Draw the Line

by Laurent Linn

  I step outside, and crap! Door’s gonna lock behind me. How come I didn’t think about—oh, got it. I reach in my bag, ball up one of the papers, and wedge it between the frame and door so it won’t shut.

  From the top of the little steps, the Dumpster is to my left and Doug’s truck is at the bottom of the stairs.

  The coast looks clear, so I reach in my pocket and bwoop! unlock his truck.

  Not a soul out here.

  I still can’t figure out what the hell INEBG means on his license plate. Maybe it stands for a sports term. No wonder I don’t get it.

  Pulling my sleeve over my hand (I mustn’t leave fingerprints), I approach and open the driver’s door. I almost choke on the stink of old beer and—gross! In the cup holders on Buddy’s side I spot a couple Snapple bottles filled with chewing tobacco spit. The memory of it in my face makes me want to gag.

  Littering the floor are crumpled junk food containers, stained socks, sports magazines . . . and cookbooks? Dish It Up Like a Dude? Put Some Balls In It: Barbeque for Real Men? He must be serious about that hot sauce crap.

  Okay, I don’t have time for this, not in my plans.

  Hold on, something’s wedged beneath his seat. I wiggle it out—

  What? This isn’t possible. It’s a sketchbook, filled with the Hulk? No way. He draws comic characters?

  I check over my shoulder, then flip through page after page of the Hulk. A bunch of sketches of Hulk’s alter ego, Bruce Banner, a few X-Men here and there, but what the hell?

  Wait a minute, where did I see . . . ? Oh, yeah, I check Doug’s keys. A Hulk keychain. What’s the deal?

  I don’t have a freakin’ phone to snap any pictures. Do I take the sketchbook?

  No. Remember the mission. You’re being sloppy.

  I thumb through the pages one last time. This is some serious sketching, even if it’s really amateur. I close it, but . . . wait.

  From my backpack, I take one printout. Just one. Before I place the sketchbook back exactly like it was, I slip Graphite’s eyes right in the middle, the paper edge sticking out just a bit.

  I was going to tape it to the inside of the windshield. But this’ll really screw with his head.

  Shut the door, look around, and bwoop-bwoop! Locked.

  Done.

  He has no clue I draw, no clue I have his keys. Yes, he said he’s “watching” me. So a couple synapses may connect in that dim brain of his and make him suspect me. But hopefully, despite his father’s cover-up of the truth, it will freak Doug out to know people saw what he really did to Kobe—and that we’re watching him.

  As I dash up the steps to the doors, I scan the wall behind the Dumpster for the missing brick that note mentioned, but I don’t see—oh, there. Way down low there’s an empty hole. Well, good to know about, I guess.

  Back in the cafeteria, I pick up my wadded-paper wedge, put it in my backpack, softly click the door shut, and sneak unnoticed past the counters again. I slip into the almost-hidden side alcove with the snack and drink machines and tape a printout to the one that says SNACK ATTACK.

  From the gym, faint cheers punctuated by drumbeats filter through the building. It’s 11:09! I’m almost out of time. Gotta forget about taping up any more eyes. I hustle up the stairs, tossing a few printouts on the ground. Thank god the second floor’s a ghost town too.

  Do I dare? I ease open a girls’ bathroom door, ready to bolt. “Hello?”

  My voice echoes, then silence.

  So weird in here without urinals. And pink tile? Freakin’ sexist. Whoa, they have candy machines in here? Oh. Not candy. Tampons. Focus!

  I toss a couple printouts on the floor and leave, bolting down the hall toward the auditorium.

  I’ve been avoiding that boys’ bathroom where Buddy clearly wanted to beat the crap out of me. But here I am, and I toss more watching eyes around.

  Good job, Graphite. Looks awesome. Keep going.

  This is freakin’ wild! Got the whole school to myself.

  Now for mission number two, my main task.

  Over the last couple months, I’ve passed Doug holding court at his locker enough to know exactly where to avoid going. Now I need to haul ass to get there in time.

  I shouldn’t have left his locker for last, but no choice with my route. So I book it.

