Draw the Line

by Laurent Linn

  “Ooh, I gotta dash to a Pep Club meeting about the Halloween Hoedown. Wait till you see what we’re planning. It’s going to be sooooo awesome!” He waves and practically bounces off down the hall.

  Even though I’m in a bouncing mood myself, I simply walk through the halls to my locker. I spin the combination, open the door with a click, and—

  Another folded paper lands at my feet.

  I scoop it up and check around, but no one is watching.

  I don’t want to wait, so, steadying my hands, I unfold the first flap. What’s . . . ? It’s written on the back of something this time, so I flip over the page.

  I freeze.

  No.

  No way.

  It’s a printout of a website home page.

  Mine.

  AS TRENT AND I WALK from school to his house, he buttons up his flowing black coat against the chilly wind.

  But I unzip my jacket. I’m boiling hot. “How did he find it? And how the hell did he know it’s my site?” I kick a rock and send it skittering into the street.

  Trent sighs. “You don’t know it’s Manuel. You’re just guessing.”

  “But who else acts that wacko around me?”

  “Um, everyone?”

  In a yard to our right, a German shepherd barks and runs up to the chain link fence between it and us. I’m tempted to bark back.

  “Now you’re freaking out random dogs, Adrian. Chill.”

  We pass the house and cross the next street.

  “You’re right, I guess; still could be anyone.” I unfold the note and shake the paper at Trent. “This is creepy, right?”

  He shrugs. “You’re the one who wrote back. What’d you expect?”

  “Not for it to be on a printout of Graphite’s home page!”

  I slow my pace and read it again.

  You need to be way more careful. Things you don’t understand.

  Ok let’s talk in person.

  Where’s a good place to meet so we can be in private?

  “The end of that first line, ‘Things you don’t understand,’ that’s just plain creepy. Like what? And then ‘You need to be way more careful,’ sounds just like you and Audrey. You sure one of you didn’t write this?”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  I refold the note and stick it in my pocket. “Well, it’s not just you guys. Lev wants me to be careful too, but he sure didn’t write it.”

  “How do you know? And what do you mean he wants you to—”

  I spin to face him. “OhmygodTrent now I can tell you!”

  He stops. “Ohyourgod what?”

  “Wow, where do I start? Do you remember on Friday—was it just Friday? feels like so long ago—when I spilled hot chocolate on my pants and went to that little alcove with the drink machines? Well, the 7UP got stuck and—”

  “Adrian, whoa!” He grabs my arm. “You’re hurtin’ my synapses. Dial it down. Take a breath.”

  I inhale and let it out.

  He starts walking again. “Okay, so you spilled crap on your crotch, disappeared for a long time, uh-huh?”

  Trying not to literally bounce alongside him, I say, “So, who should walk in but . . . ?”

  He groans. “Just freakin’ tell me.”

  “Okay, so Lev comes in and, fast forward . . . he kisses me!”

  Pausing in midstride, he turns his head and blinks. “Hold up. He kissed you?”

  “Yes!”

  He checks all around, but no one’s in the yards of the big houses surrounding us. “Go on.”

  So I do. And as we walk, I talk. Tell him all about Lev actually being gay—“Amazing, right?”—riding in Lev’s car, the LGBT center, and LaTrina. Okay, I don’t tell him everything. Some details are just for me to know. And think about. A lot.

  While I’ve recounted the (almost) whole date, we’ve covered a lot of ground and are practically to his house.

  Saying it all out loud is almost like reliving it. “Can you believe it? My head’s still spinning.”

  Trent stops on his corner and turns to me. “You sure you can trust him?”

  “Huh? Well, of course. The woman at the LGBT center knows him. He volunteers there. Lev’s not some spy for Doug, pretending to be gay, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “No.” He rolls his eyes. “What I mean is you hang with this guy once and you’re falling fast and hard. I know you, Adrian. You always dive into everything headfirst—”

  “Actually, you’re wrong. My problem is I never dive in.” I stomp on a few brittle leaves by my shoe with a crunch. “Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

  He sighs. “All I’m saying is it’s best to test the water before you jump.”

  “Trent, the water’s fine. Besides, you’re no dating expert.”

  Shoulders slumping, he starts down the sidewalk.

  “Listen.” I catch up to him. “It’s just that someone wants to go out with me instead of beat the crap out of me. Makes me happy.”

  He nods. “Okay.”

  We stop in front of his house and I say, “You still want me to come in?”

  “Of course.”

  In the windows, all the curtains are closed. “And you’re absolutely-beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt sure your mom’s not home?”

  “Positive. Like I told you, she’s staying at my aunt’s house tonight to help cook for some big work dinner thing. I even spoke with my aunt, so I know it’s true. Mom’s gone for the whole night. Praise be.”

