Ben looked up from the television as the front door slammed shut, but didn’t bother moving as Leo wandered in and slumped next to him on the couch. Neither man said anything for a moment as they pretended to pay attention to a news anchor prattling on about some new government policy that neither man understood or particularly cared about.

“Did she mention me at all?” Ben asked after a moment.

“No,” Leo snapped.

It was obvious that Leo was sulking, but Ben was not about to acknowledge the fact, since he was certain he had more right to sulk than just about anyone else on the planet at that moment, and he was not about to let his friend steal his funk. “Did you mention me at all?”

“No.”

“Did she look pained? Guilty? Regretful? Lonely maybe?”

“She wasn’t even there.”

“Oh.” Ben scowled at the television. “Where do you think she is?” he asked suddenly, sitting up and turning panicking eyes to Leo. “She’s out with Mr. Artsy Fartsy, isn’t she? She’s just screwing with me, she wasn’t there on purpose because she wants me to know that she’s out there writhing around naked with some other man. I spill my heart out to her and she goes out to get laid just to spite me. That damned art boy.”

“Art boy isn’t having sex with her,” Leo sighed.

“I know. She freaks him out.”

“Jo freaks out everyone.”

“Yeah, but I don’t mind. I’m probably the only person smart enough to flee the Bay who understands why she’s such a freak, and I like her and her neurotic qualities, and I’m cute, how can she not like me? I am cute, aren’t I? Cuter than art boy anyway, right? I mean the man barely has the biceps to pick up a paintbrush—”

“Would you shut the hell up about that fucking artist,” Leo yelped loudly as he jumped up and stomped towards the kitchen.

After a moment of shocked silence, Ben jumped up and followed. “What’s your problem?” he demanded as he leaned against the counter, watching as Leo searched through a cupboard.

“Everyone’s in love with the fucking artist,” Leo growled. “Everyone wants to sleep with the fucking artist.”

“I don’t,” Ben shrugged, not entirely sure where Leo was going with his tirade.

“No, but Del does.”

“Well yeah, but – oh,” Ben smiled, “I get it now. You have a crush on Adele.”

“Not anymore I don’t.”

“Why?”

“Did you miss the whole ‘sleeping with the fucking artist’ tantrum?” Leo crossed his arms across his chest and glowered at the refrigerator.

“Oh. Right. We could kill him?” Ben suggested hopefully. “That’d solve both our problems.”

“No, I think Del would rather sleep with the dead artist than the living and breathing me.”

“Eew?”

“She looks at me and she sees Jo’s geeky work friend.”

“Maybe because that’s what you are?”

Leo glared at Ben for a fraction of a second before turning and leaving the room. “And why do you think Jo sees you as my arrogant jock friend?” he mumbled.

“You don’t need to get snippy about it,” Ben yelled after him.

“Sorry Mr. Murdoch, I — oh, you’re still here,” Fiona frowned as she all but skipped into the classroom to find Joaquin standing at her easel with a portrait of a very old man. “Where’s the teacher?”

“Aidan,” Joaquin called toward the supply room.

“Aidan?” Fiona murmured under her breath as the door to the classroom opened and Adele stepped inside. “Why does she get to call him—”

“Finished with your apostle yet?” Aidan chirped as he wandered out of the supply room, hair mussed and face a bit flushed from the exertion of putting away the projector and slides. Three pairs of eyes took in the sight longingly, three hearts beat a bit faster, and two minds decided that turning away would be advisable before something foolish happened. Fiona, on the other hand, bounded forward as Aidan waved a greeting to Adele.

“I’m finished with my paper,” she perked, handing over the five sheets of paper covered in large, scrawled handwriting.

“Thank you, Fiona,” he nodded, scanning over the first page. “Do you feel you’ve learned anything?”

“Oh, yes sir,” she nodded enthusiastically. “Great guy, Dürer was.”

“Uh-huh.” He frowned at the page.

“Are you gonna read it now,” she asked, “or were you thinking of taking it, maybe, home?”

