Draw the Line

by Laurent Linn

All seems clear at my locker. There’s no new note and no Audrey. Maybe they’ll both leave me alone.

  No sign of Doug, either.

  I make it to French without trouble. When I sit down I mumble, “Thanks for the cartoon,” to Lev so he won’t hate me. How is it possible a simple taupe T-shirt can look so hot? V-neck. His smooth little muscles show through the tight sleeves. It makes other things tight . . . like a certain pair of pants. Boy, it’s hard to get through class. This is a bit of self-torture (hots for straight dude = doom, right?) but a nice distraction.

  He doesn’t talk to me or draw more cartoons, though. All through class, he splits his attention between Madame Pauline and frantically writing some article for Claws, our regrettably named school paper. What organization isn’t he in?

  As I go through my morning classes, I get a few funny looks here and there. In addition to what I did at Boo, news of my meltdown must have spread too.

  But I have no more Doug sightings so far. Or Buddy. How do I keep that going?

  After third period I spot three jock pricks heading toward me. Whether they’re set to plaster me against the lockers or simply walking down the hall, I duck into a classroom and act confused with the teacher. “Whoops, wrong class.” They’re gone when I step back in the hall.

  I zip though the courtyard and into the cafeteria, braced for a different kind of assault. The Audrey kind.

  I exhale. Just Trent at the table, all set with two sloppy joes.

  As I sit across from him, he looks me up and down. “No more bathroom brawls, I take it?”

  “Not yet,” I say, glancing around. “Any sign of Audrey?”

  “Passed her in the hall this morning. She grunted at me. I took it as a positive step.”

  From my backpack, I pull out my lame turkey sandwich and banana. When I made Dad’s lunch this morning I made one for me, too. Need to save every cent of allowance if I have to buy my own phone. It’ll only take thirty-seven years.

  “Well,” I say, “since seniors can lunch off campus, Audrey’s probably venting her aggression at Tito’s Taco Truck.”

  “Poor, poor Tito.”

  “Or she’s holed up in the library.”

  “Poor, poor literature.”

  The usual babbling and laughing and clanking bounce off the walls, but it’s still quiet over there at the drama kids’ table. They left an empty chair where Kobe would usually be.

  “I can’t do it,” I say.

  Through a mouthful of sloppy joe, Trent says, “Whaa?”

  “Pretend. Not rock the boat. The boat’s already capsized, Trent. I need to swim to shore.”

  He swallows and squints at me. “No comprenday, amigo.”

  “Just using your favorite cliché.” I sit up and take a quick breath. “Listen. After I saw you yesterday I went to Kobe’s house, okay?”

  He blinks. “What are you . . . huh?”

  I lean forward, elbows on the table, and tell him—not about Doug’s keys, but the rest. I describe Kobe’s face, the pills, and relay everything he said. Audrey can’t handle me, but maybe Trent can?

  I’m tired of dancing around everyone’s damn comfort zones.

  Arms crossed over his chest, and peering at me, he says, “Holy crap.”

  “So, yeah,” I say.

  He’s quiet for a while. Looking around the room, he eyes the skater dudes and the drama kids and all the other clusters. “You should’ve just left him alone. Not what I would have done.” He blows his bangs from his eyes. “But hell, what do I know?”

  “Seriously, Trent, what do you think I should do? Other than nothing.”

  He lowers his voice. “Listen, if you wanna know how to barely handle a born-again alcoholic forty-two-year-old woman who talks to Jesus and is so deep in a hole of terror that she has no love left, I’m your man. But homophobic assholes? Beat-up, pill-popping queens and mysterious notes?” He sits back. “Dude, outta my league.”

  “Well, I’ve been frickin’ drafted into this league.”

  “Wow. You know a sports term.”

  I sigh.

  He hunches over his tray and picks up sloppy joe number two. “Sorry I don’t have a little pink folder for you. Or much of anything else.”

  For the rest of lunch, Trent avoids talking about Kobe or anything real.

  Thanks, Willow.

  At least Audrey doesn’t show up, so I get to have a full period of near peace.

