His words were deadly when they were angry. I inhaled deeply, letting the essenece of paint and clay fill my senses.

Not even a full five minutes later, he stomped his way back over. I kept my eyes down.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have pulled at your hair clip and I shouldn’t have ruined your picture and I shouldn’t have been so mean.”

I nodded, a bit numb with shock.

“I like your hair better,” he complimented.

“Thanks,” I mumbled. Why was it so warm in here?

“I really do hate you, though,” he warned, arching his eyebrows. I played with the cubbie-like cabinets behind me. Open, close.

“Okay,” I allowed.

“No, I don’t,” he paused, rolled his eyes, and then continued, “Okay, maybe I do. Is it okay if I hate you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t. Well, can you hate and love someone?”

“Yes.”

He grinned. “Okay, but I like you, I really do.”

I shrugged my shoulders in reply and he sifted through people’s still soggy watercolorings.

The bell rang irritably and we stood slowly.