  I take a breath. “All right, if you’re sure.”

  As we approach his front door I’m braced for his mom to leap out and wail Satan! at me again. But Trent gets the mail, unlocks the door, and turns off the alarm without incident.

  Still, it takes all my energy to move my legs and step into the front hall. To our right, the living room is gloomy with all the curtains shut. “It’s been so long since I was inside your house.”

  He shuts and fastens the door. “Ain’t my house anymore. My room’s my room, but the rest . . . Well, see for yourself.” He flicks on the living room lights.

  I turn around to see what he’s—“Jesus!”

  “Oh, you know him?”

  On the wall above the fireplace, smack in the center of the room, is a giant portrait of Jesus, his face twisted in pain. It’s all lit up like a billboard, with an ornate gold frame that glints in the spotlights.

  Around it hang a few small family photos and what look to be some Bible verses mounted on shiny, lacquered pieces of wood. But . . . “Wow.”

  Trent tosses the mail on the coffee table. “Each day, I never know who’s gonna judge me the most, my mom or him.”

  Next to the portrait is a liquor cabinet. “Christ keeps it well stocked, I see.”

  He grunts.

  Trent crosses the room to the staircase and starts up. “C’mon.”

  Retreating up the stairs, I survey the room below. Those eyes seem to follow me.

  I take the last steps two at a time.

  Sunlight spills into the hall as Trent pushes open his bedroom door and we enter. Nice and bright in here. He shuts the door, drops his backpack, and kicks off his boots. “Make yourself at home.”

  He slips out of his long coat and hangs it in his closet between organized hangers of shirts and pants. Almost all black, but not one out of place. Grabbing his boots, he sets them in a gap between pairs of shoes lined in a row along the wall.

  “Wow, did you get a maid?”

  “No, why?” He untucks the black T-shirt he’s wearing and rolls up the bottoms of his skinny gray jeans.

  “Everything’s so clean and neat.”

  “I like it that way.” He lights a stick of incense, sending a sweet, spicy smoke into the air.

  I shake off my jacket and lay it on the corner of the bed, which is made up with a black-and-gold brocade bedspread and black pillowcases. Tidy shelves filled with books and Rubik’s Cubes and other little puzzles stand on each side of his window.

  He moves to his comput
er and logs on. “Wanna play a game?”

  His desktop image is a comic panel of Willow from my site.

  “Hey, cool,” I say.

  He grins. “Told you I like him. Well, his outfit.”

  We compromise on a puzzle game and he proceeds to whup me, again and again. When I’m sick of losing, we switch to racing supercharged cars through Tokyo and I kick his ass.

  After a while the sun sets, filling the room with bright orange. Then our stomachs speak up.

  The house is thankfully silent and still as we head down to the kitchen, Jesus watching our every move. We make sandwiches and bring them back upstairs with plenty of chips and Dr Pepper.

  He shuts his door. It’s almost dark outside now, so he flicks on the overhead light and his desk lamp. Floating across his computer screen is another drawing of Willow from my site—he made it his screen saver, too. Very cool.

  I smile at Trent as we sit and face each other on the bed and spread out our picnic.

  Just to be sure I don’t get yelled at later, I borrow his phone to call Mom and say I’m eating at Trent’s.

  All is okay.

  With the racing game soundtrack playing on a loop in the background, we take our time eating.

  “Listen,” Trent says, popping a chip into his mouth, “I am happy for you. You know, with Lev being into you and all. It’s just . . .”

  “What?” I take a sip of my drink.

  He leans back against the headboard. “Audrey’s off doing her, well, whatever the hell she’s up to, and now you’re all busy with Lev. Didn’t hear from anyone all weekend. Nothing.”

  “I thought—”

  He holds up his hand. “I get it, it’s just a couple days. But school sucks, this place sucks, and, well . . . it’s no fun being alone in my head all the time. Trust me.”

  I reach behind me and hit the Mute button on his keyboard. Silence. “Maybe this thing with Lev will keep being great, or maybe it won’t. But come on, I’m not going to stop being your friend. I’m here now, right?”

  He grins.

  “Besides,” I say, “you and Lev would like each other. In fact, his friend Kathleen wants to go with us to Teen Drag Queen Bingo. We could all go together.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “I’m guessing that’s more your thing than mine.”

  I laugh. “You don’t have to be gay to go. It’s not, like, a requirement.”

  A dull thump comes from outside in the hall.

  Trent spins his head toward the closed door, then unfolds his legs and stands. Stepping over to the door, he quietly turns the tab in the knob, locking it.

  I spring up.

  Eyes wide, he listens at the door. Everything is silent. He glances at me, then at the knob. “Mom?”

