#In this cultural context the term is used to compliment brown eyes. Not just applied to brown eyes in general but to describe
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This family dinner is gonna fucking suck
#'ox-eyed' is a term I stole from Homer (along with 'dog faced')#In this cultural context the term is used to compliment brown eyes. Not just applied to brown eyes in general but to describe#someone's as uniquely pretty (usually with the implication of a soft or calm gaze). Applied more frequently to women than men.#I've gone over Ganmachen before but that one refers to the ox birth sign and is a mostly complimentary epithet for people who#have the associated traits. It literally means 'ox faced' but the mache/machen word for face doesn't refer to the anatomical face#rather some perceived essential/fundamental aspect of one's nature being their 'face'#There's a ton of other '-faced' epithets both in regards to birth signs and not#and adding the -machen suffix to a description of a person emphasizes the quality being described#Like calling someone 'brave-faced' would be a bigger compliment than just 'brave'- describes this bravery as fundamental to their being#(I don't write this kind out in-text though because the concept of 'faced as descriptive emphasis' doesn't work in english)#(I'd just say like 'very brave' or etc)#'braileig' is the term for a horse foal in the western Highlands dialect. This started as Brakul insulting Janeys with the descriptor#'little lost foal in a blizzard' (which more biting than it sounds- describes someone as pitifully helpless). Janeys was paying#more attention than he thought and had picked up enough to recognize that he was being called a horse baby. Brakul eventually#started using just 'braileig' as a nickname
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Things Not Seen
RATING: Mature
SHIP: Rey / Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
SUMMARY: It canât be love, what heâs feeling. Not the real thing anyway. Itâs irrational and possessive, too unhealthy and unwanted. But whether or not this is the kind of love heâs been taught to revere, Ben thinks about Rey through the rest of Christmas break. He daydreams about his professor's smart mouth, the way her expressions always start at the curve of her lips. How she tasted when they kissed.
WARNINGS: emotional and physical abuse (not within the reylo relationship), religious fanaticism, grief / mourning, depression, past suicide attempt
NOTES: This story is for the @reylofanfictionanthologyâs 2017 Anthology, Celebrate the Waking! My celebration / theme was Reunion. Thank you to @xxlovendreamsxx and @reylotrashcompactor for their help as betas for this piece. <3
PROVERBS 4:23
Above all else, guard your heart,
for everything you do flows from it.
â
Ben takes Intro to the Hebrew Bible in the spring of his freshman year because he wants to get a headstart on his 200-level courses. Most of his classmates have no idea what their majors will be, and they change their minds every few weeks, but not Ben. Itâs Religious Studies for him, which he knew before he even sent out his college applications.
Old Testament is an eight oâclock class, and because Ben likes to be early for everything, he shows up at 7:45. He unpacks a clean notebook, his freshly printed syllabus, a new black pen, his NOAB (New Oxford Annotated Bible, 4th Edition, which he despises), and his personal Bible (King James Version, which he loves).
Thereâs only one other student, but she looks so out of his place that he almost wonders if heâs in the wrong classroom. Sheâs tall and leggy, with brown hair pulled up into a high bun. Her blue jeans are nearly worn through at the knees, her sneakers battered and cheap. Scholarship student then, which is rare enough at a college like Litton. But sheâs also too old for a 200-level RS class, typically populated by sophomores and particularly motivated freshmen, like him. Probably some senior whoâs hoping to wile away her last semester in low-level courses while she works on her thesis.
âThis is Introduction to the Hebrew Bible,â Ben says, not quite making it a question.
âIt is indeed.â The girl doesnât look up from her phone, which sheâs tapping at aggressively. From the beeping sound that she hasnât bothered to silence, he thinks she must be playing some kind of game.
Sheâs pretty, despite her ordinary clothes and messy hair. She also looks utterly unprepared. The only thing she has with her, apart from that noisy phone, is a thermos.
When she shrugs out of her fleece, he sees that sheâs wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt underneath. Dark green, with an image of a Bible across the chest, the proud words âJewish Zombie Saves the Universeâ emblazoned across its cover.
âIf you donât like Christians, what are you doing in an Old Testament class?â he asks, before he can stop himself.
The girl finally sets down her phone, looking startled and amused. âExcuse me?â she asks. The start of a patronizing smile is tugging at the corner of her mouth, like Ben is simply the most adorable thing sheâs ever seen.
He gestures at the offensive shirt and says, âYouâre obviously not Christian. Probably not even an RS major.â
She snorts. âWell youâre not wrong.â
Ben doesnât like being laughed at. Never has tolerated it well. Thirteen years of relentless bullying throughout public school will do that to a person.
âWhat are you then?â he asks, even though he doesnât have to. Heâd bet his tuition that sheâs an atheist.
âHuman,â she says, and now her smile has a sharper edge to it. Good, heâs glad to be getting to her a little. âBut I suspect that that isnât the information you were fishing for.â
Ben rolls his eyes, then busies himself with rereading the syllabus, anything to keep from talking to this obnoxious girl. He shouldnât have engaged her anyway. Pastor Snoke always says itâs a waste of time to bother with people like that.
She goes back to playing on her phone, and they ignore each other until 7:55, when the other students start filtering in.
âHey, Professor Jones!â
Ben looks over, and for a moment he wonders how he could have missed the professor arrivingâuntil he realizes that the student who spoke is talking to the rude girl in the awful green shirt.
âHi, Rachel.â She smiles and asks, âDid you have a good holiday?â
Rachel says she went on a ski trip to some resort in Colorado, but he barely registers any of that, because the girlâno, his professorâsmirks at him, and Ben stares at the table, cheeks scalding hot. He hasnât been this humiliated since Todd Baxter pantsed him in the seventh grade, exposing his privates to the entire middle school during a pep rally.
I want to die, Ben thinks. I want to actually die.
He grips his left wrist, squeezes until the pressure calms him. Then he shoots his professor the nastiest look he can muster, because she just let him talk to her like she was a student. Allowed him to make an ass of himself, and now sheâs wearing a self-satisfied grin, as if itâs the funniest thing in the world.
Professor Jones starts class at precisely eight oâclock, which Ben would appreciate if he didnât dislike her so much.
âWelcome to Introduction to the Hebrew Bible,â she says. âIâm Rey Jones. You can call me by my first name, if youâd prefer. Just donât make the mistake of thinking that it will diminish my authority over you, because it doesnât.â
She says this lightly enough that the class laughs, but Ben can tell she means every word. This woman might be young for a professor, but sheâs tough as nails. How in the hell did he take her for a student?
Some suck-up who claimed the seat to the left of Professor Jones compliments her shirt. âI guess Jesus is pretty zombie-ish, huh?â he asks.
Professor Jones shrugs. âActually, if weâre applying fantastic terms to Jesus, heâd be more properly categorized as a lich than a zombie.â
Everyone besides Ben laughs again, and Professor Jones smiles. âAll right, please introduce yourselves. I had most of you last year for 101, but Iâd like to put names to the new faces.â
Professor Jones asks each of them to give their name, year, major, and one interesting personal fact. Ben listens to his classmates just attentively enough to discover that heâs the only freshman in this course. Evidence of his over-achievement usually makes him feel proud, but right now heâs too annoyed for that.
âBen Solo,â he says, once itâs his turn. âFreshman. Iâll be majoring in Religious Studies as soon as Iâm allowed to declare. This isnât very interesting, but itâs a fact about myself: Iâm awful at judging someoneâs age.â
A subtle smile flickers across Professor Jonesâs mouth before she looks to the next student.
Itâs a standard first day, just discussing the objectives of the course and the texts theyâll be studying throughout the semester. At least itâs only a fifty minute class, and Professor Jones kicks them out a quarter-hour early. âUse this extra time to get started on Fridayâs reading. Youâll probably need it.â
Ben stuffs his things into his bag and hurries out of the classroom. He doesnât look back to see if his professor is laughing at him, because heâs certain that she is.
â
RS 270 quickly proves to be Benâs most difficult class. Logic, Intro Greek, and Southern Literature are almost too easy to keep his attention, but Hebrew Bible is something else entirely.
Professor Jones assigns twice as much reading as his lit professor, and she expects her students to keep up with it. Her classes are discussion-oriented, fast-paced, and demanding. As much as heâd prefer to hate her style, Ben actually thinks Professor Jones is one of the best teachers heâs ever had. She has a way of explaining difficult ideas with great clarity while still conveying the complexity of the concepts. To her credit, she doesnât seem to hold their conversation before the first class against him.
Sheâs intelligent and engaging, if blunt, and sheâd probably be Benâs favorite professor if he didnât hate her approach to the Bible. It isnât that Professor Jones is mean or dismissive of his beliefs, but he questions whether she has any respect at all for the texts sheâs teaching. She shows him how to see the Old Testament in new ways, to better understand its books through the cultural contexts they emerged from. Itâs fascinating and eye-openingâif a little galling to be utterly schooled on Biblical knowledge by a woman who probably has a stronger faith in the Flying Spaghetti Monster than in God.
By the middle of the semester, he canât help but think of her as Rey. Half the class calls her by her given name, just as she invited them to do, but thereâs more to it than that, an urge Ben canât quite explain, that makes him want to know her better
â
Rey always returns his papers within a week of their due date, the margins littered with annotations in green ink. Suggestions to improve his arguments, questions, sometimes rambling comments that seem to have little direction or purpose.
