the moral of the story

chapter thirteen: oliver valentine: the ultimate fantasy

after another art class of diana's incessant blabbering, the time has come to leave. today was okay, i guess. bea kept complimenting my art, again. not that i'm complaining. i just don't know how to take compliments, so it's weird whenever i get them. i mean, yeah, diana's always telling me my art looks good, but it's different with an authority figure, you know?

"you excited?" diana asks me, her eyes practically popping outta her skull.

most of the class has filed out by now, just really leaving us and bea, who was over by the sink cleaning the paint brushes. it's still strange that people don't stare and whisper about either of us before, during or after class. i guess indie/artsy kids have more important things to care about. not that i'm complaining. the highlight of my week is being in an environment where i'm not constantly being judged.

"i guess." i shrug my backpack over my shoulders. "i mean, it's just a business meeting, right?"

diana laughs, pulling her own bag over her slim shoulder. "yeah, yeah. anyway, we just gotta make a quick stop at the bathroom before we leave. is that cool?"

"yeah, that's fine." i nod as we start to make our way out of the room. we both call a goodbye to bea, who only waves with one of her paintbrushes still in hand.

we make our way through the hallway in a comfortable silence. i hold on to the strings of my backpack, while diana keeps tapping her phone. soon we land in front of the bathroom and diana is the first one to enter, holding it open for me come in as well. it's one of those ones where there're multiple stalls, so i don't feel weird. she enters one of the stalls, so i lean my back against the wall and pull my phone out to mindlessly scroll through twitter.

diana comes out a few minutes later, and i have to do a double take when she does. she's got the same outfit on, a long sleeve dark green dress and tights with brown ankle boots, but she's wearing that wig again. you remember, the one from the bathroom a few days ago? the one that's fake and curly, a huge contrast to her silky and blonde natural hair.

"what's with the wig?" i question as diana clicks her heeled boots to the sink.

"oh, just so people don't recognize me." she explains, fluffing her wig in front of the mirror. "and it makes me feel like hannah montana, so i don't hate that."

i snort at that, shoving my phone into my back pocket. diana turns, a knowing grin on her face as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"you just laughed." she says, her grin inching towards a smirk.

"i snorted. there's a difference." i tell her, heading towards the door.

"is there?" diana laughs from behind me.

"yes." i state as we walk through the nearly vacant hallway. "snorting is like sort of laughing. it doesn't count as one."

i hear diana giggle. "whatever you say, florence."

we keep walking until we reach the stairs, bounding down each step in the same comfortable silence. when we get to the exit of the art building, diana is the first to leave, head held high with her dark wig. i follow not too far behind her. once we reach the chilly early march air, i pull my flannel closer to my body.

"hey ollie! over here!" diana calls, making me whip my head up.

and there he is. oliver valentine's leaning against a lamppost, dressed in a pair of light blue loose-fitted jeans and a red and blue flannel over a black turtleneck. a pair of aviator sunglasses rests on the top of his nose, and i have to wonder if that's his version of a disguise. on his head is a dark green beanie, covering his dark brown curls. he pays no attention to the people rushing past them with their cell phones pressed to their ears. no, his sunglasses-covered eyes are on me and solely on me.