  I eat a few bites of my sandwich here and there. From across the cafeteria, Manuel Calderón keeps checking me out, weirdly looking around the room and then back at me. What the hell does he want, to kill me or kiss me?

  I can’t stop looking over at Kobe’s empty chair; the sound of a shaking pill bottle rattles in my head.

  Just a few minutes left before next period, so I stand and gather my stuff. “I’m gonna head on, all right?”

  Trent shrugs. “Have a”—he eyes his markered forearm—“prosaic day.”

  I grin and go dump my trash. Then take a deep breath and make my way around tables to the drama kids.

  “Mind if I sit for a second?” I say to the startled group in mid-cleanup.

  “Uh, okay?” Carmen, the girl with the neon-orange glasses, glances at her friends.

  My stomach flips as I ease into the open chair where Kobe sat. They watch me, wide-eyed.

  “Um . . . okay.” I clear my throat. “So you need to go see Kobe.”

  Carmen does a double take. “What are you talking about?”

  Chairs scrape the floor and trays clatter at tables around us. People are on the move and it seems no one’s listening in.

  Here goes. “So last night I went to see him. He’s not doing well.”

  “You what?” Another girl turns her whole body to me.

  The blond guy says, “But he doesn’t want to see anyone!”

  “Look,” I say, “you know him much better than I do and I’m pretty sure he’ll be pissed I said anything. But, well, he needs you guys, all right?” God, that sounds stupid.

  I keep my voice down. “He’s majorly in a bad way. Just go, don’t wait for an invitation. Trust me.”

  Carmen shakes her head. “But . . . but what’d he say?”

  Bell rings. I stand and push the chair back under the table. “Sorry, I gotta go. Just ask Kobe, he’ll tell you. Okay?”

  “I guess?”

  I catch Trent’s eyes as he passes. He looks away and moves through the doors. Thanks for the support. Friend.

  I take one last look at the drama group and say, “Trust me.” Then I blend with the crowd, senses back on alert.

  Maybe Kobe wouldn’t have done that for me, but maybe he would have. I don’t know. At least that pill bottle has stopped rattling in my head . . . for now.

  I can’t avoid my locker anymore since I left my chemistry book in there, so I ease along the—ugh! Why do freshman girls have to squeal so freakin’ loud? My heart almost busts through my chest.

  I stay close to the wall. My locker’s down the next hall, if I could just get by. Move it, people. I turn the corner.

  No! No no no! Doug. He’s walking my way, right in my path.

  People are everywhere. I stop and hold my ground, stare right at him.

  His eyes are wide under that red cap. He looks over his shoulder toward my locker, then right back at me. People get quiet around us. There’s no sign of Buddy.

  I clench my jaw. You damn son of a bitch.

  Graphite’s face flashes in my mind, eyes on fire.

  Doug comes closer. “You better watch your back, Piper.”

  I glance down at his hip—his belt loop is empty.

  I look back in his face and grunt. My throat won’t work. The words are stuck.

  He surveys the little crowd around us. Then, keeping his eyes on mine, he walks past. “Watchin’ you.” He heads off down the hall.

  Some guy laughs. “Ooooooh! Wouldn’t wanna be you!”

  “Leave the homo alone,” another says. “Must be hard en
ough having AIDS.”

  “Haaaaa!”

  A girl steps toward them. “C’mon, that’s not funny.” It’s Lev’s girlfriend, Kathleen.

  “Ha!” One of them laughs in her face. But they move on.

  She looks at me. “They’re just idiots.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  She smiles. I nod at her and turn.

  Just walk, Adrian. Keep your eyes in front and don’t look weak. I make it to my locker and check over my shoulder. She’s gone, and so is Doug. I unclench my fists.

  Watchin’ you, he says? Yeah, I kinda knew that already.

  The usual buzz surrounds me now. Okay, gotta make this quick.

  Huh? My locker’s completely covered in pep rally flyers, layers of them. Is this why Doug looked over this way? Making one last check of his handiwork? Asshole.

  My hand shakes so much I can’t turn the lock. It’s stuck.

  No. It’s freakin’ glued.

  DAMMIT!

  I slam my palm against the locker and rip down the flyers.