She writes A- at the bottom of each one, along with some note about his paper as a whole. No matter how stingy or effusive her praise is, the grade remains the same. The essay she hands back after spring break says, Perfect. A-
Thatâs what finally drives him to her office. He finds Rey hunched over her desk, scribbling in a notebook, the sleeves of her plaid shirt rolled up to her elbows. He expected her office to be disorganized, considering her perpetually sloppy hairstyles and wrinkled clothes, but itâs spotless and neat.
âBen,â she says, without looking up from her work. âItâs five oâclock on a Friday. My office hours ended at three-thirty. I know you know this.â
He closes the door, takes the seat across from her, and lays his latest paper on her desk. âIf my work was perfect, then why did you give me an A minus?â
Rey sighs, sets down her pen, and looks at him. âBecause you can do better.â
âBetter than perfect?â Ben asks.
âYour papers are excellent. More cohesive than mine when I was your age, and thatâs saying something.â She points to the wall, at a dozen framed awards and diplomas. BA from Stanford, MA from Indiana University, PhD from Duke.
Ben shifts uncomfortably in his chair. âThank you.â
âDonât thank me yet,â Rey says. She leans forward, frowning. âYour arguments are well constructed, and your ideas are clearly expressed, but itâs all very safe. I think you know how to write to appeal to your professorsâ interestsâwhich is a great strategy if your only goal is to graduate summa cum laude in three years. But if you want to develop your own voice? Not so much.â
âAre you kidding?â It takes all of Benâs self control not to shout when he says, âI bend over backwards to write the kind of papers youâd want to see, and thatâs not enough?â
Rey flips to the third page of his paper and taps the second paragraph. âYour analysis of the Pentateuch reads like a response to my last book. Whatâd you do, check it out from the library?â
Ben snatches his paper out of her hands, and he doesnât care how rude that is.
âI donât want to read a paper thatâs engineered to flatter my ego,â Rey says sharply. âNext time, write about something that matters to you, instead of something that matters to me.â
Yes, he checked out her book, and yes, he read it from cover to cover, but sheâs wrong about why he did that. It had nothing to do with flattering his professor, because Ben never imagined that sheâd notice the influence of her writing on his own work. Heâs been reading through Reyâs bibliography all semester, consuming every book and journal article that sheâs authored.
Ben isnât about to admit that, so he stands and says, âSee you on Monday, Professor Jones.â
â
Ben lives in the library throughout finals week, researching and writing for six days straight, only stopping to take short naps and coffee breaks.
His asshole roommate, Armitage, orders him to stop crashing into their dorm at all hours of the night and day just to rest for thirty minutes and head back to the library. Apparently this is disrupting his beauty sleep.
If Ben wasnât a Christian, heâd tell Armitage to fuck off. Instead, he finds a nice, out-of-the-way nook in the library and takes his naps there, curled up in a fluffy armchair.
Ben spends countless hours on his final paper for RS 270, a close examination of the Book of Job, exploring the role of suffering in faith. Heâs never put so much of himself into an academic project, his passion and his convictions. If Rey slaps another A minus onto this one, heâs going to give her a piece of his mind.
â
Ben snatches the manila envelope out of his student mailbox, rips it open, and flips past all the green ink that litters the margins of his final paper, looking to the grade and the comment at the end.
Insightful and original. Better than perfect. A+
ECCLESIASTES 1:18
For with much wisdom comes much sorrow;
the more knowledge, the more grief.
â
Going home is different when you donât have a real home to go to.
Ben would never say as much to Pastor Snoke, but sometimes he misses his mother. Maybe itâs just nostalgia borne from separation, because when Ben lived with his mom, he spent most of his time wishing to get out from under her roof. They fought whenever she was around, which wasnât often. Neither of his parents spent much time with him, but thereâs no point in resenting his father over that, not anymore.
Ben ran away a month after he turned eighteen, and Pastor Snoke welcomed him into his familyâs home, just as he promised he would.
Mom had given him far more freedom. She never kept up with where he was going or how late heâd be out, but strangely, Ben feels less confined in a house where there are rules. Pastor Snokeâs expectations may be high, and the punishments for disappointing him harsh, but at least he knows that someone is paying attention.
Ben tries not to think about his mother on the way back to Cottontown. He spends the bus ride listening to music and rereading Reyâs comments on his final paper. He traces her handwriting, fingers lingering on the uneven curves and sharp points. You should be proud, sheâd written on the back.
He finds Mrs. Snoke waiting for him at the bus station. She hugs him and says, âWeâve missed you so much, Ben.â
âMissed you too,â he says, before pulling away.
Mrs. Snoke makes pot roast for dinner, one of Benâs favorite meals, and Pastor Snoke allows him to say grace. He feels less like an intruder, a lost boy interloping on a real family, when he holds hands with his mentors and asks for Godâs blessing. Afterward, Mrs. Snoke washes the dishes. She always cooks and cleans, an arrangement that Ben has never felt comfortable with, because he knows what his mother would think of it.
â
Starbrook Church of Christ has the largest congregation in all of Cottontown, and sometimes Ben worries that he isnât worthy of inheriting it.
Heâs known that heâs going into ministry since he was sixteen, when Pastor Snoke saved him and offered him a place at his church. But it wasnât until January of last year, after he ran away, that Pastor Snoke told him heâd like for Ben to lead the Starbrook congregation someday.
âYouâre as good as a son to me, and you have what it takes. The drive, the talent, the uncompromising faith.â Heâd looked at Ben with such confidence, and it was elating, intoxicating, for someone to believe in him like that. How could he say no?
Ben leads Bible study on Sunday mornings, teaching little kids about the Passion, the Three Wise Men, Jesus turning water into wine. This was easy last summer, because heâd wished someone had taught him these things as a child. So much would have been easier if heâd been raised in the faith instead of having to find it for himself.
It isnât so easy this summer. He hesitates. He doubts. Thereâs only goodness in teaching a five-year-old to love her neighbors, but when Sarah asks why only boys can lead activities, he doesnât know what to say.
The correct answer is, Because this is how God made us. Men lead and women follow. This is the way itâs meant to be. But Benâs mother is a leader through and through, and he just spent a semester following the most brilliant woman heâs ever met. He wants to believe, but by the end of summer break, the right answer doesnât feel so right anymore.
â
Some of Benâs classmates resent his rigidity, but he has nothing on Armitage. His roommate obsessively organizes his notes, keeps his desk spotless, and maintains a system of color-coded calendars so that heâs perpetually early to all of his classes and extracurricular engagements.
On their first day back at Litton, Armitage kicks Benâs unzipped suitcase and says, âKeep your clothes in your dresser this year. If I find dirty socks laying around theyâre going straight in the trash.â
âDonât touch my things,â Ben says.
Heâd love to punch Armitage in his sneering, pink face, and maybe thatâs showing, because his roommate makes some excuse about going to the library and disappears for the rest of the night.
It doesnât matter. Heâd rather be alone anyway.
â
The Litton College Catalogue is clear about the nature of RS 233: Pain, Suffering, and Death.
A seminar that examines critical issues and problems of crisis experience involving pain, suffering, and death using various disciplinary perspectives and pedagogical methods, including interviews with healthcare professionals. Designed primarily for students considering health or human service vocations (e.g., medical professions, counseling, social work, ministry), but also of interest to others.
Ben signed up for this class last semester, when he was too enthralled by Reyâs instruction to care what she was teaching in the fall, because he knew he would take it. Now RS 233 is almost here, and he spends all night dreaming about his father. In the shower, he scratches at his left wrist until the verse tattooed there is obscured with abrasions, blood-spotted and sore. The ache of it reminds him that heâs here and alive, grounds him until heâs calm enough to pray.
When Ben walks into class fifteen minutes early, Rey says, âBack for more?â
He claims a seat two chairs down from hers and fidgets with his sleeve, tugging it lower over the bandage on his wrist. âI like a challenge.â
âWell, thatâs good, because this class isnât for the faint-hearted.â
Rey runs a hand through her hair, which is as messy as ever. That should probably be off-putting, but Ben finds it charming. Itâs an effective distraction, if not a very smart one, to focus on his pretty professor instead of the father he buried five years ago.
He tries to smile. âI donât think anyone faint-hearted would sign up for Pain, Suffering, and Death.â
Rey rests her elbows on the table and leans forward, just the slightest bit closer to him. âAre you all right?â
Ben hasnât talked about his father with anyone besides Pastor Snoke, but for some reason itâs almost easy to tell Rey, âIâm not sure I should have signed up for this class. I think itâs going to hit too close to home, and I canât afford to letâfor personal issues get in the way of my education.â
Rey nods slowly. âIf thatâs how you feel, thereâs still time to drop it.â
Benâs stomach lurches, sickened into knots, but it uncoils when Rey says, âI wish youâd stay, though. Studying this sort of thing can be good in the long run. Difficult, but cathartic.â
Ben doesnât drop the class. He tells himself itâs for the good it might do him, but the truth is, heâs slightly less afraid of facing his grief than losing the chance to see Rey three times a week for the next four months.
â
He spends the first half of sophomore year interviewing trauma surgeons and hospice nurses, reading everything from medical philosophy to The Stranger. Itâs fascinating work, but every bit of it reminds him of his father.
Ben is usually outspoken, but he doesnât contribute one word to the group discussion on euthanasia. Rey keeps shooting him worried looks while other students are speaking, and he thinks she might mean to corner him after class, but he doesnât give her the chance. Ben rushes out as soon as nine-fifty hits, goes straight to the nearest bathroom, locks the door, and bends over the sink, gasping for breath. He turns on the cold water so that no one standing outside the restroom will hear him crying.