“Well actually, Fiona,” he smiled at her, “we’ve got a Dürer fan and an editor here, why don’t we let them score it?”

“Oh, um, but sir—”

“If you don’t mind, of course,” he said, casting a quick questioning glance at Joaquin before looking carefully at Adele for a moment longer than was probably necessary.

“No, I don’t mind at all,” Adele shrugged and took the stack of papers from him.

“Mr. Murdoch, really,” Fiona continued as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out two pens.

“Blue for the artistic content, and red for the editing, I think,” he declared, handing Joaquin and Adele each a ballpoint pen.

“I really think I’d like your professional opinion Mr. Murdoch.”

“These happen to be two professional and competent women.” Joaquin’s head snapped up from watching Adele circle things in red ink. “Well, mostly competent,” he smirked.

“This isn’t fair,” Fiona pouted, glaring at everyone in the room at turn, even the portrait on Joaquin’s easel.

Adele snickered to herself as she scribbled something at the bottom of the first sheet. “What?” Joaquin asked as Adele handed her the sheet.

“Oh, nothing really. It’s just that not only did she misspell Madonna, but she confused the Virgin Mary with the 80s pop star,” she giggled.

“Dear god,” Joaquin smirked.

“Oh, and you’ll need this,” Aidan announced, handing Fiona a photocopy of the drawing of an elderly man Joaquin had been copying. “I want a double-sized study of this in charcoal pencil done for next class.”

“Fine,” Fiona snapped as she snatched the photocopy from him.

“And when I say study, I mean a detailed reproduction, copying the original artist’s style, not done in your own style.”

“But I’m so good at my own style.”

“No, Fiona, you’re really not,” Aidan sighed, resting a hand heavily on her shoulder. “It’s called artist growth, I suggest you look into it. Are you here to learn, or are you here to do what you want to do?”

“Um…”

“She’s here for the scenery,” Adele murmured under her breath.

“What was that?” Aidan perked.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, dropped her face a bit closer to the paper and struggling to find her place again. Aidan raised an eyebrow at her.

“I’m here because the class is a prerequisite?” Fiona managed.

“That’s the wrong answer,” he sighed, rubbing his temples.

“Just refreshing my memory here, Mr. Murdoch,” Joaquin said, glancing up, “but ‘Melancholia’ was an engraving, right?”

“Yeah, one of his masterworks,” Aidan nodded. “Why?”

“Says here it was a pencil drawing.”

“But they didn’t have graphite pencils in sixteenth century Germany?”

“They didn’t have apostrophes either, evidently,” Adele added, adding a few more red circles to the sheet she was reading. “Or past participles. Or any sense of grammar or cohesion.”

Joaquin let out a short, shrill laugh. “Look at this! ‘He also made a watercolor picture called The Great Piece of Turd’. That’s so wrong in so many different ways, I can’t believe it.”

“Turd, Fiona?” Aidan asked, trying to look scornful and not laugh uproariously. He succeeded only in half-heartedly covering a giggle behind a cough.

“That’s what the book said. I thought…”

“Did you not bother to look at the illustration?”

“Um…”

“When I ask you to research an artist, I’m trying to broaden your mind, not make you copy boring facts out of a boring encyclopedia. I didn’t want titles and dates, I wanted ideas. Or at least looking at the pretty pictures. Even a child could tell the difference between ‘The Great Piece of Turf’ and a turd, Fiona.”

“I’m not a child,” she snapped. “I’m a full-grown woman.”

“In a purely numerical way, I’m sure you are,” Aidan soothed. She furrowed her brows at him.

“Hey kid, where’s the last page?” Adele asked, holding up the final sheet she’d been given and flipping it over to make sure there was nothing on the back.

“That’s it,” Fiona said through clenched teeth.

“So your paper just ends with ‘a little time before his mother died he made for her a real’? That’s not even a sentence, let along a conclusion.”

“Mr. Murdoch asked for 800 words. That’s 800 words. I counted them three times.”

