Draw the Line

by Laurent Linn

  I rip down the printout, ball it up, and throw it on the floor.

  “Hey,” he says, “don’t be mad.”

  “Go ahead, laugh all you want. Just leave me alone.”

  “What? No!” He holds up his hands. “No, I didn’t mean . . . Oh, god, I don’t want you to . . . Look, it’s just that you’re funny.”

  I sigh. “Yeah, ha-ha.”

  He shakes his head. “What I mean is—ugh. I’m not saying it right.” He checks over his shoulder. No one else is in view. We’re all alone. He steps closer. “I think you’re funny. And cute.”

  “Huh?”

  “Very,” he whispers.

  Then he kisses me.

  KISS?

  That’s the best word they can come up with for this? Are you effin’ kidding me?

  NO. More like haawaaHOOOOOOOmaahaaHOLYFREAKINGCRAAAAAAAAP!

  What? Was? THAT?!

  “Adrian? You okay?” Lev comes back into focus. Kinda.

  I blink.

  He backs away. “Oh, man, I’m so sorry.”

  I just gape at him. His cheeks turn redder by the second. I look down at my crotch. Oh, god. The painful fabric tent is bigger. Straining. I don’t dare adjust myself.

  He giggles as his blush spreads up his face and down his neck. “Okay, don’t freak on me. . . .” He checks over his shoulder.

  “Um, I’m confused?” I’m plastered back against one of the drink machines, hands splayed out, covering my crotch.

  He rubs his face. Wavy strands of his crazy gorgeous hair fall and hang down to his chin. “Wow, not how I planned this at all.”

  “You planned this?”

  Two girls zip around the corner, almost running right into Lev. “Whoops! Sorry,” one says.

  I spin to face the wall.

  Lev jumps. “Huh? Oh, nothing. I mean, we’re leaving. Just need to grab it.”

  I keep my hands firmly blocking my crotch.

  He glances at the girls and points to the stuck 7UP can. “It’s stuck.” He bends down and wrestles with the can.

  “Yeah,” I say, too loud. “It got stuck. Stupid can.”

  “Stupid can.” Lev’s voice cracks.

  I point. “It got stuck.”

  The other girl shoots us a look. “Yeah, you, like, said that.” She rolls her eyes. She glides a couple dollars into the juice machine next to us and takes her drink, and they scoot away.

  Lev frees the 7UP and holds it out. “I’d wait to open it. It’s all shook up now.” He nervous-giggles again. “Heh-heh-heh. And not just the can.”

  My body parts move like they’re acting independently. (And not only below the belt.) My hand takes the can, and then my feet start to walk.

  “Look,” Lev says, his voice as wobbly as my legs. “Didn’t mean to freak you out. Honest.”

  Holding the can in front of me like it’s a time bomb, I exit the alcove before someone else can come in. “Gotta go,” I squeak.

  He nods, his lips in an uncertain smile.

  My pants tent goes down as I zombie-walk back to the table.

  “Yikes.” Trent eyes my pants. “So it didn’t come out?”

  “God, no!” I check behind me. “We’re in public. But—hey, you didn’t see anything, did you?”

  He notices the can. “What are you talking about? Where’ve you been all this time?”

  “Oh.” I glance at my crotch. “You meant did the stain come out. Right.” I slump into the chair.

  He pries the can from my hand and puts it on the table. “Dude, what’s up with you?”

  “Exactly.”

  He squints at me, then says, “Okay, freakazoid, you’ve got, like, six minutes to deal with that hot chocolate mess before the bell.” He gathers his stuff and lowers his voice. “And considering your morning activities, the less attention you draw to yourself the better. El comprenday, muchacho?”

  I pretend to tip an invisible hat to him.

  Standing, he says, “Freakin’ me out, dude.” He starts to leave, turns back with one more “Freakin’ me out, dude,” and then he’s off.

  I scan the cafeteria, surveying what feels like an alien landscape. Lighting seems odd. Faces are weird. Sounds are too clear.

  Did all that really just happen? Like, really?

  I touch my lips.

  Lev. Kissed. Me!

  The past ten minutes is all a humongo whoosh in my spin-cycle head: boys’ bathroom, soaking my crotch in 7UP (how often do ya get to say that?), not giving a rat’s ass who saw me (again, how often do ya get to say that?), drying said crotch under hand dryer attached to wall (ditto), then somehow arriving on time for chemistry.

