She studies his vase, which lists to one side like the famous tower in Pisa. “You want my opinion?”

“Yes,” he says, his eyes steady.

“You could spend an hour trying to straighten that up. But clay isn’t like an oil painting—not everything can be fixed. Sometimes you really just need to start over.”

“From scratch? I spent two hours on this.”

“The second time won’t take two hours, though. Trust me. Besides—” She lifts the less beautiful of her own two vessels off her tray. “Starting over is fun.” She shows him the vase in her hand. Then—with a flick of her wrist—she dashes it to the concrete floor where it folds in on itself with a satisfyingly wet slap.

* * *

Reed is rarely scandalized. But when Ava’s project implodes on the art room floor, he experiences a moment of pure shock. That is not what he expected her to do. Not at all.

But then he gets a look at her smile, and everything is better. He even barks out a laugh.

The truth is that he’s been sneaking looks at Ava during the lecture portion of this class. She’s very beautiful. Now is not the time to lose his nerve. “I think I understand,” he says, picking up his awful vase and holding it out in the palm of his hand. The form is hideous. So he gives it a toss upwards. It arcs through the air before landing at Ava’s feet with a loud and unexpected farting sound.

They both double over laughing. They’re so loud that everyone else in the art studio looks over their shoulders to see what’s so funny.

It takes them a long time to calm down again. But eventually Reed peels the clay off the floor and starts over. He kneads it into a ball while fat snowflakes fall gently past the studio windows.

January term—or J-term, because everything at college needs a nickname—is an unusual time on campus. Everyone takes just a single class. This one is called The History and Practice of Ceramics. He’ll spend half his classroom hours studying ancient cultures’ use and decoration of pottery, and the other half of his time muddling through pottery projects.

It’s harder than it looks. Reed thought taking a ceramics class would make him feel closer to his mom. But it isn’t working. She’s still gone, and he can’t even call her up and ask her how the hell to make a vase that doesn’t tip sideways.

“This class may have been a mistake,” he mutters as his second attempt comes out imperfect again.

Ava turns to him. Her hair is the color of dark honey, and he wonders how it would feel sifting through his fingers. “Why did you pick this class?”

He considers telling the truth, but then doesn’t. “I needed an arts credit. How about you?” He looks over at her vase and does a double take. She’s drawn an exquisite bird onto her pot. It has a berry in its mouth and a cocky look in its eye. “Fucking hell, that’s amazing. Is it a crow?”