  What? What’s . . . ? I don’t . . .

  Oh, my god. I rip them all down.

  Someone’s written underneath, in thick red marker, in huge letters—

  GOD HATES FAGS

  BEHIND THE COUNTER, THE OFFICE secretary pops out of her chair. “Slow down, honey, I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

  My mouth is dry. I swallow. “I said, someone defaced my locker. And they glued it shut.”

  She puts a hand on her chest and lets out a breath. “Oh. The way you ran in here you had me all worried, thinking it was an emergency.”

  “But it is! They wrote something, well, horrible.” I can’t stop panting.

  She purses her lips. “All right, I’ll see if Mr. McConnell is busy. Wait right there.” She steps into the assistant principal’s office.

  What? Oh no. I’m so stupid. Of course she’d tell him. What was I thinking?

  I wipe sweat from my forehead.

  After a moment she comes out and waves me in.

  Mr. McConnell’s office is small and cramped, which makes him seem even wider than he usually looks. Rows of sports trophies gleam from the top of his bookshelves.

  He sits behind a pile of folders on his desk, backlit by a tall window behind him, and holds a coffee mug emblazoned with DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS. “So what’s this about? You found graffiti?”

  “Yes, sir.” I take a breath. “On my locker. And they glued the lock.”

  He sighs and puts down the mug.

  “Don’t think I know your name.” He smiles. “That’s actually a good sign, means you haven’t been sent to me before.” He laughs at his own joke.

  “Adrian Piper.”

  His smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes narrow. He pushes himself out of his chair, which squeaks in relief. Coming around the side of the desk, he leans against it and crosses his arms. “Adrian Piper. So, tell me what happened.”

  I describe the glued lock, the layered pep rally flyers, and the scrawled red words. “It says ‘God hates fags.’ ”

  His eyebrows go up.

  “And I know who did it,” I say. My stomach flips.

  He nods at the chair across from his desk. “Take a seat.” Then he closes the door.

  Backpack still on my shoulders, I perch on the edge of the chair.

  Leaning against the desk again, he straightens his dark-red tie and looks at me.

  Here goes. “It was . . . I think it was Doug Richter.”

  “What?” Wide smile. “Our Doug? That boy’s head is on the game tomorrow, not gluin’ and writin’ on lockers.”

  I gape at him. “But he was right there! Before I even got to my locker he looked back at it, checking.”

  “Did you actually see him do anything?”

  “No, but it was clear he knew about it and was coming from that direction.”

  He stares down at me and grins. “Son, just looking at something doesn’t mean much. He probably just thought someone had extra spirit, puttin’ all those pep rally posters on their locker, the way you described it.”

  “Well, can’t you check the security cameras?”

  His eyebrows pop up again. “What cameras?”

  “Aren’t there hidden cameras everywhere?”

  He grunts. “Is that what you think? I wish. Sure would make my life easier.”

  “But I’ve seen them outside. . . .”

  “Oh, sure, we have ’em on the exterior, but not inside. Yet. But if you happen to have an extra hundred and seventy-nine thousand dollars to install them, the school board would sure like to hear from you.” He checks his watch.

  “Mr. McConnell, Doug’s out to hurt me. He threatened me today, and yesterday. Him and his friend Buddy.”

  He crosses his arms again and tilts his head. “Hurt you?”

  I grip my knees. “Because of what happened last Friday night. I’m sure you know about what Doug did.”

  He gazes out the window for a moment, then walks around the desk and eases into his chair. “Yes, I’m aware. Bad incident. The police gave us their full report and I’ve spoken with all the parents. But I don’t follow what that has to do with you.”

  Sure you don’t. The full police report? The parents? Crap.

  I sit up and look him right in the eyes. “When he was beating Kobe, I tried to stop Doug and he threatened me. Buddy did too.”

  He shakes his head, opens his mouth to speak.

