I nod, feeling the swooping rush of nerves in my stomach. I glance up at the clock and see that the class period is almost over. Suddenly I want to throw up.

I tried to dress up a little bit today. I wore black pants—real pants instead of leggings—and the new sweater my mom got me for my birthday. She keeps complaining that I haven’t worn it, but that’s because it’s too small and bunches around my boobs. Usually I try to keep attention away from that zone, but today I thought I’d try something new for James Dean’s sake.

“Are you nervous?” Hannah flutters her eyelashes in a way that means she’s talking about James Dean and not the job.

“You’re an animal, Collins,” Andrew says. “You’ll kill it.” He reaches down and digs around inside his backpack, pulling out a bag of potato chips. I don’t know how he can stomach them right now—the room smells like clay and turpentine—but I’m not surprised. As he’s mid-chew, a girl comes up to our table. She’s walking with quiet hesitant steps, like a deer in a forest worried it’s going to be shot. She’s thin and dainty like a deer too, with big eyes and a pointy nose. Her name’s Madison Jones. Sophomore.

“Um, sorry,” she says. “Excuse me. Sorry.” Madison says sorry a lot in class, like she’s apologizing for existing. She taps Andrew on the shoulder. “Sorry. Are you done with the blue glaze?”

She’s focused only on Andrew, directing her question at him, even though he’s clearly eating potato chips and not painting.

“Oh, yeah.” He turns to me. “Collins, you done?”

She glances quickly back to her table, a group of sophomore girls, and their heads are all bent together, whispering and giggling.

I slide the jar of blue glaze over to her. “Yeah, whatever. This mug is hopeless anyway.”

“It’s not hopeless,” Hannah says, ever reassuring. “You have a lot of potential.”

“Oh, sorry,” Madison says, flicking her eyes to me and then back to Andrew. “I didn’t know your girlfriend was still using it.”

I feel myself turn red, but it’s more because of the fact that she won’t look at me directly, that she won’t address me by name, than the accidental use of the word girlfriend. It’s not like that’s new. Andrew is red too, his freckles bright, and he puts the bag of chips down.

“She’s not . . . I mean—”

“Actually, yeah, I’m still using it.” I slide the jar back in my direction.