  Chemistry. I’ve just discovered a WHOLE new meaning to that word.

  Yes, I’m sixteen, and yes, I’m pathetic. I have no kissing experience to compare to Lev’s.

  Lev’s freakin’ KISS!

  Kathleen’s in this class. Oh, god, don’t look over here. Is it written all over me?

  It’s impossible to sit here and study atomic fusion when actual atoms are actually fusing in my head. My brain keeps churning out questions. Is Lev really gay? Just messing with me? A sick joke? Maybe he’s straight but just curious? Bi? Does Kathleen know? Could he actually, possibly even like me? Does any of it matter since Doug’s gonna bash my face in anyway?

  In the bathroom and the halls I overhear a few theories about what my Graphite eyes could mean: kids from the other high school snuck in and put them up; our cheerleaders were just being funny; the work of a jealous teammate.

  At least there’s some buzz.

  McConnell hasn’t come after me yet, which I take as a very good sign no one saw me. But it’s sinking in now, what could happen if Doug finally figures it out. Then, when he finds the printout I left in his pickup?

  It’ll be harsh. No, much worse.

  But I had to do something.

  And at least I’ll die having been kissed. Right?

  The bell rings. Probably stupid, but on my way to last period, I retrace my graffiti path and head upstairs to Doug’s locker. I haven’t encountered him yet and really want to see his reaction . . . from a distance.

  I keep my eyes open for bubbas. And Audrey. And now, even Lev. The chances of encountering land mines keep increasing. But unlike a video game, in this life I can’t respawn if I step on the wrong one.

  As I approach Doug’s locker my pulse picks up. Maybe I won’t see him, but it’s worth a try? I blend with the flow. It’s hard to see through everyone crowding, but . . . he’s not there. I exhale and keep going, hugging the wall opposite his locker in case—

  “Wooo!” comes from behind me. I turn. A guy pumps his fist in the air as Doug and Buddy and a couple other jocks round the corner.

  Oh, man.

  “Dooouuug!” The guy keeps pumping his fist and chants, “We’re-watching-you! We’re-watching-you!”

  What?

  Two girls start chanting the same thing. What I wrote! My phrase! No-no-no-no-no! You got it wrong!

  I keep close to the wall.

  Doug slows and, eyes narrowed, stares at the chanting guy. Then he grins and nods. They bump fists.

  Buddy points his finger in a number one sign and holds it over his head. “That’s right!” He goes to fist-bump the same guy, who only does it half-assed. The dude is clearly not so enthused about Buddy.

  Scowling, Buddy turns, puts his hand on Doug’s shoulder, and says loud enough for everyone to hear, “No homo, but you know who’s really watching your back. Right, bro?” Bootlicker keeps a grip on Doug’s shoulder.

  Doug spots me. I freeze.

  He squints and locks eyes on me.

  I stare back, my expression blank.

  Then he looks away and down the hall. Shaking off Buddy’s hand, he picks up his pace and passes me by. There’s that sound again. Hooked to Doug’s belt loop is his backup set of keys, clanking along with his stride.

  Following behind, Buddy checks out the general scene, hovering in Doug’s glow. He grin
s at someone and holds up his palm. “Yo, bro!”

  It’s Manuel Calderón. “Hey, Bud,” he says, and high-fives him as they pass.

  Manuel sees me. His eyes widen and he starts to wave but stops himself. Dropping his hand, he moves on.

  What the hell?

  “Ooo, looky!” Buddy notices me.

  I back up against a locker.

  In a flash he makes a fist and comes right at my face. He’s too fast!

  He swings. I shut my eyes, brace for—

  Nothing.

  I peek—his fist hovers an inch from my nose. He keeps it there a split second more, then pulls it away. “HAAAAAAAA!” he screams in my face. “You’re such a freakin’ pussy.”

  People step away from us.

  He turns to Doug, then points at me. “Look, it’s the homo! Bet he crapped himself.”

  “Bud.” Doug glares at him. “Hello? Game day? Focus, asswipe.” He turns and heads to his locker, not even glancing at me.

  The other bubbas laugh.

