by Mason Deaver
I follow him into the house, and there isn’t even a second before Ryder goes right for me, sniffing at my jeans and leaping up on his hind legs to knock me over with his front paws. Next thing I know I’m on my ass, hitting the hardwood floors, and Ryder’s licking at my face.
“Ryder, no!”
“It’s okay.” I rub him behind the ears. Ryder’s got these huge brown eyes that make it impossible to be mad at him. “I like kisses.” I immediately realize what I just said, and blood rushes to my cheeks. “From dogs, I mean.” Could I be more awkward?
“He’s totally shameless. You should know better by now, shouldn’t you, boy?” Nathan asks him.
Ryder looks back at Nathan before giving me a mouthful of gross, hot breath right in my face.
“Hey, you want to go outside?” Nathan’s voice switches from serious to that fake sort of excited you use for dogs and babies.
Ryder kicks up his legs, bouncing up and down all the way to the back door, waiting impatiently for Nathan to finally slide the glass open. The moment the door is wide enough, Ryder bolts.
“I swear, I love that dog, but he’s a total doofball most of the time.” Nathan hurries back over to help me up off the floor.
“That’s been the case with every golden retriever I know.” We walk back over to the door.
“Wouldn’t trade him for anything.” Nathan whistles, interrupting Ryder’s very important task of rolling around in the grass. “Ryder, ball!” Nathan uses his excited voice again.
Ryder’s ears perk up. He waits just a split second before starting to run around the yard in a big circle, grabbing something without stopping and bringing it to Nathan.
Nathan grabs the slobber-covered ball and chucks it into the far corner of the yard. Ryder was gone the moment Nathan raised his arm, ready to catch the ball before it even hit the ground.
I sit back and watch them repeat this a few times, Ryder never failing to jump up and catch the ball with his mouth. “He’s good at that,” I say.
“We’ve had a lot of practice.” He throws the ball lazily one more time, wiping the slobber on his jeans. “You ready to do some book learnin’?” He says this with what I can only describe as the worst southern accent I’ve ever heard.
“Sure.” I follow Nathan back inside and up the stairs, trying not to get nervous at the fact that I am probably being led to his bedroom. I try to distract myself with the photos lining the walls. Young Nathan is cute. I mean, teenage Nathan is cute too, but he doesn’t have the pinchable cheeks anymore.
And why am I thinking about that?
Different thoughts. Different thoughts.
His parents look really happy too. It’s incredibly obvious that he got his smile from his mom. In fact, he seems to share most of his traits with his mom, at least at a glance. They have the same eyes, same nose, same smile.
“You look like her, like your mom,” I say, stopping at a picture of the two of them at what I guess is Easter. The big purple wicker basket and the bright polo shirt Nathan is wearing are sort of giveaways.
“I get that a lot.” He grins.
“Is this your dad?” I point to another picture of a much older man and Nathan behind the wheel of a boat.
“Stepdad. Mom married him when I was about twelve.”
“Oh.” That explains why he doesn’t seem to be in any pictures with baby Nathan.
“Yeah.” He bounces on his heels. “Come on, my room is just up here.” He leads me up the rest of the way and down the hallway to his bedroom.
It’s messy. Not quite disastrous, but there are clothes over everything, posters of various bands and rappers I’ve never heard of hanging on the walls. And there’s a shelf in the corner filled to the brim with books. What he hasn’t managed to fit on his shelf there or the ones above his desk, he’s stacked on his nightstand or on his dresser. Oddly enough, his bed is completely made. “Sorry, should’ve thought about cleaning up.” He kicks off his shoes.
“It’s cool,” I say, wondering where I can take a seat. The chair at his desk is filled with discarded clothes, and Nathan just plops down on his bed, grabbing his backpack.
“Okay. So, what do you want to do first?” The springs squeak underneath him.
“Algebra’s probably easiest.”
“Yeah, ‘easiest,’” he says, making the quotations with his fingers. “Come on, don’t be shy.” Nathan pats at the empty space next to him on the bed. “This is where the magic happens.”