â
Hereâs what Ben knows of pain, suffering, and death: thereâs no reason to it, no divine plan that can possibly explain why his father had to die slowly and painfully before his forty-ninth birthday.
He remembers the blisters on Dadâs chest, where radiation treatments had burned his skin raw; the wet, rattling sound of his fatherâs breathing; the blood he left on napkins when he coughed; statistics about his lung function and the size of his tumors, numbers and scans that never offered any hope. Ben remembers asking Mom what DNR meant, how the smile she gave him trembled when she said it was short for do not resuscitate.
Pastor Snoke has explained the mysteriousness of Godâs mercy a thousand times. Before his baptism, Ben searched inward for answers, and since then heâs read enough Christian philosophy on the problem of evil that he could write a dissertation on it. Heâs grasped at every straw, and for awhile, Pastor Snokeâs promises gave him the comfort he needed to breathe. But no explanation is comforting anymore, and Ben doesnât know what to do.
â
When he doesnât turn in a final paper, he receives an email from Rey, warning him that his grade will decrease by ten percent every day that itâs late. He ignores her, and she sends another email telling him to come to her office. If he doesnât turn in this paper, heâs going to lose his scholarships, Pastor Snokeâs patronage, and his home.
Good. At least if he drops out, thereâll be no one left to miss him, and itâs not as though he deserves any better.
Ben shuts down his laptop and takes a nap.
He doesnât drag himself out of bed until lunchtime the next day. Baked chicken has never been less appealing, but heâs starving and food is food. Three bites in, Ben remembers feeding his father his last meal, not that heâd known it for what it was at the time. Now he can hear winter wind rattling the window frames, the clank of silverware hitting ceramic plates. Chatter, laughter, and arguments buzz around him, all of it rising toward the vaulted ceiling and echoing around the refectory.
He leaves his plate where it is and goes outside, into flurrying snow. Ben walks slowly, tries to stay calm, but he canât breathe and all he can think is that he has to get out of this school, out of this town, out of this place, out of hereâ
He barely stops short of knocking over Rey. She has to grab his arm to keep from slipping on the icy sidewalk, and he wishes that he could feel the warmth of her touch, but there are too many layers between them. Sheâs always beautiful, but with her nose ruddy and the tips of her ears hidden under a grey hat she looks girlish too, more like the student he mistook her for the day they met.
Ben wants to touch her, hold her, kiss her, and it isnât the sudden desire that surprises him; what surprises him is that this desire isnât sudden at all, and heâs been lying to himself for almost a year.
Rey looks up at him, frowning. âBen? Are you all right?â
He wants to answer, but his voice feels stuck, caught at the base of his throat. When she pulls away, panic digs its way into his chest, squeezing his lungs until he grabs her shoulders and says, âDonât.â
Reyâs eyes are wide, her expressive mouth slack, wind-chafed cheeks flushing from pink to red. But she stops, stays still under his hands.
Ben lets go of her and steps away. Heâs hot all over, must be blushing from his hairline to his toes. Itâs from embarrassment, mostly, but yearning too, and that only makes the embarrassment worse. He runs away, cutting across the lawn to the wooded copse behind the refectory, then further, until he reaches the labyrinth. Itâs nothing special, just a circular pathway made up of frost-glazed stones that twist and twine around each other, but heâs come here to pray in the past.
Now heâs breathing hard, more from cold and anxiety than exertion, and he canât find the focus to reach out to God right now. He sits at the wooden bench, rests his elbows on his knees, and bends forward, lacing his fingers together over the back of his head. He breathes deeply and picks out five things he can hear, the way his high school therapist taught him to do: snow-bearing wind, the crunch of icy grass beneath his feet, chirping birds, some skittering creature in the woods, his own restless breathing. Then four things, then three, then two, thenâReyâs voice, calling his name.
Ben sits up, rubbing his gloved knuckles over his eyes. âWhat are you doing here?â
Rey freezes, looking more confused than concerned now, like she hadnât stopped until this moment to consider the wisdom of running after him. She stands straighter, steadier, and says, âYou looked like you might be⌠unsafe. I only want to make sure youâre all right.â
âUnsafe?â Ben grasps his left wrist, at the tattoo of Hebrews 11:1 that hides under his sweater sleeve. The verse stretches halfway to his elbow, inking over the scar underneath. âIâm not planning to off myself, if thatâs what youâre worried about.â
Heâd hoped to deter her with crudeness, but Rey crosses her arms over her chest and says, âThatâs exactly what Iâm worried about. Youâve seemed depressed for months, you never turned in your final paper, and nowââ
Ben shrugs. âAnd now Iâm running off behind school buildings to cry like a little boy. Got it. Your concern is duly noted, Professor Jones.â
âIf you need help, there are counselors you can talk toââ
âWhat good is talking going to do?â He shakes his head, pulls at his sleeve, and whispers, âTalking wonât bring him back.â
Rey takes a careful, half-step toward him. âWho wonât it bring back?â
âMy dad.â Ben makes himself smile, because if he doesnât, heâs going to break down again. âHe signed a DNR after his last bout in the hospital, let a bunch of nurses shoot him up full of morphine, and died two weeks later. I was there when it happened. I let it happen. I justâjust stood there and watched him dieââ
âNo,â Rey says. âDonât do that to yourself.â
Thereâs an impossible softness in her eyes, sympathy bleeding into pity. Looking at him this way is the cruelest thing she could have done, and it drives Ben to his feet.
âI was fine before I met you! I had it figured out, all the answers I needed. Losing him only meant saying goodbye for now, not forever, and now I donât know what to believe.â
His insides have been turned outward, every nerve in his body raw and exposed. He wants to get away, wants to free himself of this pain. Ben goes to Rey, stands so close to her that he doesnât feel like a student anymore. Only a man, strong and tall enough to tower over a woman he wants to touch. It canât even the playing field, but it creates enough of an illusion for him to pretend that the imbalance between them doesnât matter.
Reyâs gaze darts up and down the length of his body, like sheâs assessing him. Ben canât tell whether or not sheâs trying to evaluate a threat, so when he leans down he does it cautiously, gently, giving her plenty of time to stop this if thatâs what she wants.
She makes a soft noise when he kisses her, then gasps as he runs his hands down her back, her waist, her hips. She tastes like nothing Ben can place, and he wonders if all kisses feel this way, like heâs drunk (or maybe awake) for the first timeâ
Rey tears herself away and wipes at her swollen lips with the heel of her hand. Sheâs shivering, shaking her head, saying frantic, regretful things that all mean this was a mistake.
Ben bites his lip, but thereâs nothing of her taste left there. Any trace of their kiss has already faded from his mouth. âIâm sorry. I didnât mean toâI wasnât thinking straight.â
He walks away before Rey can challenge any of his lies, and he isnât surprised when she doesnât follow.
â
One week into Christmas break, Ben checks his final grades. He expects to see his first academic failure, but instead he finds that he received an A- in Pain, Suffering, and Death. Ben knows that itâs only a misplaced apology, or possibly a bribe for his silence, but he hopes that Rey simply thought he deserved to pass.
I CORINTHIANS 13:4
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
â
It canât be love, what heâs feeling. Not the real thing anyway. Itâs irrational and possessive, too unhealthy and unwanted.
But whether or not this is the kind of love heâs been taught to revere, Ben thinks about Rey through the rest of his break. He daydreams about her smart mouth, the way her expressions always start at the curve of her lips. How she tasted when they kissed. He only risks jerking off in the shower, where the noise of running water will cover his gasps, and when he touches himself he pictures Rey. Her long legs wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back to expose the pale curves of her throat, the sounds she would make if he pleased her.
He thinks Rey might have kissed him back. Ben remembers her leaning in, deliberately opening her mouth to his in the fraction of a second before she pulled away. Itâs probably a figment of his imagination, a consolation his memory has constructed to soothe the sting of her rejection, but he wants it to be true. He wants it to be true so badly that he canât be sure it is.
Not that it matters. Even if some part of her does want him, Rey made her feelings clear enough at the labyrinth.
At first Ben prays for freedom from this infatuation thatâs buried itself under his skin. When that fails, he prays for the wisdom and patience to move past it in time, but if anything, he only feels less wise and more impatient as the days between Christmas and the New Year crawl by.
When Ben forgets to say amen after Pastor Snokeâs eloquent grace, he gets slapped. Shame shivers along the ridges of his spine, but Ben swallows down the impulse to hit back, to argue, to cry.
âIâm sorry,â he says.
Pastor Snoke cups Benâs cheek, the same cheek he struck, his touch gentle now.
âI know you are,â he says, smiling. âNow eat your dinner.â
â
Ben wakes with the smell of cigarette smoke in his nose, the sour ash scent that never quite faded from the living room curtains, even years after Dad quit smoking. He dreamed of blistered skin and bloody napkins. Of his fatherâs tumors, showing silver and nebulous against black X-ray film, like clouds drifting across a night sky. Innocuous, almost pretty, for such ugly, dangerous things.
He misses Rey.
Ben speaks to his blank, empty ceiling for ten minutes, begging for forgiveness and help, when something unwelcome tugs low in his belly. Uncertainty, mistrust.
âAre you even there?â He has to whisper the question. Itâs too dangerous to give much voice to.
Ben hears nothing, feels nothing. So he does what he always does when doubt creeps in. He slides his fingers along the tattoo that marks his left arm, mouthing the words without looking at them. This ritual eases his fears, even if it doesnât bring much reassurance that someone is listening.
