Seven p.m. the next day, as planned, wandering the visual arts building, a maze of bright and busy open studios. Groups of people kneeling on rolls of paper spread across the floor, swiping paint in broad strokes, and others walking down hallways looking serious and artistic. The workshop floor is still busy. I walk by big, open room after room looking for Jack, some smelling like clay and some like paint and then one that smells like chemicals and ink. I peer in. There are long tables with photos spread out, X-Acto knives and mounting boards. Lots of prints taped to the wall, it seems haphazardly. A girl sitting on a stool fussing with a lens looks up and offers me a smile. I think her name is Renee. Jack is sitting at the Mac computer in the corner, his hair falling in his face, but he glances up when I thread through the tables.

“It’s time,” he says, looking up at the clock over the door. He’s wearing a shirt with a happy cartoon giraffe on it under a purple plaid cardigan, and his shoulders are narrow, and his boots are scuffed.

“I’m very prompt,” I say awkwardly, my hands in my coat pockets. On the walk over, I told myself I was going to shake off my irritation. I don’t care if he doesn’t think I’m smart or whatever. I’ll just be polite, and we’ll do this fast. Nevaeh, Taylor, and I all also secretly agreed in text that I would try to figure out what his deal is. Katherine likes him, so he’s cool. But is he cool enough for her?

“Thank you for coming to meet me,” he says sincerely, pushing his stool back. I’m distracted by his screen. A photo of the campus at night, swirls of yellow light, orange-and-purple auras fading to black, silhouettes of trees and benches and buildings blooming in the background, light trails from lit-up smartphones.

“Oh!” I say. “That’s beautiful!” I don’t mean to sound surprised. Maybe I’m surprised that his photos seem to be good. You kind of hope someone you sort of don’t like will also be bad at things. But I like it.

“Oh—thanks,” he says, glancing back at the screen like he’s noticing it for the first time. “I feel like I’ve been working on them forever.” He gives me a half smile. “Sometimes you feel like you don’t even know what you’re doing, huh?” He leans forward to close his program and clicks through the windows on the computer to shut it down.

“All the time,” I say, because I do know. Ask me what choreographing something new is like. Or English.

He shrugs into his peacoat. “You keep going until you figure it out or you hate it. And then you’re like, shit, I am going to fail this class.”