“Are you more of a rabbit-out-of-a-hat guy, or do you do card tricks?” I ask.
“Oh, funny boy.” Nathan reaches for his algebra textbook.
“Yeah, funny.” I try to force a laugh, but even I can’t believe it. Every “boy” or “him” has been like a stab in the gut. And for some reason, it hurts worse when it comes from him. Even worse than when Mom or Dad called me their “son” or their “boy.”
“Okay, so, Mrs. Sever said that the test would cover these two chapters.” Nathan shows me the part in his textbook.
“So how much do you need to review?”
“All of it.”
“Oh, okay. Wow. Well, let’s go ahead and get started.”
Nathan isn’t totally hopeless, and I’m not sure why he thinks he is. There are a few times where he’ll mess up on an equation, or misremember the order of something, but he isn’t a lost cause. I try to recall all the ways I’ve remembered the dozens of formulas over the years, rhymes or songs or acronyms.
“How do you remember all this stuff?” he asks me.
“Don’t know.” I’ve always been good at math. “It’s sort of easy.” I flip through his review packet again. “It says there’s a practice test online you can take, and you’ll get ten extra points on the quiz.”
Nathan grabs his laptop and types in the website. “Math should be illegal.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Says you.” When prompted for his school, he picks “North Wake High School,” types in his student ID, and hits the big blue start button underneath. “Shit,” he whispers under his breath after reading the first question.
“Look.” I grab his notebook and flip to an empty sheet. “Here, just work it out.” I watch him copy down the problem, carefully making his way through it. “Remember to move that over,” I add.
“There?” He shows me his work.
“Type it in, see if it’s right,” I say, even though I know he’s got it.
The website gives him a little “Good Job!” before it moves on to the next question. “Jesus, how long is this quiz?”
I reach for my bag at the foot of his bed. “You’ve done one question, stop whining.” I open my sketchbook to the newest page. It’s only been a few weeks, but I’m already close to needing a new one. The pages are sticking out, notes and sketches pouring from the seams, and I’ve only got a handful of empty pages left. “Just keep going.”
“Fine, Mom.” He groans, pulling the laptop closer. “What are you drawing?”
“Not sure yet. I’ll let you see when you’re finished.” I turn so I can hide the sketchbook from view. “Now get to work. Those ten points will come in handy.”
“Fine, fine.” He starts to work again. “Hey, what about this?” Nathan hands me his notebook, and I check over his work. “The answers aren’t adding up.”
I read over his equations quickly. “Close, you got the root wrong here.” It’s not that far up into the problem, so he won’t have to redo too much work. “Try that again and it should work out.” I hand the notebook back to him.
He lets out a long sigh and erases his work. “This is torture.”
“I know, but you’re getting there,” I say, trying to focus back on my drawing. Except I can’t think of anything to draw. My mind has gone totally blank, I can’t envision anything; hell, I can’t even think where I’m supposed to start. Just a line, and then another line. I huff and lean my head back.
“Stuck?” Nathan asks without looking at me.
&
nbsp; “Sort of.”
“I get that way sometimes too. When I’m writing.”
“Oh yeah? Any tips for getting out of it?”
“I’m not the artist here.” He grins. “Maybe draw something around you?”
“Like?”
“That, my Padawan, is all up to you.” He points at me with the eraser end of his pencil.
“Have I ever told you how helpful you are?” I ask.
“No.”
“Good, because you aren’t.” It doesn’t occur to me how mean that could sound until I’ve already said it, but Nathan’s just laughing away.
“You asked,” he half sings. Maybe he’s right, except there really isn’t anything in this room that I know. Well, there’s one thing. But would drawing Nathan be too creepy? He’s sitting still enough, and there’s enough light.
You know what? Screw it.
It’s weird to have a Nathan that isn’t moving or talking with his hands. He’s in the thick of it, the gears in his head turning. He’s even sticking out his tongue a little, and I hate to admit that it’s totally adorable.