  I couldn’t sleep last night, deciding what I should write on his locker. They have to be words to sting, words to penetrate. Like GOD HATES FAGS, they need to be words to hurt, deep.

  But the words never came.

  Spewing hate is a talent I don’t possess.

  But while taping up these printouts, it hit me. On his locker, I’ll write something simple and to the point: We saw what you did. You can’t hide. You will PAY.

  I’m not sure what that really means, but it sounds good. And it goes with Graphite’s eyes.

  Two halls to go and I keep randomly tossing around printouts as I barrel ahead. And here I am.

  Red and white balloons and a DESTROY ’EM, DOUG! OFF THE RICHTER SCALE! sign are slapped on his locker, as if marking it just for me. I yank off the balloons and pop the bastards. Damn, that was loud! I freeze.

  The only sound is the muffled buzz from the pep rally echoing up the stairs; otherwise, nothing.

  Still okay.

  I rip down the sign and toss it on the floor.

  Time for my graffiti love note.

  I plop my backpack on the floor.

  No. Come on. Where the hell is my red marker? I just had it! It’s gotta be here.

  Nowhere.

  Dammit. Must’ve fallen along the way when I was pulling out my art. Gotta find it quick.

  I grab my bag and dash down the hall, then round the corner and—

  “There you are, Adrian.”

  Holy crap.

  I STOP IN MY TRACKS.

  Coming right to me, black boots clomping along, is Trent.

  “Been lookin’ for you,” he says, and halts in front of me.

  I check down the empty hall behind him. “Why are you here?” I whisper.

  “Why am I here?” He points at one of my Graphite eyes pages on the floor. “Dude, what the hell? What are you doing?”

  Echoing up the stairway, pep rally screams grow louder from below. They must’ve opened the doors.

  He eyes the stairs.

  I glance back toward Doug’s locker. I’m out of time.

  “Dammit!” I walk past Trent. “C’mon.”

  I lead him to the nearest boys’ room. It’s empty. We shut the door and stop in front of the sinks.

  Trent stares down at me. “What’s up with these signs? Doug’s gonna kill you for this—these drawings are like suicide notes. You get that, right?”

  I open my bag and toss the tape roll and my few remaining printouts in the trash, ditching the evidence.

  “Trent, no one knows my art.”

  “You delusional? Who else would it be? You’re the one who got in his face. Dude, he’s gonna hunt you down. Why are you risking your life?”

  The bell rings and I jump. “I had to do something. And not just for me. It’s for Kobe as well, and who knows who else.” Maybe for that note writer, too.

  I catch myself in the mirror. My hair is flipped up at weird angles, like a manic Graphite. Not a bad look.

  The buzz of talking and a locker slam come from outside.

  “Quick,” I say, “let’s go.”

  We step out as more voices and people fill the hall. No one bothers to look our way more than usual, so we join the flow and head toward the cafeteria. Being next to Trent usually gives me a sense of protection, but I’ve also got Graphite with me today.

  I tug at Trent’s sleeve. “No, not those stairs. Everyone’s going up, not down. We’ll stand out. This way.”

  He lowers his voice. “Dude, where’d this criminal mind come from? You’re flippin’ me out.”

  We backtrack and pass Graphite’s eyes here and there. Someone snaps a photo of one.

  In the
stairwell, some girl picks up one of my pages and says to her friend, “That’s creepy. I don’t get it.”

  Damn, so I tossed a few printouts around? Doug’s locker was my main target. Screwed that up. But at least he’ll see what I left in his locked truck.

  My stomach flips.

  The cafeteria is no longer a ghost town but filling with pepped-up kids screaming and laughing. We plop down at our usual table, facing each other.

  “All right, Trent, how’d you find me?”

  “Wasn’t easy.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Had to pee and saw one of your masterpieces right there on the wall. So obvious it was Graphite—”

  “To you.”

  “Yes, to me! I checked down the hall and saw a little trail. I figured you had to be stupidly running around trying to get your ass expelled. And exactly why did you do this?”

  I slouch. “No one saw me. No one.”

  He blows the hair from his eyes. “I saw you.”

  “C’mon. You know what I mean.”

  He opens his mouth to speak but pauses, then rises to his full height. “Hungry.” Stalks away to the food line.

