“Ms. Wilson was obsessed with that stupid loom. I swear when we weren’t there she was weaving those dogs’ hair into creepy blankets or something.” Aiden scrunches up his nose.

Ms. Wilson had these two horrible poodles that the school let her bring in constantly. All we did in seventh grade art was use her gigantic loom, and draw pictures of those dogs. “It always smelled like ugly poodle in there too.”

“Totally.” Aiden shakes his head. “Not it though. No weaving.”

I shrug. “Then I give up.”

Aiden stands up and reaches into his back pocket. His hair is a little sweaty and tousled, and his tan cheeks have pinked up. It reminds me of seeing him on the baseball field. He pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket before sitting back down. He unfolds it and hands it to me. There’s a black-and-white sketch of a bird—a phoenix—with a long tail and outstretched wings. It’s simple, just an outline in black pen. And covering the page there’s a grid of pencil lines, stretching from edge to edge. I look out at the football field, and back to the paper. “No way.”

“Doing it on grass is kind of lame, but I need to practice before anyone lets me near a wall.”

“I didn’t realize this was the kind of art you did.”

Aiden stands up and steps down from the bleacher before reaching his hand back. “Neither did I, but I’m going to give it a shot.”

I smile and take his hand, following him down to the grass. Aiden retrieves a box from the trunk and pulls out two cans of spray paint. He holds one out to me. My eyes go wide. “No way. You don’t want me near this.” I look down at the drawing in my hands and back at him. “This is way too complicated for me.”

“You’re not drawing the whole thing,” Aiden says, and then points to the paper. “You’re just drawing one box at a time.” His finger is on a section of the bird’s wing. Inside the box there are only three lines. “We’ll just take it one box at a time.” He shakes his can and a smile spreads across his face. I can’t help but smile in return. “Ready?”

I let out a long breath and shake my can, my voice teasing. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”