â
On the last Sunday before going back to school, Pastor Snoke takes Ben behind the church and says, âYouâre distracted, falling down on your responsibilities here and at school. I know you almost lost your fellowship because your volunteer hours barely met the minimum requirements. That isnât acceptable.â
Ben knows that Pastor Snoke has connections at Litton. Itâs half the reason he was accepted into such a high-profile school when his high school GPA was less than stellar, thanks to his disastrous freshman year. He wonders whether it was a snitch from financial aid or the Casterfo Fellowship committee who told Pastor Snoke about his rocky semester.
âYouâre right. Iâll do better, itâs justââ Ben resists the urge to shrug, because Pastor Snoke hates it when he doesnât stand up straight. âI had a difficult few months.â
âI donât want excuses. I want improvement,â Pastor Snoke says. He grasps the back of his neck in a gesture that might be fatherly if it wasnât hard enough to hurt. âIf you hadnât lost focus, you could have found the guidance you needed to do well. The Lord never gives us more than we can bear, Ben.â
Then I wish I wasnât capable of bearing so much.
âOf course. Iâm sorry I disappointed you.â
Pastor Snokeâs frown deepens. He looks upward meaningfully and says, âIt isnât my disappointment you should be worried about.â
Ben nods as respectfully as he can manage, since it seems he canât say anything right today.
â
Heâd been disappointed last semester when he couldnât fit any of Reyâs classes into his spring schedule. Now Ben is thankful that his only RS class is Living Religions with Professor Ămwe. Advanced Greek and Astronomy are a welcome respite after the academic hell he went through last fall, although Krennicâs class makes him want to rip his hair out. Itâs more his professorâs attitude that bothers him than the subject matter, but Ben still hates sitting through ninety minutes of poli sci every Tuesday and Thursday.
At the end of January, Ben goes to Reyâs office. Sheâs there, naturally. She works so much that it makes him wonder what kind of life she has outside of this college.
Itâs the first time heâs seen her in more than passing since the day they kissed. Her hair is in a loose braid instead of its usual bun, and she never bothered to take off her coat, despite the space heater running in the corner.
Ben walks inside without knocking, points to the heater, and says, âThose arenât allowed on campus. Itâs pretty irresponsible for you to have one.â
Rey shoves a stack of papers into a folder, staring steadily at her desk. âDid you need something?â
Ben pulls the door shut behind him. He takes three deep breaths, sends a quick prayer heavenward, and says, âWe should talk about what happened at the labyrinth.â
She finally looks up. âNo, we shouldnât. Itâs better left alone, andâwell, I assume you wonât be taking more of my classes anyway.â
âWhy would you think that?â Ben asks.
Rey stands up and lays her hands flat on her tidy desk. âBecause itâs not appropriate.â
Ben grips the edge of her desk and bows low enough that, if he worked up the courage, he could kiss her again.
âWhat I feel for you isnât appropriate, whether Iâm in your classes or not,â Ben whispers.
Rey straightens, backs away from her desk, and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She moves with the swift clumsiness of restless fear, so far from the confidence and composure she usually exudes. Rey is a brilliant teacher and an accomplished scholar, but under that, sheâs just a person. A regular person like any other, and heâs been an idiot for keeping her on a pedestal.
âWeâre not going down this path,â Rey says. âIt would only hurt both of us.â
His desires are unwise, but maybe not unreturned, and if Rey wants him back thereâs a chanceâ
âSo you donât want what happened between us to compromise my education, but youâre excluding me from your classes, which are the best in the whole department.â He walks around the desk and closes in on her space until sheâs backed against a bookshelf. âIn case you hadnât noticed, thatâs going to compromise my education.â
The top of Reyâs head barely brushes his chin, and her soft breath warms his throat. Still, her voice comes out firm, almost harsh, when she says, âIâm sorry, Ben, I am, but I donât see you like that. Youâre a great student and aâa bright kidââ
He cups Reyâs face between his hands, strokes his thumb over her cheek, and watches her gaze flicker toward his mouth. She bites her own lip, then turns away, breaths coming in short, sharp pants.
âYouâre not as good at lying to yourself as youâd like to be,â Ben says.
Rey pushes him, and the shock of being struck makes him stumble.
âGet out,â she says. âGet out, and donât come back.â
She sounds more broken than fierce, but he does as heâs told.
Later, alone in his bed, Ben realizes that he always follows wherever Rey leads him, and no matter how much heâd like to, he canât get around the distance between her authority and his. Sheâs ten years older than him, smarter, better educated, with the power to ruin his future if she wants to. No matter how fiercely they disagree, in the end, he dances to whatever song Rey plays. Maybe thatâs the problem.
â
Ben has managed to get through nearly two years at Litton without making a single friend. It wasnât difficult; heâs always had to work to earn anyoneâs affection or interest, and until college, his peers seemed to enjoy making his life hell. At least here heâs mostly ignored.
He canât stand Armitage, and Armitage returns the (lack of) sentiment. But by virtue of sharing a room, they spend more time with each other than anyone else, and they agree to live together at East Village apartments next year. Better the devil you know, Ben supposes.
Theyâre both awake at three oâclock in the morning on a Thursday in April when Armitage closes his business textbook, pulls a fifth of whiskey from the bottom drawer of his desk, and asks, âDo you ever drink, Father Solo?â
âIâm going to be a minister, not a priest,â Ben says, but for once Armitageâs ribbing only makes him laugh. âAnd no, I donât drink.â
Armitage takes a glass from the pretentious shelf of dishes next to his mini-fridge and fills it with whiskey. âShocker.â
âI used to,â Ben says. âI used to drink all the time. Too much.â
The look Armitage gives him isnât quite one of respect, but itâs close. âReally? I never wouldâve guessed you for a budding alcoholic. Were you a man-whore too?â
Ben closes his laptop, turns to his roommate, and says, âNo. I didnât want to be close to anyone. I just wanted toâŚâ
Disappear. He wanted to disappear, but even if Armitage is being decent for once, Ben canât share that truth.
Armitage turns up his glass and drinks half the whiskey in one go without even flinching. âWell, hereâs a piece of advice, for whenever you manage to foist your virginity off on someone: fucking doesnât require intimacy.â
Ben ends up drinking whiskey too, then passing out. He wakes up with a dull headache after a night of dreamless sleep, feeling empty, wrung-out, and blessedly calm.
â
Ben goes to his first Greek party the weekend before finals, where he avoids getting wasted by winning game after game of beer pong. Even when he spent half his time drunk or hungover, Natty Lite was never his drink of choice, and his aim has always been excellent.
His beer pong partner is Jyn, a junior whoâs famous for calling Professor Krennic a cunt in the middle of the refectory last year.
Her boyfriend Cassian has been stalking the edges of the party for the last hour, clearly pissed off except for when he looks at Jyn. Ben gestures at him and asks, âHow long have you two been together?â
âAges. For better or worse.â She makes a perfect shot. The ping pong ball sinks into a red cup at the opposite side of the table with a satisfying plop. Bodhiâanother RS major who Ben knows in passingâdrinks his beer, pulls a face, and tells Jyn in the most polite way possible that sheâs the worst friend heâs ever had.
Ben considers flirting with Jyn. Heâs heard from two-hundred-pound football players that Cassian isnât one to fuck with, and he hasnât been in a fight since Pastor Snoke saved him. It might feel good to be hurt, even better to hurt someone else.
After their third win, Jyn claps him on the shoulder and says, âIf I keep playing with you Iâll never get drunk.â
He smiles at her, cool enough to be on the safe side of friendly. âYouâre not too bad yourself.â
Ben drinks soda for the next hour, doesnât start any fights, and ignores Jessika Pava when she flirts with him. He leaves while the party is still going strong to walk around campus. Loneliness makes him feel even more disappointingly sober, so Ben goes to the labyrinth. The woods are green and lively, full of the impending promise of summer, but he can see this place covered in frost, can almost taste the sting of winter wind.
It isnât his fragile faith that held him back at the party, because there was little temptation to resist. Ben isnât particularly interested in getting drunk, or fighting, or testing out Armitageâs love-life advice with a girl he barely knows. All he truly wants is Rey.
â
Ben should have declared his major months ago, but heâs been putting it off. When he finally files the appropriate paperwork, he also picks up a blue form for requesting an advisor change. Now that heâs officially a Religious Studies major, he needs a professor from the RS department to mentor him.
Rey blushes when he shows up at her office with the request form. They small talk for a minute, the most theyâve spoken to each other in three months, but then she says, âYou know I canât be your advisor.â
He smiles, as brightly as heâs capable of. âOf course you can. Youâre the best.â
âMy credentials have nothing to do with this. Try Professor Ămwe, or maybe Malbusââ
âMalbus hates me. Ămwe is great at his job, but he teaches world religions, and Iâm going into ministry. Youâre an expert on the history of Biblical interpretation, American religions, and modern theology. Which makes you the perfect advisor for me.â
âBenâŚâ Rey looks at him with such softness that it sends an ache through his chest and heat to his belly.
He shrugs. âI donât see the problem.â
Her softness turns sharp in an instant, and she says, âYes you do. Donât be obtuse.â
âIâm not being obtuse,â Ben says. âBut I am hoping you could clear something up for me. I shouldâve failed 233 and lost half my scholarships, but instead, here I am with my semester paid for and my GPA intact. Harassing you about being my advisor, because you wonât talk to me for any other reason.â
The silence between them grows thick, heavy with the gravity of what theyâre sayingâand not saying. Ben chews the inside of his cheek, waiting. Hoping.
