Boys Don't Cry

How Sad And Bad And Mad It Was

June

Isabel was wriggling nervously in her plastic seat, her bare thighs sticking to it as she bit down on her nails and craned her neck to see the front.

Harry was next up.

She was surrounded by parents and friends of the Fine Art students – all equally as sweaty and nervous on this uncharacteristically hot June morning – but no one else had come to see Harry except her, something which would have been fine had it not been for the girl glaring at the back of Isabel's head as though she was plotting her violent death.

Isabel had instantly recognised Caro as she and Harry had walked into the room earlier that morning, but Harry hadn't even noticed she was there. He was sitting near the front with the other students now, and even from behind him Isabel could tell he was desperately nervous, that he was playing with his lip and most likely frowning, his knee bouncing impatiently.

"Up next we have Harry Styles," Harry's teacher said at last, clapping her hands together excitedly as Harry stood up to arrange his stuff. There were only twelve or so students in total, but seeing as they'd been ordered alphabetically Harry was the penultimate person to present, and as he scurried about getting his presentation ready Isabel could see how much the waiting had got to him. The muscles in his back were tense and his jaw was set and his hands were already trembling, and she was so nervous for him that her clammy fingers slipped on the seat, her heart thumping.

"Harry is one of our most exciting students," the teacher went on, "and we as a college have always recognised his potential. Harry is one of the few recipients of the Michael Burbidge scholarship, and throughout his time here has truly proved himself worthy of such an accolade."

Harry smiled shyly at her, his cheeks reddening in embarrassment, and then she gestured for him to begin speaking before she took her seat and stared at him expectantly.

"So I'm, uh, Harry," he said unnecessarily, clearing his throat and glancing at his teacher who nodded encouragingly. "In the second term of this year I decided to focus on portraiture, and I decided to explore this in many different forms –"

He started babbling about different mediums and artists he took inspiration from, none of which meant anything to Isabel. She kept glancing over at his teacher and the examiners, a small wave of relief following when she noticed they were nodding appreciatively and jotting notes down.

Harry cleared his throat once more, lifting his hand to change the slide on the powerpoint with the remote, and before he shoved it behind his back again, she could see from metres away that his hand was shaking violently.

"In studying other artists' portraitures, I became really interested in the links between literature and art."

He spoke slowly as always, but this was deliberate and careful, clearly terrified of stumbling over his words like he always did, or messing something up, or sounding stupid. He paused after each point, licking his lips as his eyes flickered over to the people marking him, before taking a deep breath and continuing.

"We were asked to create pieces that held a deeper meaning within us, so I decided to centre my work around the poetry of Robert Browning. He was, um," he paused, looking down at the floor and scrubbing a hand through his hair. "He was my brother's favourite poet, and so I've been familiar with his work for a long time." He licked his lips, ringing his hands together and saying nothing for a while before he spat out quickly: "I - yeah. I um... yeah."

Isabel glanced at the examiners in horror, almost irrationally concerned that they would penalise him. When she eventually looked back at the screen after concluding they didn't think much of his slip-up, she saw he'd changed slides again, and there was Harry's first painting.