if my nails were not in perfect molding condition. 

    “You may begin now.” Mr. Smith said. Jack’s hands started to unwrap his creation from the plastic bag sitting in front of him. He worked quickly, his hands running over the clay, his touch looked soft, as if he was cradling a newborn child. Suddenly, his hands move from the clay to my knee and my stomach flips in excitement.

    “Good luck.” He whispers. I can smell the Old Spice as he moves in closer to me. 

    “You too,” I whisper, “Although by the looks of it, you don’t need luck.” I pull the plastic bag off of my creation, or as I would call it, a lump of deformed clay. Signing up for art class was the worst decision of my life, even worse than taking gym class. The smell of the clay hits my nose, canceling out the smell of Jack. I lean in a bit closer to him just to get it back. We work silently next to each other. It is an uncomfortable feeling. The only sound in the room is the ticking of the clock above the door. As our time together begins to become less, I sneak a glance and Jack’s masterpiece, something he probably could have created in class if he was not always late. 

    “Do you need any help?” The Old Spice returns. 

    “No, I’ve got it.” I say, a hint of frustration emerges in my tone. 

    “Let me help you, an hour is and hour and I want you to pass this class so that we can sit next to each other next semester.” 

    “What makes you think I’m signing up for art again next semester?” I tease.

    “Because I am and I was hoping you would too.” He said, a hint of sincerity in his tone.  If it weren't for the fact that we were already sitting down, I would have fainted from his cuteness right there. 

    “Can we listen to some music?” Jack calls to Mr. Smith in his office.

    “What did you have in mind?” 

    “Classical is fine. I like the stuff you listen to during breaks.” Jack answered. I sigh and look down at the lump in front of me. It looks no better than it did forty minutes ago. I reach down into the space between our legs, hoping to find Jack’s hand. It’s there. I explore the ridges paths of his hand. 

My other hand smooths over the surface of my clay. The ruts seem to disappear into a less lumpy piece of clay. Whatever this masterpiece ends up being, my parents will probably put in on the display shelf, which has been in need of something to display for years. It has been a while since we celebrated anything. 

As the bell rings, I’m working out the last of the shadows and ridges of the last fingernail. Mr. Smith taps his fingers on the desk in front of us, but I don’t let go of Jack’s hand. 

    “It’s looks great you two. I’ll get it ready for the kiln and you will have your grade in a few weeks.” I turn around to face Jack, but he is already just inches from me. 

    “I take it mine isn't horrible?” I ask.

    “No. Far from it.” This would not be the first time my touch has lied to me. He is always so sweet to me. 

    “Do you want to see mine before you go?”

    “Sure.” I reply quietly. He pulls my hand over to his project and runs it along its edges. 

    “Wow, it feels very detailed, but what is this?” I ask as my hand runs over a deep crevasse. “Is it meant to be there?” 

    “Yes,” he says as he pulls me up and hands me my cane, “That’s where the light shines through.”