âIâm sorry,â Rey says, so low and small that her voice would be lost if not for the stillness of this room.
âFor which part?â
âI gave you that grade because youâre one of the brightest students Iâve ever had, and you didnât deserve to lose your education over grief.â She glances down at her desk. âAnd Iâve been avoiding you because itâs the best thing I can think to do in a situation where nothing seems right.â
Ben counts five things he can see in this office. Bookshelves crammed into a space far too small for them. Reyâs degrees, decorating the only free wall. Fountain pens and folders scattered across her desk. A flowerpot in the window, housing a plant thatâs either dead or very neglected. And Rey, so beautiful with her cheeks flushed, eyes greener and glassier than usual.
âYou knew I was going to kiss you. You knew, and you let me do it.â
Rey is looking at him, and at least she has enough courage, enough respect for him, to meet his eyes when she says, âYes.â
Running away hasnât served him very well so far, so maybe itâs time to stand his ground.
Now or never.
âLetâs see each other,â Ben says. âNo more dancing around this thing, trying to fight off something I want, and that Iâm pretty sure you want too.â
âDo you realize what youâre suggesting? The consequences we could face if we got found out?â Rey picks up a pen and fidgets with it, turning it over and over. âIâd lose my job. The administration would watch you like a hawk for the rest of your time here, and most of your classmates would crucify you.â
Ben canât keep a grin off of his face, because she isnât saying no. It almost hurts to smile so widely. âThen weâll be careful.â
Rey opens her mouth, but says nothing, and he can see it, the nervousness thatâs keeping her quiet, and he canâtâhe just canât let her back out when sheâs so close to giving in. Ben stands up, walks around the desk, and gets on his knees before Rey. He feels ridiculously like a man about to propose.
âPlease.â Ben grasps her hips, then wraps his arms around her waist. Pulls her closer, to the edge of her seat. Sheâs a tall woman, but light. Easy to manhandle.
Rey grabs him by the front of his shirt, and Ben scrambles to his feet. He doesnât let go of Rey, doesnât stop touching her even once, as she stands, hops up onto her desk, and pulls him down for a kiss.
Itâs wet and messy, all hunger, tongues, and sharp teeth. Sheâs biting at his lips as much as kissing him, like she means to take him apart one piece at a time.
â
They made it to Reyâs apartment, even into bed, but not out of all their clothes. Benâs pants and boxers are tangled around his knees, his shirt unbuttoned. Pressed flat against the mattress with Rey on top of him, he feels frantic and overcome, drunk on the taste of her, the sight of her undressed from the waist down, riding him.
He slides his hands under Reyâs shirt and bra to grasp her breasts. Theyâre small, soft, her nipples peaked under his hands. He moans, rocks up harder, faster, meeting her movements. Each thrust draws a high, keening noise from Rey, quiet but desperate. And he loves all of it: pleasing her, feeling the warmth and wetness of her sex around his cock, watching her thighs work as she takes what she wants from him.
Rey looks down at him like sheâs needed this every bit as much as he has, and itâs good, so much, too muchâ
âWait,â Ben hisses, but he canât stop lifting his hips, bucking up into her. âYouâve gotta slow down, or IâllâIâmââ
âItâs okay, I want it, I want to watch you come.â Rey pulls her shirt over her head, then her bra, so he can see her, all of her, while sheâ
Ben bites his knuckles to keep from shouting, but he still moans loud enough that her neighbors can probably hear it through these thin walls. He canât care, because heâs close, so close, and then heâs there. Lost under Rey, buried inside her, while bliss hits him in waves. He can hear her whimpers beneath his own, goading him on, coaxing him to the end until heâs wrung out, boneless and spent.
The room hasnât quite settled around him again when Rey falls to the bed by his side.
âHow was that?â she asks, breathless.
By the confidence in her voice, he thinks she already knows. Which is good, because all Ben can muster the intelligence to say is, âI donât have the words for it.â
Rey laughs. âWell thatâs a first.â
Then she nods in the direction of his groin, and says, âYou might want to get rid of that condom.â
âRight.â
Ben would rather not think about the condom. He hadnât known how the hell to put it on, which clearly wasnât lost on Rey, although she had the tact not to comment on it. He goes to the bathroom, throws the condom away, and cleans himself up.
He undresses before climbing back into bed, and has to smile at the soft, stupid expression that steals over Reyâs face when she sees him naked.
âYouâre really something else, you know that?â Her voice breaks on the question, and it might be as satisfying as the sex to witness the effect heâs having on her.
She lets him hold her close and play with her hair. Itâs soft and fine, almost wispy, and prone to snagging when he runs his fingers through it.
âDid you come?â Ben asks.
Rey shakes her head, then nudges his calf with her foot. âIâm not too worried about it. I expect youâll make sure I get mine before the nightâs through. You are an overachiever after all.â
âWell thatâs certainly true.â Ben tries to smile, but it feels weak.
âWhat is it?â Rey asks. âYou look sad now.â
He untangles his fingers from her hair. âI donât want to be a disappointment.â
Rey sits up, cradles his face between her hands, and looks at him with such steady, blazing attention that as much as he wants to look away, he canât.
âBen. Listen to me: thereâs nothing disappointing about you. Not one thing.â
He should pull away. Making love once, holding each other, basking in the smallest sliver of her affectionâthatâs all it takes for Rey to claim every part of him that matters.
This is foolish and selfish, no good for either of them, but Ben thinks maybe, despite that, what heâs feeling could be something like love anyway.
ECCLESIASTES 6:7
Everyoneâs toil is for the mouth, yet the appetite is never satisfied.
â
Ben barely studies for his last exam because he goes to Reyâs apartment every night he can spare. They spend most of that time making love, then lying together in the aftermath, getting to know one another while they share tender touches and quiet words.
The night before he leaves for Cottontown, theyâre entwined in a pile of inside-out clothes on the living room floor, breathless and grinning at each other.
Ben props himself up on an elbow, leans over Rey, and says, âTell me something about yourself. I want to know you better.â
She laughs. âYou already know me as well as anyone does.â
âI do?â He almost laughs with her, but then Ben notices that the smile around her mouth is empty in her eyes.
Rey touches the crook of his elbow, slides her fingers along the skin of his left forearm, following the lines of his tattoo and the scar underneath it.
âIf I share something personal with you, will you tell me about this?â she asks.
Ben kisses her forehead. âSure.â
It isnât as if the worst of it (of him) isnât in plain sight anyway.
âMy parents dumped me at a hospital in Arizona when I was six. They left me there.â Rey looks up at the ceiling, the smallness of her voice fading into the shadows. âThey left me, and they never came back.â
âThatâs terrible,â Ben tells her, because it is, and because he doesnât know what else to say.
Rey shrugs, still looking upward. âI guess so.â
He imagines Rey as a little girl, lost and alone until someone found her. Lost and alone even now, maybe, if heâs the closest thing to a friend that she has.
âYour turn,â Rey says.
Ben lies on his back beside her. He thinks there might be a water stain on the ceiling, but with only the waning blue of twilight to see by, he canât be sure.
âI missed my dad. Missed him all the time, so I found ways not to think about him. I bullied kids who were smaller than me, just to have someone to hurt. Then I started fights with seniors, to get someone to hurt me. I drank all the time, so much that even my mom noticed. And she wasnâtââ Ben scrubs a hand over his face, counts five things he can hear, and says, âShe was a good mom, but she was busy. Always so busy, dealing with a million things that were more important than me, and after Dad died, she found enough distractions to keep her even busier.â
âLike you did,â Rey whispers.
âNo, not like me,â Ben says. âAnyway, Iâm sure youâve guessed where this storyâs going. Nothing helped, not in the long-run. So I tried to do something that would end the pain for good.â
He doesnât tell her about bleeding all over his bathroom floor, the flood gushing from his wrist, so bright and warm that it terrified him. He was too scared to hurt himself further, but frozen, determined not to call for help. He sat there, curled up on the tile, turning his white bathroom red red red, until his mother found him.
âWhyâd you tattoo over your scar?â Rey asks. âTo hide it?â
Ben shakes his head. âI tried to kill myself because I was hopeless. So when I found my faith, I wanted to cover up my scar with the thing that gave me hope again.â
Rey scoots closer to him, wraps an arm around his waist, and says, âThatâs beautiful.â
No, itâs stupid, Ben thinks, but he keeps that to himself. His ability to believe has become a meager thing, too shameful to share, even with Rey.
In the silence between them, Ben offers his hand. Rey takes it, and they stay this way for a long while. Lovers who only love with their bodies, holding hands in the darkness.
â
A year ago, having sex before marriage sounded impossible, if tempting, and now heâs done it. It isnât until heâs back at Pastor Snokeâs that Ben feels the gravity of his choices. He learned how to fear God in this house, and how to fear Pastor Snoke even more. Thatâs the way itâs supposed to be, because respect begins with awe, awe requires intimidation, and intimidation is born through fear. But Benâs fear of God has waned with the awe he used to feel, and without enough respect for the path he set himself on, he simply doesnât care enough to keep away from Rey.
At church, heâs an imposter among the faithful, the sort of wolf in sheepâs clothing that Matthew 7:15 warns about. Itâs easier to see the hateful lies he swallowed, now that he better understands why he was so hungry for them.