In fact, I don’t think there’s one imperfection. Not the bumps on his chin, the small cut on his cheek that I’m guessing is from shaving, the slight circles under his eyes. It all feels on purpose. I don’t think Nathan Allan is capable of accidents. He doesn’t seem like the type.
I start with his pose, a skeleton. Easy enough, his back against the wall, both knees propped up so he can balance his notebook, because he’s where he belongs, in his own environment. I wonder what that feels like.
The hook of his nose to his mouth might be my favorite part, the straight lines suddenly curving right down to his mouth. But then he starts chewing on the end of his pen, and I just have to huff and roll my eyes. I’ll get back to that later. It’s his smaller details that will be the hardest to capture. The freckles across his nose, the shape of his brow, the way the corners of his eyes slope down just a little.
“Hey.” His voice makes me jump. Guess I was in deep. “I don’t get this one.” He hands me his notebook. God, how long was I out like that?
“You just need to find b.” I look over the question. It’s complicated. In fact, I’m really not sure it needs to be on an algebra quiz, it looks so advanced.
“I got that, Einstein, but that really isn’t helping.”
“Einstein was more into physics, though you aren’t far off.” I scoot closer to him. “Here, rewrite the equation with the log terms on one side.”
“Then you rewrite the substitution, right?”
“Yeah. And now you can solve it like you normally would,” I say, pointing to the newly formed equation.
“Okay, I think I’ve got it.” He grins, showing off those dimples again. I watch him quickly move through the rest of the problem until he finally comes to the answer, showing it to me for approval.
“Yep. That’s it.”
“Oh God, man, I could kiss you.”
My heart sort of sinks in my chest. “Yeah.”
He types in the answer, and I move back to my spot, grabbing my sketchbook before I sit on it.
“Okay, let’s see it.” Nathan sticks out his hand.
“Huh?”
He turns his laptop so I can see the screen. There’s a big “Congratulations” and a “Click Submit for Extra Credit” underneath it. “I finished the quiz, and you said you’d show me what you’re drawing when I was done.”
“Oh, it’s really nothing.” I can’t show him this. Jesus, what if he thinks I’m some weird stalker?
“Uh-huh. I called on you twice to help me out, and you were so focused on that thing you didn’t even hear me. So I really doubt it’s nothing.”
I didn’t even realize. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry.”
“It’s cool. At least I know I can solve logarithmic equations by myself.” He closes his laptop and moves to sit next to me. “Now, show me.”
“You’re going to think I’m weird.” I flip open to the drawing.
“Well, you already sort of are but—” He stops when he sees what I’ve done. This is exactly what I was afraid of. He hates it, or he’s creeped out by it. I wonder if he’ll just yell at me or do something worse. I don’t think I can handle Nathan hating me.
“I’m really sor—” I start, but he stops me.
“Ben.”
“What?”
He takes the sketch pad from my hands, staring closely at the drawing. “You drew me,” he says, reaching toward the drawing like he wants to touch it, but at the last moment he stops himself. I guess he thinks he’ll mess it up or something.
“It’s not that good.” My voice isn’t much more than a murmur. Right now, my mind is pretty occupied with trying not to grin like an idiot. “It’s not even close to done.” There are no details in his clothes or his hands. Even the background is nearly blank, simple lines to fill in for the posters and pictures on his wall.
“You’ve got to give yourself more credit than that.” He starts to trace a hand along his nose. “You even got my freckles.”
“It’s okay.” I shrug.
“Have you ever thought about showing off your art?”
“Where would I even do that?”
“I don’t know. But people need to see your stuff. It’s amazing.” He looks back at the sketch pad, staring in silence. And I feel my heart thudding in my chest.
I’m walking through the empty halls of the school. It’s sort of eerie to be here when things are quiet. But Thomas has to stay after school today, some meeting about exams and graduation and spring break. I really can’t believe it’s March already.