  “That’s not all,” I add. “What he wrote on my locker? That’s exactly what he said when he smashed Kobe’s face—”

  “Hang on there, son.” Holds his palm in the air. “Now, let me just tell ya. We’re not gonna get into a ‘he said this and I said that’ kinda thing. The fight happened off campus, in the evening, and law enforcement has the final say. Period. It’s not a school matter. Besides, a lot of you kids were drinking and I’m sure a lot of things were said. The police—”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Excuse me, young man. I’m speaking.” He pauses, then leans back in his chair. “Doug was trying to defend himself, so I bet he was pretty ticked off in general. I know I would be if someone came at me the week before a big game. And, like you with your friend, I’m sure Buddy was just freaked out his guy was hurt.”

  Holy. Crap.

  “Now listen.” The smile returns. “I can imagine how upsetting that whole thing must have been, but we gotta move on. It’s wrapped up. Focus on school. Get past it. Yes?”

  Not waiting for an answer, he stands. Reaches behind a shelf and pulls out a huge pair of pliers. He holds them up and grins. “Your locker ain’t the first to get glued. Come on, let’s go see the damage.”

  Dammit, Adrian! Why’d you open your big mouth?

  I grit my teeth and get up from the chair.

  Thank god the halls are empty with everyone in fifth period, so no one’s around to see this walk of shame. As we go, he blabbers on about lessons he learned in his high school days. Boys will be boys and bullshit like that.

  And Audrey thought going to the “authorities” would help? I knew this would happen. What possessed me to run to the assistant principal’s office like a little kid?

  The ripped-down flyers litter the floor around my locker, those vicious words on full display.

  McConnell scowls. “That is just wrong. I can see why you’re so upset.”

  Huh? “You can?”

  “Of course. Taking the Lord’s name in vain. Disgusting.”

  Ah. I see. I take a deep breath and keep my mouth shut. I’ve done enough damage.

  In one motion, he grips the combination lock dial with the pliers and twists. It loosens and turns.

  “See, not so bad,” he says. “Get what you need and I’ll walk you to class and let your teacher know it’s okay you’re tardy.” He winks.

  What the hell? Like, now we’re buds?

  He pulls out his phone and starts texting. “We’ll get this cleaned off right away.”

 
; I step to the locker, stare at the bright-red words, and sear this image into my brain.

  I spin the combination dial, crunchy with bits of glue, and open the locker. Okay, what books did I—

  No.

  A folded paper hits the floor.

  Written in blue ink, the same bad handwriting as before: Adrian.

  After school, I dash home. With Harley curled on my drawing table, I reread the note. Again.

  Glad you’re back. You look wiped.

  How’s your friend? He home now? Maybe he’s ok?

  What’s he going to do?

  Write back. There’s a brick missing in the wall by cafeteria Dumpster. Put your note in there.

  Who are you? And what is this, some kind of lame TV spy movie? At least he—or she—gives me a way to respond. Not a very creative way, but it’s something.

  But how do I write on a piece of paper what shape Kobe’s in? And now I don’t even really know. Plus, like Trent says, it could be a trap.

  Man, this makes my brain hurt.

  I run my hand over Harley’s little head. “What do you think?”

  She just yawns and recurls into a fluff ball, unconcerned with our effed-up human ways. I stick the note in the back of my drawer with the first one.

  I need to focus on Doug.

  During the last two periods of school I kept repeating words in my head. Over and over. God hates fags. Boys will be boys. Watchin’ you, Piper. Watchin’.

  Then it hit me, like a crash in the dark that instantly puts you on full alert.

  Unlike Michelangelo, I may not have church ceilings and museum walls to hang art on, to show what I need the world to see. But I do have lockers.

  And I have the Internet.

  Doug says he’s watching me? Well, he’s not the only one with eyes.

  Time to kick into action.

  Doesn’t take long to put up my Graphite site again.

  I sketch until dinner. It’s a Mom work night so I have to make a huge salad for Dad and me. We eat in front of the TV. I wolf it down, but Dad’s in a weirdly talkative mood, actually asking about homework and stuff. I don’t have time for this! I give him a quick summary of what I’m doing in French and algebra, clean up, then grab a few Dr Peppers for the night and hightail it to my room.

  Here we go. I close my door, put on a Lord of the Rings film soundtrack, flip on my scanner and printer, line up my best pencils and inking pens, take a swig of Dr Pepper, and get to it.