Even though I’m distracted by my phone, I still see the flash of bright socks at the front of the room and look up, see Jack making his way to his usual seat. He plops down without looking back at me. He might not have noticed I’m here. This isn’t my normal spot, this seat in the back corner—I took it because I don’t think I absorbed any of the reading last night.

Then again, he might have noticed.

A sad T. rex, I type.

Neither Jack or I speak up in class, and I’m surprised to find him waiting outside the door when it’s over, leaning against the wall.

“Did you know Shirley Chisholm was the first Black woman elected to Congress?” he says, straightening up. “And the first woman to run for the Democratic nomination for president. Mr. Hoffman forgot to mention that,” he adds.

“Great,” I say. Lecturing mode hasn’t vanished entirely, even if it’s stiffer than usual. Socks: Orange. Unicorns and narwhals.

I’m so sorry that was terrible and awkward fills up my mouth, but saying that will make it more awkward. And I’m sad we’ve lost all our easiness together. And that I want to lean forward and sniff his neck. If he’s not a fatphobe. “Where do you get all your socks?” I say instead.

“Online,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you about the invitations.”

“The—oh!” Students are streaming by us. He offered to design the invitations the night we went scouting. And I had totally forgotten about that, all the really important details like that blown out of my head by the embarrassing awkwardness at the end.

He follows my gaze, swings back to me, and leans in so I see his eyes are just plain ordinary brown, even though they’ve got gold starbursts radiating from the center. “Sorry,” he says in a low voice. “The project I’m handling for you.”

Our invitations, the small cards we’ll slip into the mailboxes and backpacks and notebooks of our invitees, people we think will be excited, who will keep it under wraps. Private Insta page, cash app, details on show night.

“I had an idea,” he continues. “Pictures of you as the backdrop.”

“Me?” It’s more of a yelp.

“The four of you, I mean,” he says quickly, as we move away from the door of the classroom for some kind of privacy. I’ll be late to ecology, but I usually am. “I want to take a series of close-ups in order to capture the spirit and glamour of the performance. Nothing that will be identifiable, of course.”

Oh no. Pictures.

“What about our accessories?” I say. “Sexy shoes. A feather boa?”

“I think we need something more intense,” he explains.

Great. Intense, naked close-up photos.