Consider this my Valentine's Day gift you guys! HAPPPPPYYYYYY VALENTINE'S DAY, MY FANS! LOVE YOU GUYS!

Riley

"Where are they?"

"Where are what?" I say innocently, staring at my angry Mexican cabin mate. His deep blue eyes are shining, showing how seriously pissed off he is. But I'm not scared. He won't hurt me or embarrass me while I have his precious clothing.

Paco pulled me out in the middle of lunch. They book I'm reading was just starting to get good, too, so I was pissed. But, I have to admit, it was worth it to see him knocking furiously on the window to avoid the swarm of students. Especially since the gossip well seems to have ran empty for the moment.

He isn't Mr. Cool – Confident – Mexican – Badass he made himself out to be when we first met. Paco was just trying to save himself from embarrassment. The way his body is though, I'd think people would think twice about making fun of him. He has a smooth, rock hard body with some mean looking scars, I guess from fighting. And then there are the tattoos.

Not gang tattoos and not your typical tattoos of naked women or sailor women either. They're just designs. One is a star, another is some fierce swirls that look curl out at the end like whips. I'm itching to ask him about them, but I don't mean to pry. Besides, I don't want to know about the kid. It just means I have to tell him something about me. I don't want that.

"You damn well know what." He growls. When I bite my lip, pretending to be contemplating what it could be, he throws his head back in frustration. "My clothes!"

"Oooh, your clothes," I say. I pout. "Why do you want your clothes? Don't you like the outfit I picked out for you?" I sigh and shake my head in mock exasperation. "That's what I get for helping someone, I guess. No appreciation."

"You fuckin' with me, chica? Who in their right mind would want to wear these damned things?" He begins to tug and pull at the clingy fabric. I wince. If I return it in anything other than the best condition possible, I am toast.

"Oh, you're in your right mind?"

His eyes narrow. "Cute. Now, tell me where the fuck my clothes are so I can get out of this…thing."

"If I can remember where I put them." Paco's eyes turn to slits. I relent, turning my palms up at him. "Okay, okay, not funny. Just follow me."

We go for a long, silent walk through the woods. Well, almost silent. Paco keeps cursing from slipping and all that other stuff. It's funny how someone who everyone pegs as the toughest thing since his father can't handle Mother Nature.

"Are we almost there yet?" He moans again breathlessly. Paco had just asked two minutes before. Honestly, he should save his breath. From all the huffing and puffing he's doing behind me, I can tell he needs it.

"I dunno. I thought I left them around here somewhere." I shrug, stopping to tap my lip.

I didn't put the clothes too far, but I like making him think I did. Actually, they're right on the edge of the woods by our cabin. But that doesn't mean I have to take him there right away. So, I go in a huge circle, stopping at one tree only to change my mind and walk away again. Then Paco checks the tree and goes into a whole Spanish rant at me. What a team we are; he can barely trust me.

The trees are shockingly green during the day. It reminds me of one the scenes from Bambi where the light streams through like an angel's light. I tried to repaint that once, but it didn't work. I couldn't get the same beautiful gold sunrays.

Which makes me think about Paco, for some odd reason. Not because I can guarantee that there is no way someone can get his eye color (because they can't). But because I wonder what he's ever painted. It became pretty obvious after the first day of drawing that he wasn't here based on sketching – not to mention I couldn't imagine him sitting home and coloring on the weekends. So, he must paint. But what?

"What's the last thing you painted that you're proud of?" I ask, mostly to clear the silence that fell between me and him. Paco had finally stopped cursing and talking all together. And I hate that. It makes me think he's analyzing me and mentally making fun of me.

"Um, why?" He drags out the "Why" in sarcastic question.

"I'm curious." I shrug then sigh. "Forget it then."

There are a few more minutes of silence before he speaks. "It was my second paintin'. I drew this sick looking racing car. It was red and just the way the zoom turned out was awesome." His voice turns bitter as he continues. "They made me paint over it a week later."

I remember seeing that. It was the most beautiful thing piece of graffiti I've ever seen. I used to walk home that way just to see it. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, it was community service or some huge fine, so está bien. What about you? Ever paint somethin' you're proud of?"

"Er…" I try to think of a time when I've ever looked at a painting and thought: Wow, this is great. It's never great. I find everything wrong with anything I do because – well, - I guess I just need it to be perfect.

But does that make me seem stuck up if I say that? Or do I look pathetic?

I bet Paco's used to girls who keep their heads held high and their shoulders squared, even when they're being told the worst news of their lives. Hell, I couldn't even make it through Bridge to Terabithea without getting all teary. I don't think Jasmine even knows what tears are, let alone showing any emotion besides Bad Ass.

So, I decide to make up a story. "It was some doll that I did. I got the shading better than I ever have before." I shrug.

"Huh," He snorts. "Sounds like something you really enjoyed." I didn't know it was humanly possible to put so much sarcasm in one sentence.

"Well, I did."

"Really? When I'm proud of something, I gloat about it to everyone. Forever."

"Well, we aren't alike, then, are we?"

"Guess not." Paco stops, breathing labored. We'd been walking for about an hour now. I'm fine, because I've walked this amount or longer everyday now. "How much fuckin' farther can the damned things be?"

"I heard you used to be a good runner." I say, just to be an ass. It's commonly heard that Paco has out ran some of the fastest kids at school. Mostly it's told from Paco's mouth. I didn't used to believe it until we both signed up for the track. And, DAMN, the kid was fast. While most kids were on their second lap, walking, he finished his 6th running lap without even trying.

"Chica, I AM a good runner." He gets defensive.

"Then why can't you handle a little walking?"

"Maybe you take my breath away."