Pastor Snoke reads Psalms 139:13âfor you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my motherâs wombâand when he condemns the women who end their pregnancies, Ben thinks of Rey at age seventeen. Six weeks along and living out of her car. She told him, in the middle of the night a few weeks ago, that she had an abortion, went to college, and tried not to look back.
Not so long ago, Ben believed everything Pastor Snoke is saying now.
He stands, runs out of the church as fast as his legs will carry him, and finds a quiet place behind the church to hide. It keeps him from vomiting in the front pew, but then he thinks of what will await him at Pastor Snokeâs house. Hours in his locked room, or maybe a simple slap to the face. Itâs too late to go home, and he canât risk losing his place at Litton, his place beside Reyâ
Help me please help me I canât do this alone somebody help meâ
Ben doesnât know if heâs praying to his father or God, but maybe if he calls out loud enough and long enough, someone will answer.
â
He doesnât have to go to church the next week, because the bruise on his cheek still hasnât healed.
Ben spends all of Sunday morning writing a letter to his mother. It starts with Iâm sorry and ends with please forgive me, but he canât bring himself to deliver it. His home is only five miles away, but with the blame and betrayal heâd have to cross to get there, it might as well be a thousand.
He never has been brave. Itâs a hard truth that Ben accepted years ago, after he had to look away from his dying father, and in the blink of an eye, missed the most important moment of his life.
â
Ben talks to Rey on the burner phone that he bought right after finals. He hides in his closet and keeps his voice pitched low, feeling more like a child than a twenty-year-old man.
âI miss you,â he whispers.
âIâŚâ He hears Rey take an unsteady breath, her voice two hundred miles away, yet right in his ear. âI miss you too.â
Ben chews his lip, worrying the bruised flesh between his teeth so that the sting ties him to the present. âSo, what are you teaching next semester? Iâm taking Malbus again forââ
âI donât want to talk about work,â Rey says, snappish enough that its sharpness rings in Benâs ears.
âWell then what do you want to talk about?â he asks. âBecause it doesnât seem like you want to talk about us either, and those are the only two things we have in common.â
âDonât be dramatic. It just seemsâitâs not right for us to mix this up withââ She sighs, then her voice lowers, softens, when she says, âI donât want to confuse you. Thereâs what weâre doing⌠and then thereâs what we are to each other. Do you understand what Iâm saying?â
Their affair and their relationship lead to the same thing for him. He isnât a student fucking his professor; heâs just a man making love to the woman heâs devoted to. But he only says, âYeah, of course. I get it.â
â
âI expect better from you this year,â Pastor Snoke says. âDonât let anything steer you away from the right path, no matter how tempting it is. If youâre not vigilant, itâs easy to be seduced by the world, to forget what needs to be done. Remember my lessons.â
Ben nods, fidgeting with his keysâkeys to a gently used Toyota that Pastor Snoke gave him a week ago.
âIâll do my best. And you wonât have any reason to hear about me this year, I promise.â
The drive back to Litton stretches on and on, the same highway view repeating a thousand times. The sidelines broken by meadows, cornfields, and roadside woods, dotted with billboards for churches, jewelry companies, fast-food restaurants. Plain black promises on white canvas claim that THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH, half a mile down from a Hustler Hollywood.
By the time he reaches his school, Ben needs a shower and a nap, but the first thing he does, even before unloading his belongings into his new student apartment, is search out Rey. Her office is locked and silent, but itâs easy enough to find her in the library, wandering through the stacks with three books already under her arm.
Sheâs beautiful. Hair pulled up into three buns today, something new and a little silly that makes her look younger than thirty.
He pretends to examine a book near her and whispers, âGo to the restroom down the hall and wait for me.â
Thereâs a smile that Rey is trying to hold back, but it shows at the corners of her eyes. âWell hello to you too, darling.â
Ben pulls out a heavy book on the phenomenology of religion and flips to a page on Eliade. Itâs boring, but reading it gives him something to think about besides the ache settling between his legs, tightening his throat, beating in his chest. Lust, homesickness, love. He glances around, checking for students that he already knows wonât be there.
âI need to kiss you,â Ben whispers. âNeed to get my mouth on all of you.â
Five minutes later, theyâre locked in the third-floor bathroom, kissing and biting at each other, pulling at clothes. Ben holds Rey against the wall, one arm braced over her head, the other unbuttoning her loose jeans. Sheâs a tall woman, but when theyâre pressed close this way, both on their feet instead of in bed, she seems small, slight. Easy to have however he wants, so long as she wants it too.
Rey shivers when he tugs at her zipper, a shiver that turns to steady trembling as he yanks her pants and plain cotton underwear down her hips and thighs, lets them drop to her ankles.
He gets on his knees, and he loves it, loves everything about this. The sharp jerk of Reyâs fingers in his hair as she guides him closer, the whimpers she muffles around her own knuckles. The mindless calm that settles over him as he lets her take charge, giving orders and pulling his hair and bucking against his mouth. He loves the taste and smell of her, the heat and salt musk on his tongue. Wet, so wet, even more so as he unravels her with each lick, all slick warmth across his mouth and around his fingers, crooked inside her. He feels it when she comes, the quivering of her sex that heâs touching from within.
Then he pulls away, climbs to his feet, wipes the mess from his mouth with his shirtsleeve, and turns Rey around so that sheâs facing the wall.
âDo you haveâ?â
âYeah. I made a pitstop on the way here.â
Ben unfastens his jeans, gets them down to his knees, tangled with his boxers, and pulls a condom from his pocket. God bless Hustler, he thinks, and he doesnât even have time to feel guilty about it before heâs inside her, and then thatâs all he cares about. Rey, pressed flat against the wall, letting out the quietest of whimpers every time he thrusts. Rey, moaning his name again and again, telling him to fuck her, to have her harder, faster, to make her feel it tomorrow.
I love you, he thinks, when heâs close, when he comes, when heâs falling down from the high of pleasure. And later still, after theyâve straightened their clothes and parted ways, and heâs lying in his bed alone that night, he thinks it again: I love you. I love you so much that itâs tearing me apart.
He wishes Rey was here, to sleep beside him. That he could wake up next to her each morning, until heâs earned the intimacy of her heart as much as the intimacy of her body. That he could fall asleep in her arms at night, taking turns being each otherâs protectors.
Itâs becoming misery, to need someone so fully, and be needed back only in the basest, barest possible way.
â
Ben wonders how long they can keep this up. By December, he can hardly stand it. He turns twenty-one just before finals, and Rey promises to take him for a drink when the new semester starts. Plans for something like a date sustain him through his exams, distracting but elating, and heâs motivated like never before to do well.
He aces every exam, doesnât even need to see his grades to know it, and when he tells Rey, she laughs. Throws her arms around his neck and says, âYou really are brilliant. Itâs a shame how well you know it, though.â
During Christmas break, heâs lost. Divergent schedules and the need for discretion keep them apart more often than not, but at least at school he has the privilege of seeing Rey. Even if itâs only a glimpse of her, walking around campus or grabbing a meal in the refectory (where she always goes back for second helpings of the dishes she likes).
When theyâre together, he needs her so fiercely that it feels like something inside of him, something deep-seated and important, is being pulled from its place. Ripped out and exposed, made raw before this woman who owns him. And when theyâre apart, he aches. That same part, that necessary piece of self, hurts to be away from Rey.
But she doesnât feel the same. Itâs obvious from the reservation he often feels behind her touch outside of bed, the gentle way she always cues him to leave her home before sunrise, that Reyâs desires run shallower than his own. Sheâs glad to use him and be used, but nothing more.
And Ben knows, as much as he doesnât want to, that this isnât sustainable, could never stand the test of time. An uneven love will eventually overbalance.
â
It ends as abruptly as it started, on a cold night in April.
A storm rages outside, and a clap of thunder startles Ben awake. Muzzy-headed and still boneless from lovemaking, it takes him a moment to register that Rey isnât beside him. He climbs out of bed, pulls on his jeans, and wanders through her apartment, calling her name.
He finds her outside, on the patio, grasping the railing with a white-knuckled grip. As if that hold is the only thing that might keep her from hauling herself right over the balustrade and falling three stories to the pavement below. Ben grabs Rey by the arm and yanks her around, because he canât tolerate it, seeing her lean so close to the edge like that.
Lightning flashes, a fork of purple-white fire branching across the sky, illuminating the whole darkness, and the whole of them, standing half-naked in the watchful night.
Sheâs crying. Heâs never seen Rey cry before, and he knows, even before he asks, âWhatâs wrong?â that this is it. This is the end.
âI canâtââ She sniffs, runs a hand through her soaked hair, and says, âI canât keep doing this, Ben. Iâm sorry, but I canât.â
The wind is cold on his skin, ferrying a thousand icy raindrops that beat against his body, that could eat him alive, and for a moment, thatâs all he can feel. The wind, the rain, the cold.
Then the rest of it hits, and he runs inside, to get away from Rey more than to get away from the storm. He pulls on his shirt and shoes, grabs his backpack from the coat closet, and rushes into the hallway, down the staircase, running as fast and as far as he can when he canât think, when he canât breathe.
âBen, wait!â
Rey followed him outside, still dressed only in a drenched sweater, long enough to cover any sight of her panties. Sheâs shivering, hair soaked flat against her face, barefoot and sobbing in the rain.