Adele looked from Fiona to Aidan to Joaquin and back again in disbelief. “I honestly don’t have words for you.”

“So what’s the final analysis then?” Aidan perked.

“Primary school writing level and vocabulary, there’s no thought in here, just a bunch of probably hopelessly mangled facts about a bunch of artworks arranged in no particular order. Frankly, I don’t know how she graduated high school.”

Aidan nodded thoughtfully. “Jo?”

“Factually it’s just a farce. And there was no mention of his drawings or his woodcuts or his influence on all the artists of so many different media that came after him. I’d give it a C. Just because it amused me. Mainly because of the turd bit I think.”

“Oh, what the hell do they know anyway?” Fiona snapped accusingly, glaring daggers at the two women.

“I think their many years of schooling and professional experience are probably a good indicator that they know quite a bit. But here’s what I’m going to do. I’m not going to read your essay.”

“What?! That’s—”

“Listen to me,” he interrupted in a warning tone. “I’m going to let you have your paper back, and I’m going to ask you to go home and bring back something that’s not going to make me want to jab a china marker into my eye. Try for 800 words – minimum this time, with a little more thought put into it? Can you do that for me?”

“Yes sir,” she breathed, and blindly snatched her essay from Joaquin’s hands.

“Thanks, ladies,” Aidan smiled at Joaquin and Adele.

“No problem,” Adele nodded as her roommate gathered her things and Fiona roughly shoved her things into her backpack. “You want a ride home, Aidan? No reason for you to get soaked to the skin riding your bike home in the rain.”

Fiona let out a small sob and Joaquin dropped her portfolio.

“Are you sure it’s not a problem?” he asked.

“No, none at all,” Adele smiled as Aidan led them to the door of the classroom. Between the hilarious essay and Aidan’s warm smiling eyes, she’d all but forgotten Leo’s advances and the emotional turmoil that had followed. “You and Jo can discuss your mutual love for Dürer,” she suggested, and smirked as she could almost see the kinky scenes flitting past Joaquin’s eyes before they closed to slits, glaring threateningly at Adele. It was obvious that before the night was over she would have something thrown at her for putting those Dürer-related images into Jo’s head.

“You, but—” Fiona flustered, her face turning an interesting shade of red.

With Adele and Joaquin in the hallway and Aidan’s hand hovering over the light switch, they all looked expectantly at Fiona, who stood just inside the room, her eyes wide with jealousy. “Well come on Fiona, it’s time to go home now. It’s almost bedtime, isn’t it?” Aidan held the door open and she trundled out of the room, scooting past them reluctantly.

“It’s not fair,” she whined, hurrying down the hall.

“Is it too late for the flogging?” Joaquin asked.

“I’ll bring the whip,” Adele agreed.

“Kinky,” Aidan mused.

“Oh god,” Joaquin whimpered. Home couldn’t come soon enough.

Ben was starting to get bored. He’d spent the last several days in Leo’s apartment, depressed and lonely and slowly convincing himself that he was never going to be able to woo another woman for the rest of his life, and somehow failing to convince himself that he should stop caring about Joaquin even thought it was obvious that she was slowly sucking out his soul for the fun of it. And he’d been fine with his own discontent, until suddenly he was competing with Leo for the ‘worst rejection’ prize. It seemed like he was probably losing the contest to Leo, so it just wasn’t fun anymore.

He found himself wandering down the hall and pausing at Leo’s bedroom door. He’d been holed up inside for several hours, no doubt attempting to find solace in the cold cyber-embrace of Misty. Ben knocked on the door anyway.

“Go to hell,” Leo snapped.

“You’re not still pouting are you?” Ben whined at the door.

“Yes.”

“Well stop, it’s starting to bug me.”

The door flung abruptly open and Leo shot daggers at Ben. “This coming from the man who’s spent the last week whining because the woman he wants just because they both grew up with insane hippy parents doesn’t want him. I’ll pout if I want to, thank you.”