  I take a deep, deep breath, then exhale nice and slow. I won’t let him ruin this for me.

  He may be hungry, but I’m freakin’ starving.

  Gathering and checking my materials and then getting to school so early, I didn’t have time to make my lunch this morning. So I’ll have to break my bring-lunch-from-home-to-save-moolah-to-buy-a-phone rule. But today I deserve to treat myself—I’ve earned it.

  As I make my way to the line, I eye the closed doors to the parking lot. It feels like that was hours ago. I can’t see past that column to the tucked-away drink machine alcove, but my handiwork is there for sure.

  I glance over toward Manuel Calderón. Whoa. He’s holding a flyer of Graphite’s eyes over his face like a mask as another guy takes his picture. I speed to the line before he notices me staring.

  Does that mean he thinks it’s cool? Hope so. He’s being so blatant about it.

  Trent’s already wolfing his lunch by the time I return with my tray full of pizza and a massive hot chocolate.

  We eat in silence for a couple minutes. So good to have a moment to—

  Oh, god, no. Here we go.

  Trent stops chewing. He notices Audrey too, storming right toward me like a sound wave about to blow my eardrums.

  I hold up my hands. “Before you start—”

  She slaps the table, so I grab my hot chocolate before it topples over.

  Then she lifts her hand to reveal a wadded-up ball of paper. I can tell it’s one of my flyers. I snatch it out of sight.

  Her eyes practically flame. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you that stupid?” She reaches across the table and bops me on the side of my head.

  I jump up. “Do not hit me. Do you understand?” I say through my teeth.

  “Woooo!” comes from a nearby table, then lots of laughing.

  Trent points at Audrey. “Cool it.” Then he points at me. “Sit.”

  I shove the paper wad in my pocket, ease back in my chair, and glare at her. “Never touch me again.”

  She sits and crosses her arms, then lowers her voice. “And this little stunt of yours is supposed to do what?”

  “A most excellent question.” Trent clasps his hands and leans forward on the table.

  I sigh. Checking around, I keep my voice low. “I got another note in my locker. It asked how Kobe is again, but also asked what he’s going to do. There are others out there who saw what Doug did, who know the truth. Maybe this will help them stand up too. And make Doug paranoid, instead of me.”

  Audrey and Trent look at each other.

  Trent shakes his head. “Sorry, but that makes no sense. All’s gonna happen is Doug’ll be one pissed-off mofo.”

  “Got that right,” Audrey says. “And how’s anyone gonna connect your little drawings to what happened at Boo? Talk about vague. Might as well start writin’ what I’m gonna say at your funeral.”

  Well, I definitely won’t be telling them about getting into Doug’s truck.

  I sneer. “Thanks for being such a supportive friend. Good to know you guys have my back.”

  “Dude, I’m tryin’.” Trent slouches in his seat. “What do you call me going to find you just now?”

  Audrey grips the table. “A supportive friend? Adrian, you think I did all that research for me? Spent all that time figuring out how to handle this the smart way? Unbelievable.”

  “Is it the smart way or is it just your way?” I lean over the table, in her face. “Friends listen to each other. All you do is talk talk talk.”

  Her jaw drops and she looks to Trent. “Do you believe this?”

  His eyes dart back and forth from her to me. “Actually, Adrian, I think you’re in over your head here. With, like, everything? You’re gonna get burned.”

  I look at the ceiling. “I know what I’m doing.”

  Audrey stands. “Honey, you don’t have a clue.”

  I keep my voice down. “I tried it your way, Audrey. I went to McConnell just like you wanted. Guess what? Doug might as well be McConnell’s own kid, the way he protects him. Your plan didn’t work. I got this!”

  “Uh-huh.” She adjusts her gargantuan sparkly necklace. “I’m done talking and listening to you!”

  She shoves her chair into the table, which almost jostles my cup again. I snatch it up. She stomps away.

  I ignore the hoots from around us and turn to Trent. “Think she’ll tell anyone it was me?”

  “Hard to predict where Hurricane Audrey will hit next.”

  “She’d better mind her own damn business.”

