we all deserve trophies.

With an initiative that came from nowhere, he twisted to face the back, where I was sitting, and nudged his sketchbook of sorts in my direction. I leaned forward to get better look.

"It's just something I came up with," he said, almost straining to sound casual. He repressed a smug smile before I had even seen it. I could tell: Inside, he was beaming.

As to what the drawing really was, I could not tell. There were some faces in succession with captions or speech tags, fashioned with the intent, I suspect, of some comic effect. But the artistry itself was too indistinct, and plain for all the melodrama he had injected into its presentation — quite comparable to that of seven year-old girls'? (from whom his drawings always gained much admiration.) Otherwise, the effort put in was fully eighteen year-old.

I looked back at him.

His smirk was still hanging off his face, and his too-long neck seemed crooked at an awkward angle. He was waiting for me to look impressed, and I wanted a camera so badly. I made a snapshot in my mind.

"Oh," I replied, flatly. That was the best I could reciprocate without scoffing. I eased myself back into a slouch and tried to compensate by pressing my lips together in attempt to appear comtemplative.

It must have been his best sketch yet.