“No, see, my pouting is different from your pouting.”

“How?”

“Because my pouting doesn’t bug me. We can’t both sit around and feel sorry for ourselves because of art boy.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s bumming me out.”

“It’s bumming you out?” Leo sneered. “Man, we got you out of California just in the nick of time didn’t we.”

“Leave me alone, I’m heartbroken. And so are you. We should do something about our broken hearts.”

“Like what?”

“Dunno. I’ve tried the pouting, that doesn’t seem to help as much as I thought it would.”

“And you tried the drinking to forget, but that just made you remember every other woman who’s ever rejected you, and man were there a lot of them for you to cry over. How you manage to maintain your macho, self-confident façade is beyond me.”

Ben ignored the barbs, pausing only to sneer briefly at Leo. “I tried the comfort eating, but somehow frozen pizza didn’t have the same effect as half a pie.”

“I told you you could’ve gone out and bought pie.”

“I was too busy pouting to shop.”

“I don’t need a girlfriend,” Leo sighed, “you’re just as bad as a woman.”

“Besides, it’s not pumpkin season here. Is it?”

“I don’t know man, I don’t keep tabs on local gourd production.”

Ben nodded disappointedly. “Now I want pie.”

“We could go out and find an art girl and take her out and have sex with her and then rub it in Del’s and Jo’s faces?”

“Now Leomont,” Ben chastised, “that’s no way to win over a woman. What would Misty say?”

“To hell with Misty,” Leo snapped and pushed past Ben, who followed him into the living room.

“Ooh, snippy,” Ben mocked as Leo collapsed heavily into an armchair. Ben pushed aside a pile of newspapers, magazines and computer cords and slouched on the sofa, his sock feet up on the coffee table in between two clumps of beer cans.

“Well, why do you think I’ve been so attached to Misty?” Leo demanded

“Because you can’t get a real girl, and somehow you feel that cyber sex is a more self-validating, less guilt-inducing form of masturbation?”

Leo scowled at him angrily for a moment. “Oh fuck off and stop being insightful,” he grumbled miserably.

“But now the novelty’s worn off and you’re getting carpal tunnel in your right hand and you’ve decided that there isn’t a woman on earth that will ever want anything to do with you.”

“I’m not that pathetic!”

“Yeah you are. We both are. Well, you more than me. I’ve never stooped to computer sex.”

“You’re no better than me. You just wait until a woman’s drunk enough to think you’re charming then wave a deltoid or a quad or a lat or whatever muscles you’ve got that turns on alcoholic women and makes them think taking you home from the bar is a good idea.”

“It’s hard to flash my quadriceps without taking off my pants,” Ben pointed out dully.

Leo shrugged. “I didn’t pass my high school anatomy class. Biceps maybe. Whatever, you trick women into sleeping with you by using alcohol and football stories.”

“Yeah. It works though. Some of the time. Just not with Jo.” He felt another pout coming on in spite of himself. “Besides, it’s no different than you telling Misty you’re a fireman.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Ben nodded in reluctant agreement. “She’s probably a fireman too, you know.”

“I’ve been trying not to think about that,” Leo admitted sadly, and decided a change of subject was in order. “What’s art boy’s trick then? If you’ve got muscles and I’ve got fake internet identities, how’s he snagging women?”

Ben thought for a moment. “He’s intelligent, he’s good looking, he’s witty, he’s arty, he’s probably very sensitive and kind to dumb animals.”

“He’s gotta be faking it.”

“Gotta be.”

“He’s good.”

“Are you sure we can’t kill him?”

“Not unless you want the rest of your sexual acts to occur on a prison bunk with you on all fours and a partner named Javier.”

Ben cringed dramatically. “Do you think we could we pull that off? Intelligent and witty and sensitive?”

“Doubtful,” Leo shrugged.

Ben slumped further into the couch. “We really need pie.”

Leo let out a heavy sigh and reluctantly got off the couch. “Fine, let’s find a damn pie.”