  I haven’t even touched this stupid hot chocolate. It’s cold now. I plunk it onto the tray, which pops the top right off, spilling it on my pants.

  “Dammit!” I push away from the table, then grab a bunch of napkins and wipe my crotch, glaring at people laughing even harder nearby. The tables around us are getting a real show today.

  Trent hands me his napkins. “Again? Gravity sure doesn’t like you.”

  Damn, the stain is so dark against my faded jeans.

  “Dude,” he says, peering at my pants. “I hate to tell ya, but you spilled just the right amount.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe you should add more, so it looks like you really spilled something. Right now it just looks like—”

  “Yeah yeah, I get it.” I sit and try to act normal, but it’s hard to when your underwear’s all clammy. First my nuts get slammed by a car door, and now this.

  Obi-Wan, why is the universe targeting my junk?

  “You’d better wipe that stain with peanut butter to get it out.”

  “Ooh, that’s it!” I toss a wad of soaked napkins on the table. “I think I’ll just spread a jar of peanut butter all over the front of my freakin’ pants!”

  He frowns and slumps farther down in his seat. “Only tryin’ to make a joke.”

  “Sorry, Trent, it’s not you. Just a bad day for my balls.” I sigh and rub my forehead. “You do know peanut butter is for getting out gum, not stains, right?”

  “Yes, thus my levity.” He tries a grin. “That’d be fun to see, though. Peanut butter.”

  Can’t go through the day looking like I peed my pants. “Guess I’ll try using 7UP. I’ll be back.”

  I head toward the drink machines, looking at the floor as I go. My shirt’s not long enough to pull down that far, so I clasp my hands in front of my pants. Might as well hold a sign with an arrow.

  I look at the drama kids’ table but they’re engrossed in themselves. Carmen seems perky. I wonder if she talked to Kobe. I’ll have to find out. Later.

  Almost there. I make it and duck into the little alcove with the drink machines, hidden from view.

  No one here except for Graphite’s eyes hanging crooked from the SNACK ATTACK machine.

  I fumble with a chocolaty wet dollar bill in the drink
machine slot, which keeps spitting it back. Just take it! It finally slides in.

  I punch the 7UP button and the can plops down, but it gets wedged in the opening.

  “Really? Oh, come on!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I jump. Holy crap. It’s Lev.

  I stand and clasp my hands in front of me. “Where’d you come from?”

  He looks over his shoulder. “Um, the cafeteria? Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “But you don’t have this lunch period.”

  He smiles, then shrugs. “I do today. Pep rally screwed up my schedule.”

  I stare at him.

  “Saw you come in here and just wanna apologize again. . . .” His cheeks flush. “Look, about this morning when I nailed you in the, well, you know. God, what can I say? So sorry. Complete accident.”

  My throat tightens, so I just nod.

  He glances at my hands crossed over my pants. “You still in pain?”

  “Uh, no, no, fine. All fine.” Gotta get out of here. I reach down to try to loosen the can. Still stuck.

  Crap, I moved my hands. Without thinking, I glance down at the stain, which, of course, makes Lev notice. It so looks like I peed my pants. He’s staring right at the spot.

  “Oh, nn-not what it, uh, looks like,” I stammer. “It’s just—spilled my hot chocolate. I mean, it didn’t burn, so I’m gonna use 7UP. Not peanut butter.”

  He stares at me like I’m unhinged. Then glances back down at my crotch.

  So I look at his.

  Tight jeans. Wow. Nice. Images pop in my head. Of him. And me.

  We look up at each other. His eyes are wide. My face is on fire. All of me, actually. Now there’s a little tent in my pants.

  He sees.

  My eyes wander over his body. Can’t help it. He’s standing so close. Okay, not anymore. He’s backing up.

  I turn to the drink machine, covering myself again with my hands. “I’ve got to get it out,” I babble.

  “What?”

  “Oh, no!” I say. “I don’t mean that! The 7UP! That’ll do it. My pants. The spot the spot!”

  He cracks up. “You are freakin’ hysterical! Wow.”

  I cross my arms and shrink away from him. Graphite’s eyes stare at me. Like I need reminding I’m no superhero.