When the class's professor finally arrived---just a while after his meeting with that grown bully, though it felt like an hour later---he jumped up and was the first one inside. It was a large room, with a single wall of windows to let in natural light and high ceilings and pale beige walls that didn't let the light dim. On the whiteboard that took up the farthest part of the wall, the day's painting task was written down along with the week's project. He took up residence at the work station at the farthest corner, a desk and an easel and painting equipment that was generally standard issue. Each person had to buy their own utensils, and often would get their own paints at the same time. He didn't really buy his own---the school was well equipped to provide high quality acrylics and watercolors, pens, pencils, markers, and pastels of various top-shelf branding.

Today's task was to show lighting effects in complex environments that had deep overlays. As the others arrived, streaming into the classroom and going to their respective stations, he focused on preparing his easel and setting it up. It was sixteen inches by twenty, and he set it up longwise. The school was so inspiring, but at the same time, strange. He focused on the inspiring side, however, and began taking his paints out. Digging down, he couldn't find his pencil brush. He knew it wasn't at home---he never took his paintbrushes out at home, unless he were working on a project, and this time he had no project. It had to be with his carving utensils in his public locker.

He dreaded it, but nonetheless he sidled out of the room and crept down the hall, slipping out of the room without making eye contact to anyone and trying not to sprint down the hall though he was sure he'd not make it back in time to beat the bell. In the locker alcove he went to his, finding his pencil brush sitting beside a bottle of pinkish liquid. He was wary to touch it---wary more of its origin. Though he used his brush to flip its tag over and read it. Secret admirer? Surely it had to be a joke. Pink soda; there were bubbles rising from the bottom. Just that, pink soda, or some carbonated water with food coloring. Nonetheless, he picked it up and studied it carefully. Maybe it wasn't a joke. But he would have liked to know who it was from. The bell rang suddenly, startling Cian and making him pocket the bottle and grab his pencil brush and nearly sprint back to his classroom.

He couldn't bear not knowing who the strange thing was from. What it was, even. Not poison---surely not, he had no enemies, no grudges, and was only the target of some bully every now and then, when they wanted a quick object to bat around for a moment and forget about a second later. Was it really a secret admirer, then? Why?