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Who is this sassy lost child
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((Cristóbal Morales continued from What the hell is a baseball?))

There was a buzzing in Cristo's ears, in his fingertips, all the way from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, like a swarm of insects under his skin.

He didn't think he'd ever been so furious in his entire life, and the worst part was, there was no reason for it at all.

Alright, that wasn't strictly true. Will was a, a... he was infuriating. A self-absorbed, ungrateful, snobby, conceited, sheltered, spoiled, cocky... brat. That's what Will was. A brat, born and raised, and as soon as someone gave him a little taste of life outside of that, it was a personal affront. He'd made it perfectly clear in every word he spoke to Cristo, every word about his family and this country and everyone in it.

And you know the worst part? The worst part was that he was never going to change. Will was never going to get his reality check. Nobody was going to take away that silver spoon and make him appreciate what he had. Cristo knew that, as surely as he knew his own name. People like Will, they waltzed through life barely experiencing it and laughed at those who had to live in the real world, and no one would ever be able to convince them that any of it was worthwhile if there was no gain at someone else's expense.

He hated feeling like this. He hated being angry. He didn't like that part of himself, was glad that it so rarely surfaced. He resented Will all the more for bringing it out of him.

Cristóbal knew that he might be facing a bit of trouble for leaving the gym before the period was over, but he was technically still in the athletic area. He'd let his aimless legs carry him towards the football field; few people out here at this time of the school day, little chance of someone happening on him and wanting a conversation. He wasn't good for conversation right now, if he ever was at all.

Maybe in a bit, he'd feel like running. It was a good day for it, hot and dry but with a few passing clouds to keep the sun from being as relentless as it normally was. Maybe in a bit.

For now, Cristo sat down heavily in the grass next to the track that ringed the football field and put his head between his knees, willing the buzzing to stop.
"Art enriches the community, Steve, no less than a pulsing fire hose, or a fireman beating down a blazing door. So what if we're drawing a nude man? So what if all we ever draw is a nude man, or the same nude man over and over in all sorts of provocative positions? Context, not content! Process, not subject! Don't be so gauche, Steve, it's beneath you."

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Empire of Dirt · Athletics