  Buddy scowls at the other guys, turns his head toward me, clears his throat.

  But I’m ready. In a millisecond I raise my hand as he spits at my face. I catch his slimy loogie and reach out to wipe it on him.

  He jumps back, lands on a girl’s foot.

  “Ow!” she screams. “Watch it!”

  Buddy thumps my chest. “His fault.” He sneers, says, “Faggot,” then turns away.

  Balancing on one foot while holding the other, the girl grimaces at my hand holding his spit.

  “Ewww! God, that’s gross.”

  “You have no freakin’ idea,” I say.

  Making sure no one follows, I keep my hand at my side and hightail it in the opposite direction from Buddy and Doug to find a bathroom sink. I turn the corner—

  “Hey!” Someone grabs my shoulder.

  I jerk free and spin around.

  Manuel puts up his hands and checks over his shoulder. “It’s okay. Just wanted to see if you’re all right.” His face turns red and he glances at my disgusting spit hand. He lowers his voice. “Sorry I didn’t help ya out back there. Buddy’s such a pendejo, right?”

  I stare at him. “Pendayho?”

  “Sorry. Means he’s a dick.” He swallows. “Listen, somethin’ I wanted to ask . . .” A couple bubbas round the corner. He stiffens and turns away as they pass. “Actually, it’s cool. Never mind.” He takes off.

  What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On?

  WHEN THE FINAL BELL RINGS I’m at my locker in a flash. Not even a trace of god, hates, or fags on it. I spin the lock and fling open the door, ready for another note. Nothing.

  It has to be Manuel, after that weird-ass stuff today. With his embarrassed expression and what those notes say, it’s just gotta be him. Maybe because he’s friends with Doug the beating really freaked him out. Maybe he needs my help. Or maybe he likes me? No way. But crap, what the hell do I know? After freakin’ Lev kissed me! Who knows who’s next!

  I need to write back and see if it’s him.

  I’m unloading most of my backpack crap when Trent peers over the open locker door from the other side. “Dude, you are so effin’ lucky.”

  “Huh?” How’d he find out about Lev kissing me?

  He glances around, lowers his voice. “Everyone thinks the Pep Club is behind your clandestine handiwork.”

  Oh. The flyers. “Yeah, so it seems.” I shove the last book inside and slam the door shut. He jumps back.

  “Sorry! Didn’t mean to . . . Let’s just get out of here,” I say.

  With Trent in tow, I bust out of the front doors and into fresh air at last.

  As soon as we’re clear of crowds I say, “People are such freakin’ idiots! How could they not get it? The Pep Club? Oh, come on. No one in that club can draw worth crap.”

  “Better let people think it. You dodged a major bullet there. For once I’m glad people are stupid. Saves your ass.”

  I rub my eyes. “You know, I almost put my website on those flyers. Should have. That would’ve made it crystal clear. Morons.”

  He stops walking. “What do you mean? You took down your site.”

  “Back up again, and with new art.” I face him. “It’s still anonymous, of course, but check it out and you’ll see.”

  “See what?”

  “My version of Doug’s crime.”

  He puts his arms out to the sides. “You’re already in it deep. Why are you asking for more?”

  “I’m only asking for people to open their eyes.”

  “Doug and Buddy are some serious shit. I don’t know how else to put this, but are you really tough enough to face them? And survive it? I don’t think so.”

  “Trent, I know the risks. I had a front-row seat to Kobe’s beating, remember? I’m not giving up.”

  His voice is low. “You should.”

  “How can you say that to me?” I grunt, spin around, and keep walking.

  From the corner of my eye I catch him heading toward the parking lot. No thanks for the confidence there. Friend.

  I get some distance between me and the school, then slow my pace. I make it past the lawn, almost to the sidewalk.

  “Hey, Adrian, wait up!” comes from behind.

  I turn. “Oh!”

  Lev comes running over. He slows and stops a few feet away. “I was hoping to see you after . . . I . . . really . . . oh, man.”

  I make sure no one’s in earshot. “Uh, why aren’t you setting up for the game? You’re in the Pep Club, right?”

  “Well, I do have to get back.” He looks at the ground. “You hate me, don’t you?”

  “Hate you?”