I’d go to the art room, but it feels weird being there after hours. Plus, last time I did that, the janitor walked in on me, and there’s really nothing more awkward than just sitting around while someone else is cleaning, all while you try your best not to get in their way.
I wish Nathan was here to help pass the time. I texted him, but he hasn’t answered yet. Must be studying or something. His algebra exam was today, and I want to know how he did.
He tried his best to teach me a few tricks about the essay I’m supposed to turn in by the end of the week, but I’m hopeless. Something about getting the words from my brain to the computer. It just isn’t working. That and Chaucer is really boring.
My mind is a million miles away right now, and I’m not paying attention to where I’m walking, so when a classroom door bursts open, I run right into someone, which makes both of us fall onto our butts. I can’t really blame anyone but myself.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry.” The papers they were carrying fly everywhere, and it’s not until they’re all settled that I realize I ran into Meleika.
“Ben?” She’s already on her knees, scrambling to pick everything up.
“Sorry, it’s my fault.” I start grabbing for the flyers, ignoring the new sting coming from my tailbone. A few of them catch my eye. They’re all different designs, but it’s clear what they’re for.
“Spring Fling Dance!”
“It’s my bad,” Meleika says. “In too much of a hurry.” She shuffles the flyers to try and make them even. “I was supposed to have these up last week, but we’re still trying to get everything together for the dance.”
“Isn’t prom in like two months?” I ask. “Why bother with planning another one?”
“It’s tradition.” Meleika says this with about as much enthusiasm as I’d expect. “What on earth are you doing here this late?”
“Waiting for Thomas.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Thomas?”
“Mr. Waller. He’s my brother-in-law. And my ride home.” I make sure to pick my words carefully. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve got to hang these posters around campus.” We both stand up slowly, but she still has the panicked look. “Listen, I hate to ask you, but can you help me? Stephanie’s going to chew my ass if they aren’t up by tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, sure. What do I need to do?�
�� I guess anything’s better than just walking around campus.
“Here.” Meleika hands me this huge roll of tape. “I hold, you tape.” She pins one of the flyers against the wall in front of us. I quickly rip the four pieces and tape down each corner. “You’re fast, good.”
“Trained for seven years to be an expert tape ripper. Glad the classes paid off.”
That makes her laugh, and we move farther down the hall, making sure we don’t hang the same style of poster as the last one.
“So, are you going to the dance?” Meleika asks, pinning up another poster.
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
“What? Why not?”
“Dances aren’t really my thing.” I start ripping more pieces of tape, letting them hang ready on the ends of my fingers.
“There’s a game too.”
“Sports and dances aren’t really my thing.”
Meleika chuckles, brushing her hair out of her face. Over the weekend, she got rid of the braids and came back to school with huge, long curls. “I don’t really blame you, honestly. I wouldn’t go unless I had to.”
“You have to?”
“Everyone from student council has to show up to all our events, or else we don’t get the credit hours.”
“That sucks.”
“You’re telling me! I’m missing my shows to watch some beefcakes knock around balls with a big stick?” Then she stops. “I suppose the baseball butts aren’t so bad though.”
I keep my mouth shut, but I definitely wouldn’t argue with her.
“Meleika?” An all-too-familiar voice echoes down the hallway. Nathan, of course. “And Ben!” He smiles when he sees me. “What are you doing here?”
“He’s busy.” Meleika gets another poster ready.
“Thomas had to stay after, for some meeting,” I say.
“Oh.” Nathan’s smile drops. “So why are you helping Mel?” he asks.
“’Cause he’s a decent human being who helps when asked, unlike you.” Meleika takes a piece of tape from my fingers and tapes a flyer to Nathan’s forehead.
“I had to help paint set pieces!” Nathan protests, ripping the paper off his face. Apparently, he underestimated the strength of the tape because next thing we know, he’s doubled over hissing and rubbing that spot on his forehead. “You try telling Stephanie no!” he says through gritted teeth.