âLet me explain! Pleaseââ
He rounds on her, doesnât even think before he pushes her against the brick wall. âWhy? Youâre kicking me out, arenât you? So I might as well go.â
She bites her lip, looks up at him with swollen eyes, her lashes wet with tears and rain. âIâm trying to do the right thing by you. This is hurting you. I can see that itâs hurting you, and Iââ Rey looks down, and he knows that whatever is coming next will be awful. âI donât feel the same way you do, Ben, and you deserve better than to be strung along.â
âStrung along?â He leans closer, bows low enough that he could kiss her mouth if he wanted to. If she wanted him to. âYouâve tied me up into knots, wrapped me around your little finger. Do you really think thereâs anything right left that we can do here?â
She tilts her head back, angling her lips a shade nearer to his own, showing her throat to him, like prey.
âI love you,â Ben says, and finally, the words are out. Heâs free of carrying them around like a weight on his shoulders, growing heavier each day they go unspoken.
Rey only nods, then whispers, âI know.â
Itâs not her rejection that hurts the most. That, at least, he saw coming. Itâs the softness in Reyâs eyes, the cloak of her pity that settles over him, that hits hardest.
He kisses her, presses her against the wall more roughly, taking her mouth and caging her body with his own so that, at least in this way, he can be the one in control. Bigger and stronger, with the power to make her whimper and kiss back and moan. To quiver under his roaming handsâ
Rey pushes him. She isnât strong enough to throw him off of her, but Ben still backs away.
They watch each other. Rey cries so hard that her chest heaves, and the rain keeps falling, the heavens keep roiling with a spring storm. Indiscriminate, unmoved by the display below them.
When Ben walks away, he doesnât look back.
SONG OF SOLOMON 5:6
I opened for my beloved, but my beloved had left; he was gone. My heart sank at his departure. I looked for him but did not find him. I called him but he did not answer.
â
His faded faith must be written all over him, because Pastor Snoke asks him flat-out in the middle of June, âDo you even believe anymore, Ben?â
This is the time to lie, to claim a faith heâs been leaving by the wayside for years, inch by inch, verse by verse. Lying would protect him, secure his final year of school, keep a roof over his head.
He thinks of blood on the bathroom floor, and his fatherâs last breathâthe one that he looked away from, the one he missed, because heâs a coward. He thinks of Rey, crying in the rain, throwing him aside like trash. If heâs learned anything, itâs that there are many ways to give up, and some hurt more than others. But this one isnât going to hurt at all.
âNo,â Ben says. âI donât believe in any of it, and I donât think I ever really did. I just wanted to be free of my grief, and you dangled the Word over me like a worm over a hungry fish. So I took it.â
Suddenly Pastor Snokeâs wholesome face turns into something ugly, low, and foul. The scar across his cheek stands out, white and twisted with the sneer around his mouth. For the first time, Ben thinks he must have earned that mark.
âI thought you were the son I never had,â Snoke says. âBut youâre just as much a disappointment to me as you were to your father.â
Ben punches him, and it feels good, it feels so satisfying, to finally hit this man back.
Snoke barely flinches, but it isnât his pain that Ben wants anyway. Just the simple act of reclaiming himself, of taking back a small measure of the power that he handed overâno, that Snoke took from him.
The pastor touches his mouth, and it comes away bloody. âGet out, and donât ever show your face here again.â
âDonât worry,â Ben says. âI wonât.â
â
There arenât a lot of resources for homeless twenty-somethings in Cottontown. After Snoke sent him away, he walked around for two days with nothing but the clothes on his back. All of his money came from Snoke, and he hates to spend even the thirty-two dollars in his pocket on food.
His motherâs house is so close. He could walk there in no time, he could say that he left the church and beg to come home. But he doesnât have any right to that home, doesnât have any right to her forgiveness, even if sheâd grant it.
He borrows a strangerâs phone while heâs shopping for bread and bologna at Walmart, dials his momâs number, then hangs up before it can ring. He calls Rey after that, and even though he doesnât expect her to pick up, it still hurts when she doesnât answer.
Ben smiles at the little blue-haired lady who let him borrow her ten-year-old flip phone, thanks her, and leaves the shop without buying anything.
â
The summer heat is a new hell, the kind that almost makes Ben believe in the devil again. Every day is a fresh exercise in heat exhaustion, so he finds the coolest places to lurk. Shaded park benches, the community center, under the red-striped flower shop awning.
Mrs. Miller, the shopâs owner, gives him ice water and invites him inside whenever he likes. Ben uses her bathroom to wash up with hand soap, but he knows he still looks ragged and dirty. He wonât repay Mrs. Millerâs kindness by lingering in her shop, driving away customers.
He goes to the Hope Center at the beginning of July, and when he explains the situation with Pastor Snoke, they agree that itâs terrible, just terrible, that a man of God would do such a thing.
Ben shrugs. âI wouldâve run away if he hadnât kicked me out first.â
Iâm good at running away.
The women at the center help him find an apartment by the middle of July, and the first night he sleeps inside, cradled on an air-mattress in a cool bedroom, he almost cries.
The next day, when he brings Mrs. Miller a box of chocolates as a thank you gift, she offers him a job.
Working at the shop is easy enough for Ben. Heâs always been meticulous, attuned to the fine details of things, whether itâs the nuances of a religious text or the careful pitch of Reyâs cries as he drew her closer to coming. That pays off once his days are consumed by caring for and arranging flowers. Mrs. Miller teaches him that too much babyâs breath only makes arrangements look tacky, the meaning of flowers is useless information unless youâre trying to sell Valentineâs arrangements or guilt-roses, and no, carnations never stop smelling like funerals.
August comes, and August goes, taking the start of a new semester at Litton with it.
â
His mother walks into the empty flower shop on September 29th at exactly one oâclock in the afternoon, and Ben knows heâll remember this day for the rest of his life. Itâs going to be tucked away in his memory for safekeeping, like flowers between the pages of a Bible.
She doesnât see him at first, too busy examining a display of white roses, so Ben takes a moment to watch her. Her long dark braid is streaked with silver now, the fine lines by her eyes more prominent. She looks as beautiful as ever, but older. Of course she does; itâs been three years, eight months, and six days since they last saw each other. Not that he allowed himself to count, until recently.
âMomâŚâ
It chokes out of him before he even means to say anything, but she turns immediately, her brown eyes going wide, wider, then glassy with tears. She doesnât let them fall, though. His mother has never been an easy crier, not like him.
âBen?â
It stings to hear so much reservation in her voice, hope colored by disbelief, by mourning.
âYeah, itâs me,â he says.
Ben steps around the counter, gripping its edge to keep himself steady. His mom walks over, holds out her hands, trembling, tentative, and asks, âCan I hug you?â
It isnât until he has her wrapped in his arms that Ben realizes how much heâs missed this, missed her.
âIâm sorry, Iâm so sorry, Mom, pleaseââ
He doesnât even know what he means to say. Donât hate me? Still love me? Let me come home? It doesnât matter, because she burrows closer, and buries her head against his chest. Was she always this tiny, this delicate?
They finally fall away from the embrace, but then his mother stands up on the tips of her toes to cup his face between her hands. âYouâre so tall,â she says, crying now, finally crying like he is. âWhen did you get so tall?â
Once theyâve (mostly) managed to let go of each other, Ben locks up the shop, calls Mrs. Miller to tell her what happened, and follows his mom to her car. His voice is stuck in his throat all the way back to Peachtree Street, and as soon as they reach the house, he almost starts crying again. His mom repainted the siding from white to a soft, sunny yellow, and thereâs a garden around the porch now. Itâs his house, but not as he remembers it.
There are a few cars parked in the driveway and on the lawn around it, one that he recognizes as his grandmotherâs, another that he thinks might belong to his godparents, Bail and Breha.
âWhatâs everyone doing here?â he asks.
âOh, shit, I didnât even think to tell you. The family gets together on the last Friday of every month now, sweetheart. After you leftâwell I thought it might be a good idea for all of us to stay close.â
Before Ben can figure out what to say, his mom smiles at him, as warmly as if no time has passed at all. âCome on. Itâs the perfect day for you to come home.â
â
His grandmother sobs for ten minutes straight and wonât let go of him until Mom says, âAll right, give him a chance to breathe. Donât want to run him off again.â
Ben laughs, more out of shock than good humor, but heâs thankful that thereâs so little his mother finds too sacred to make fun of.
âThis is a day for family, Ben,â Uncle Luke says, smiling. âOnce youâve had some time to let that sink in, it might be good for you to think about it.â
Ben hugs Uncle Luke once more, then his cousin Finn and Breha, then his mother. He canât get enough of pulling her close, smelling the comforting floral scent of her perfume, one thing thatâs still the same after all this time.
The house is loud and boisterous, overwhelming but beautiful. Once, the noise would have bothered him, but now he doesnât care. Through the laughter and the music and hollering from one room to another, all Ben hears is joy. A home full of joy, when he needed it most, and he can only be thankful for his familyâs warmth and grace.
Maybe Luke isnât wrong. Being here, today of all days, makes him believe for the first time in a long while that something greater than himself could be at work.
â
That night, after everyone else has gone home, Ben stays up until the early hours of the morning, talking with his mother. He tells her about living with Pastor Snoke. About college and Rey, and feeling lost without her. Most of all, though, they remember Dad together.
When dawn starts creeping through the windows, warming the kitchen with golden light, his mom says, âHeâd be proud of you, Ben. So proud.â
They laugh and cry and laugh again, and this is it, he thinks. This is what he needed all along. Time for the sharp edges of his grief to wear down, and someone to share this with, the burden of love cut short. Thereâs no magic cure for loss, but he can do this. He can keep going.