  He tucks his hair behind his ears and crosses his arms. Tight jean jacket stretches over his wide shoulders. He’s even cuter in the afternoon sunlight. “Well, you seem not happy. About me, uh”—he clears his throat—“you know, kissing you?”

  Now it’s my turn to have a face on fire. “I’m not pissed at you. Just royally confused. I mean, well . . .” I sigh.

  We both study the nearby holly bush. Then the sidewalk. A couple birds chirp away in a distant tree.

  “Um,” he says at last, “I . . . okay. Can I ask you a question?”

  “I guess.”

  He takes a breath. “You don’t have to answer.”

  I nod and grip my backpack straps.

  He steps a tiny bit closer and uncrosses, then recrosses his arms, then lowers his voice. “Are you and Trent, like, together?”

  “What? No. No, he’s just a friend.” Or so I thought.

  “But you two are always together and stuff, so I—”

  “We’re not. Really. Okay?”

  After a second he lifts his eyes to mine. Those sexy amber eyes.

  Insides. Bubbling.

  “Are you and Kobe, like . . . ?”

  “NO!” I say. “Is that what people are saying? No way.”

  “So, then.” He exhales. “Are you, like, seeing anyone?”

  My hands are clammy. “Me?”

  He bites his lower lip. “Damn, I’m really bad at this. Oh, boy, I’ll just say it. I like you? I mean, wow, that sounded like a question. It’s a statement. I like you.” He scratches the back of his head. “I’m so screwing this up.”

  My pulse pounds and it’s all I can do not to reach out and touch him. Instead, I nervous-giggle.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re so hot.” Did I just say that? I take a deep breath. “What I mean is . . . oh, god. I thought you were straight. Does Kathleen know?”

  Big grin. Big, cute grin. “Of course. She’s, like, my Trent. Or my Audrey. Did you think—”

  “Well, you thought—”

  “Well, yeah.” Curls of hair fall back in his face. “Guess I did. But I thought, maybe to you, I was pretty obvious.”

  “And I’m pretty clueless.”

  “I’d be happy to clue you in.” He swallows. “So . . . you wanna go out with me?”

  Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.


  Am I doing a freak-out happy dance? Oh, wow, I am. At least I’m at home and my bedroom door is closed and I only have an audience of one, and she’s a cat.

  Why did I say yes to him? Okay, I know why I said yes.

  “Yes,” I said, and then he said, “Great,” then “How about tomorrow night?” and I said, “Sure,” like I have anything else to do and holy crap how did it get to be tomorrow night already? And just half an hour until he’s here!

  Yoga breathing, Adrian, calm yoga breathing. Like I’ve ever done yoga. Maybe I should start right now.

  I have no memory of how I floated home yesterday. I do remember deflecting Dad’s questions about why I was smiling so big. “Got an A on my French test” was all I came up with. I couldn’t eat dinner, couldn’t focus on drawing, and couldn’t get to sleep. All of me was way too excited, in so many ways. But after some necessary, um, activity (no computer visuals needed this time—remembering that kiss was plenty to go by), I fell asleep at last.

  I woke up knowing it all had to have been a dream, but then I saw Lev’s message this morning confirming we’re on. Hell, YES, we’re on! But I don’t know where we’re going or what we’re doing. It’s a surprise, he wrote.

  Okay, that part’s a little disconcerting.

  With him being in the Pep Club and all, it has crossed my mind that this may be a trap. Like he’s on Doug’s side or something. But no. He kissed me. That’s pretty extreme for a bubba. And he seems so sweet.

  Plus, it seems he’s in every club and on every committee, not just the sports ones. But still . . .

  I look (for the gazillionth time) at the drawing he made for me in French. For me. He can’t be faking this, right?

  I. Cannot. Believe. Lev. Is. GAY! Freakin’ hot Lev! And he asked me out!

  Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

  I turn to the full-length mirror on the back of my closet door. “Harley, what do you think? Are these jeans all right?” From her pillowy perch on my bed, she yawns.

  “Yeah, you’re right. All my jeans are identical. Baggy and blah.” I pull them off and toss them on the growing pile-o-pants on the floor. Next to the big pile-o-shirts.

  Audrey would know what to wear. How many times have we talked about that “someday” when I’d go on a date? What I’d wear (her concern) and who it’d be with (mine). Well, forget her. Don’t need more of her advice.