Everyone around chuckles, except Leila, who huffs under her breath.

Professor McPherson smirks. “That last part is something I’d love to see. As visual storytellers, our greatest strengths and weaknesses are the reliance on tropes. Lean too heavily on a cliché, and the audience will predict everything.”

Leila’s hand shoots up. “I just have to say that your film, Crumbs, was so inspiring. It took the evil witch trope and completely turned it on its head in a way I’ve never seen done before.”

Professor McPherson offers a tight smile and leans back on the teacher’s desk at the front of the room.

“Like, the way the witch is an allegory for how society treats LGBTQ-plus people,” Leila continues. “You’re an inspiration.”

My jaw tightens as my teeth grind. Leila stole that line from me.

When the film came out last year, before our friendship soured, I asked her to see it with me, but she wouldn’t, saying animated films were for little kids and that her sculpture was more elevated than the art I wanted to pursue. I had even tried to share The Art of Crumbs book with her to get her to appreciate the art, if not the film.

“You can do better than this,” Leila had said, flipping through the original storyboards and artwork by Professor McPherson. She pointed to a particular painting in which one half of the witch was sinister and dark and dripping with erratic paint strokes, while the second half was vibrant with free and clean brush strokes.

“Seriously? This is brilliant. The duality and uncertainty in the witch’s character? I wish I could do that.”

Leila had scoffed, but I pushed on, telling her that the story was really about the witch creating her own found family when heteronormative society kicked her out. Leila had smiled and nodded and said, “If you say so. At least S’Morez is cute.” She had pointed to the personified snack treat sidekick and giggled in a way that made me feel small for loving every single aspect of animation.

So to hear her now use my own interpretation in a class she was never supposed to attend in the first place feels like a betrayal. Again.

Professor McPherson looks downright bored as Leila finishes her monologue.

“All right, well, I appreciate that,” the professor comments. “But I have to say, sucking up won’t get you far in this world. You know what gets you far? Talent. You know what’ll get you further? Humility. And busting your ass, taking critical feedback, failing, and then growing from that. That’s what I’m looking for.”

Leila sits back, deflated, but I can tell by the way she nods that she’s doing her best to appear to listen.

“This seminar is a long-standing tradition for CIA’s animation program, a way for the freshmen with the greatest potential to shine. This year is no different. You have been chosen through rigorous study of your portfolios by the department chair, and this year, yours truly.” She moseys around the front of the room, making eye contact with all ten of us. “As you know, this course pairs with a third-year seminar. Junior animation students will be partnered with you to help create an animated short for the December showcase. This semester, I’ve arranged a little competition.” She rubs her hands together like a dumpster-diving raccoon. “The student with the most compelling short, which will be voted on by attendees, will be awarded the standard arts endowment, and this year, the chosen favorite will also get the opportunity to participate in an all-expenses paid mentorship with me in Los Angeles either during the summer months or during a study abroad in LA at any point in your academic career, which I’m sure you know is highly popular among CIA’s students.”