Free A Son of Carver (Carver High #2) by Haven Francis Page B

the one she looked happiest in.”
    What the hell? I’m glaring at Nash as he shares information that’s none of his business, much less the entire classes. He glares back at me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
    “Great. Can we contrast the two sets of photos?” Mr. Conroy says, opening my life up for class discussion.
    “I prefer Nash’s,” Harley, one of Angel’s friends, pipes in. Excellent.
    “Elaborate,” Mr. Conroy suggests.
    “I don’t know, they just feel more real. Presley’s seem a little contrived and stereotypical. And I think it’s cool how he managed to take photos of her real life even though she’s not living there anymore.”
    Out of the corner of my eye I see Nash grinning and I want to punch him.
    “Presley, do you care to comment?”
    “Sure,” I eagerly agree. “I believe you feel that way because Nash’s photos are gritty – unfocused, poorly lit and monochromatic. To the amateur eye that can come across as artsy when really it’s just sloppy.”
    “Do you agree with that, Nash?”
    “Are you seriously asking me that?” Nash says with a laugh.
    “Sure.”
    “No. Of course I don’t agree with that. Harley’s right – Presley’s photos are contrived. She doesn’t get the purpose of taking these photos - To photograph truthfully and effectively is to see beneath the surfaces. That was the quote you put on the syllabus, right?”
    “Exactly,” Mr. Conroy says with pride in his voice. Ugh, puke, I’m going to puke.
    “Her technique may be better but she’s too scared to really look at her life. She played it safe and because of it, gave us photos that don’t really tell us anything about her home landscape. ”
    “Like you know anything about me or my home,” I mutter, too loudly.
    “That’s what you’d like to believe but I think we both know you’re wrong. In fact, I think I know too much. I think what I know and what I see makes you uncomfortable because you don’t want to even admit you have crap, much less see it and have to think about it.”
    “Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Mr. Conroy says, unclipping our photos and practically shoving us back to our table.
    The bell rings before we can sit down and I’m out the door before I can even process what the hell just happened.
    As I approach my locker and see Angel waiting there for me, hot tears spring from my eyes and start running down my cheeks. I watch as alarm takes over his features. He starts walking to me and when I’m within arm’s length he grabs a hold of me and hugs me to his chest. “What’s wrong?”
    I cower into him, wanting to disappear. I hate Nash. I hate that I’ve given him ammo to use against me. I hate that he was right – that I’m scared to really look at what my life has become. I hate that he can see it.
    “Hey,” Angel says, lifting my chin up so I’m forced to look at him. “Are you okay?”
    I shake my head, I have so much shit to say but I can’t say it to Angel. I don’t want him to know how screwed up I am. It’s bad enough that Nash does. “I’m fine,” I say, “I don’t really want to talk about it, but I’m fine.”
    “You sure?”
    Obviously I’m not sure but what else can I say. “Yeah.”
    “Okay… do you want to head to lunch?”
    I back out of his hold and run my palms under my eyes mopping up the tears before looking back at him. “Actually, I think I might head off campus for lunch?” Which I say like a question because I don’t have a vehicle. But Angel does.
    But all he says is, “You sure?”
    “Yeah, I’m sure,” I tell him, annoyed even though I have no right to be. At least not with him. “I’ll see you later.” I give him a tight smile, then turn to go.
    He grabs my arm, stopping me, and relief floods my body. “Hey, we never really talked about last weekend.”
    No, Angel, we didn’t because you didn’t call or text and on Monday morning you were acting like nothing between us had changed. I raise my eyebrows at