â
Ben is lying in his childhood bed, listening to morning birdsong outside his window, when he finally calls Rey.
She answers on the second ring. He doesnât even get through a greeting before she says, âBen! Where the hell are you? Iâve been worried out of my mind. First you donât answer my calls, then you never show up at school? IâveâI didnât know whatâI was afraid youâd hurt yourself.â
Rey takes three shuddering breaths, and he thinks she might be trying not to hyperventilate.
He sits up, cradling the phone between his shoulder and his head, and holds out his hands. Then he feels stupid. Itâs not like he can touch her from here.
âItâs all right, Iâm all right. Now, anyway. Iâm homeâwith my mom, I mean, andââ
âI lied,â Rey says. The words come out in a rush, like sheâs been holding them in since the last time they spoke, letting honesty fester in some hidden corner of her heart.
âLied about what?â Ben asks.
He can hear her mouth opening, the start of her voice, trembling over the line. It gives him the illusion that sheâs close enough to kiss, despite the distance between them.
âI told you that I donât feel the same way you do,â she says. âI lied.â
They spend all morning on the phone, talking through hard truths and simple ones. Being together, truly together, wonât be easy. But this time, they agree that itâs a risk worth taking.
HEBREWS 11:1
Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.
â
That afternoon, Ben goes to the creek behind his house. His mother would probably find this silly, but heâs always found more meaning in ritual than she does. He takes off his socks and shoes, rolls his pants up to his knees, and walks into the hungry water.
Ben wants to cast off this person heâs been for the last eight years: arrogant and selfish, whether devout or doubtful. Heâs done this once before, stepped into living water in the hopes that it might wash him clean, but this is different. Today, Ben isnât running away. Today, heâs walking toward something.
He looks up, unsure of who heâs speaking to, or if anyone is even listening, but certain for once that it doesnât matter. âHi,â he says. âItâs been awhile.â
#reylo#reylo fanfic#reylo fanfiction#rffa#reylo fanfiction anthology#celebrate the waking#trigger warning#physical abuse#religious fanaticism#grief#depression#suicide attempt#emotional abuse#professor!rey#student!ben#student-teacher au
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Artists Are Turning Neglected Basketball Courts into Giant Works of Art
Nick Dahlen, Lewis-Davis Park, Memphis, TN. Photo by Daniel Peterson.
Painter William LaChance had worked on a large scale before. But when he saw an image of his next canvas, via Google Earth, he wondered if heâd bitten off more than he could chew.
The surface stretched across 175 feet of concrete in the Kinloch neighborhood of St. Louis. (For context, thatâs longer than Michelangeloâs 133-foot-long Sistine Chapel ceiling.) There, LaChance would make his largest work to date: an outdoor painting covering three contiguous basketball courts.
âIt was daunting at first, given the scale and the condition of the courts,â LaChance tells me, from his studio in St. Louis. He describes a surface perforated with cracks and weeds, where âany paint thatâd been laid down in the past had become layer upon layer of colored detritus.â
Ultimately, LaChance was up for the challenge. âThe prospect of turning those courts into something beautifulâand usableâwas exciting,â he says. By early September, just a few months after heâd first laid eyes on the courts, LaChance had transformed the once-neglected surface into a sprawling abstract painting, where basketball players in bright t-shirts streaked across passages of vibrant color.
William LaChance, Kinloch Park, Kinloch, MO. Photo by Daniel Peterson.
The Kinloch Park court is one of several projects spearheaded by Project Backboard, a nonprofit that refurbishes run-down basketball courts, primarily in urban neighborhoods across the United States, by covering them with art.
The effort began in 2014, when Daniel Peterson, a former college basketball player and employee of the Memphis Grizzliesâs community investment department, noticed that many public courts across Memphis were in need of repair. Their surfaces were littered with cracks and the painted lines, necessary to play a regulation basketball game, had disappeared with wear and neglect. Â
Peterson began tackling the problem by applying simple fixes himself: âAt first, I was just painting black or white lines on asphalt: the three-point line, the foul line, out-of-bounds,â he explains.
Though as he discovered more dilapidated courts, and became increasingly comfortable with his materialsâprimarily plexipave, a paint which fills cracks as itâs appliedâan idea began to emerge. âI thought, âIâm already out here working in these parks, so how can I add something interesting and unique to these courts that will excite the community about visiting and playing on them?â
His answer was art.
Peterson didnât have a background in art when he began Project Backboard. âThere was no one at my high school or my college who was an athlete and an artist who I could look up toâwho was a model for connecting those pieces,â he says. But when he got wind that a local Memphis artist, Anthony Lee, had been commissioned by the city to design shade structures next to a court in Pierotti Park, he began to bridge art and basketball himself.
Anthony Lee, Pierotti Park, Memphis, TN. Photo by Daniel Peterson.
To Petersonâs surprise, the court lacked linesâand the city had no plan to paint them. In response, he asked Lee if heâd be open to working on the surface of the court itself as well. Lee jumped at the opportunity, Peterson recalls. Together, they replaced gray asphalt (where a single, wobbling line of spray paint had once been applied to mark the three-point line) with circles and lines filled with deep pink, cobalt blue, and purple paint.
The collaboration marked Project Backboardâs launch, and the organization has grown steadily under Petersonâs direction since. Through partnerships with artists, funding amassed via grants and private donations, and support from local volunteers, the nonprofit has refurbished courts in Memphis, St. Louis, and Los Angeles, with plans for upcoming projects in Baltimore and New Rochelle, New York.
Part of Petersonâs goal in joining art and basketball is âto help people understand that they donât have to be just one type of personâan artist or an athleteâthey can be both,â he explains. He also sees the courts âas a canvas for creative expressionâ used to âstrengthen communities and inspire multi-generational play,â as the organizationâs mission states.
While these are ambitious aims, Peterson has begun to make headway towards achieving them.
At another court in Memphis, he worked with local artists to paint backboards that had previously been coated with ads for sugary soft drinks, like Dr. Pepper. And for a court in the cityâs Chickasaw Park, Peterson recruited New York-based artist Nina Chanel Abney, whose paintings he first encountered in former NBA player Elliot Perryâs art collection.
Nina Chanel Abney, Chichasaw Park, Memphis, TN. Photo by Daniel Peterson.
For the project, Abney translated her studio workâwhich explores politics, race, gender, and contemporary cultureâinto a design that conveys basketballâs broad appeal and the democratic nature of a public court. Graphic symbols and big, bold silhouettes rendered in a variety of skin tonesâblack, white, and brownâcover the asphalt and backboards alike.
LaChanceâs painting for the Kinloch Park courts is Project Backboardâs most recent effortâand it evidences the organizationâs expansion, both geographically and terms of scope and scale. It is Petersonâs first project in the Midwest and, to his knowledge, the largest âart courtâ in the country. (Last year, Nike commissioned Kaws to paint two adjacent courts on New York Cityâs Lower East Side; The Kinloch project comprises three.)
The Kinloch courts have drawn attention, not just for the massive scale and eye-catching design, but also the location.
Kinloch borders Ferguson, the St. Louis suburb that is widely known as the site of unarmed black teenager Michael Brownâs killing by a white police officer in 2014 and subsequent Black Lives Matter protests. Kinloch itself has been described by several news outlets as an impoverished, struggling community. In 2010, local newspaper Riverfront Times called it âThe Saddest City In St. Louis County.â In 2015, Vice News headlined a story about Kinloch as âThe City Next to Ferguson Is Even More Depressing.â
Many of the courts that Project Backboard refurbishes are located in poor communities, where public funding is lacking, and, as Peterson explains, âwhere public parks and basketball courts have not been attended to, and are in complete disrepair.â
William LaChance, Basket, Kinloch Park.
While Peterson acknowledges that refurbishing basketball courts is a small step towards improving public life in these areas, he hopes it will inspire other similar efforts. âThe functional side of this project is about actually making the surface playable,â explains Peterson. âBut the art side exists to create the energy and excitement thatâs going to cause this park to actually become a center of community interactionâitâs the glue that brings everyone together around a court.â
He envisions the courts attracting a broad range of people, from basketball players to families. âDads shoot hoops with their daughters, people have picnics, read books, and watch people play on the courts because itâs lively and vibrant,â he muses.
While this vision may seem utopic, Peterson has already seen the Kinloch community rallying around the new and improved courts in their neighborhood. Throughout the installation process, many local volunteersâneighbors who glimpsed the project as they passed by the parkâpitched in to help, returning with rollers and brushes.
âI know that itâs those folks who will continue to look after the park after Iâm gone,â says Peterson. âTheyâre the ones who will pick up the trash that accumulates by the fence, or call the parks department if thereâs a tree that needs to be cut. Theyâre the people who are going to make the court become more than just a work of art, but a really functional piece of a vibrant community. â
Kevin Couliau, Blue Backboard, Howze Park, Memphis, TN. Photo by Spencer Soo.
When the refurbished Kinloch courts opened on August 25th, they were flooded with residents. âThe most striking thing was how across-the-board positive people were,â remembers LaChance. âItâs a huge abstract painting that wasnât there the week before, and itâs hard to imagine people not having differing opinions, aesthetically at least, about it. But everyone was just so excited. They loved it.â
The best praise he received for the project didnât come from news outlets or arts organizations, but from locals. âOne guy said he felt like he was on a Spike Lee movie set, and another kid asked if I could paint his shoes to match the courts,â remembers Lachance. âThose are the biggest compliments I could have received.â
âAlexxa Gotthardt
from Artsy News
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