  BAM! THE DOOR BUMPS.

  He jumps back. My body jolts.

  The knob jiggles.

  He glares at the floor and whispers, “My aunt promised. Mom must have pissed her off or showed up drunk.”

  BAM! BAM! BAM! She pounds so hard the hinges squeak.

  “I hear what you’re saying in there!” she shrieks from the other side. “I know who it is. I know what he’s trying to do.”

  Trent grits his teeth. “Mom!”

  I scan the room, searching for—what?

  “I won’t allow it, Trenton! Not. In. My. HOUSE!”

  He puts his hands on his head. “Mom. Stop it.”

  I stare at him. “What’s happening?”

  “Open this door! OPEN THIS DOOR!!!”

  POP! POP! She kicks it, over and over.

  Trent slams his fist and pounds back. BAM! “Stop it! This is my room! Leave me the hell alone!”

  SMACK! He slaps it hard with his open palm, his eyes wide, chest heaving.

  I look around. There’s nowhere to go.

  I glue my eyes on Trent. He scowls at the door.

  It gets quiet.

  “Trenton, honey,” she says in a slurred voice. “God will forgive you, sweetie. He will. He does. Just don’t listen to the lies. He’s tryin’ to turn you into one of them. Get that, that . . . get it out of here. You know how . . . how . . .”

  Get it out of here? Me?

  “Mom. You’re drunk.”

  “Nooooo, not, that’s not—”

  “Go to bed!” he hollers.

  Her voice is low, muffled. “My boy. My little boy.”

  Then nothing.

  I whisper, “What do we do?”

  Trent doesn’t look me in the eye. “I’m sorry, you should go. I can handle her.”

  “No way. I’m not leaving you alone with—”

  “It’s not the first time she’s been this drunk. Get your bag. It’ll only get worse if you don’t.”

  Is this for real?

  I clench my jaw, then pull on my shoes and grab my backpack.

  Trent exhales.

  His manner shifts. He stands tall.

  “Mom, we need to talk.” His voice is deeper. He turns the knob and eases open the door.

  She’s right there, blinking in the dark hallway. Her floral blouse is half untucked from her skirt. She looks him up and down, then scowls.

  “This is my house,” she hisses.

  He inhales deeply. “Mom, breeeathe.”

  She squints, eyes darting around. Finding me, she locks her glazed eyes on me and points at my face. “Get that homosexual out of here.”

  I take a step toward them. “What—”

  Trent throws his hand out to the side and shoots me a warning look. I stop.

  “Mom, you’re tired. You know how you get.” He takes hold of her shoulders, like he’s soothing a child. “Time for bed.”

  “God hates fags, Trenton.” She moans. “Why? Why are you doing this to me?”

  Huh? Why is he doing this to you?

  He grips her upper arms. “Okay, you really need to calm down. All right?” He gently turns her around and into the hall. “Shhhhhh. Time to sleep, now. You’re tired, right?”

  She jerks her head in a nod, then whines, “My boy.” She starts to cry.

  Holding her up, he guides her down the hall toward her room.

  I follow, but he turns his head to me and, his eyes begging, he mouths, GO!

  I nod and dash down the stairs. The living room is dark now with the lights off. 7:42 PM glows red from the cable box across the room. It’s so early.

  I barely make out those portrait eyes, watching me.

  I slip out the front door and gulp the night air. I’m panting.

  Making it to the sidewalk, I turn and glare up at her second-floor window. There’s a dim light behind the curtain.

  She calls herself a mother? What kind of mother does this?

  My fingernails dig into my palms, so I unclench my fists and stretch my fingers. Pulling my shoulders down and back, I slow my breath.

  I wait. As I study the crisscross patterns of tree shadows cast by the streetlamp onto the sidewalk, I try to sort out the nightmare I just witnessed.

  The air is moist and the wind is gone.

  My ears almost buzz with the silence of the street, but her shrieking still bounces around in my skull.

  After a couple minutes, the light goes off in the window. Then Trent appears in his and notices me down here. I hold up my palm in a shaky wave.

  He puts his face in his hands, then looks up and gestures for me to go.

  I turn and, with one last wave, move down the block. Hopefully she’s passed out and he can get some peace.

  Until tomorrow, or the next day, and the next . . .

  No wonder he’s counting down every moment until he graduates and is free.

  My limbs are so jittery I pick up my pace and run. Except for my shoes slapping the pavement and a few passing cars or voices from backyards here and there, it’s quiet as I race home.

  Those words. She said those exact words that keep getting hurled at me. God hates fags.

  I don’t know who the hell your God is. Not that portrait in your living room, that’
s for sure. No matter who you worship, how would you know what he thinks?

  How would Doug know? Or anyone?

  Blaming some deity for your own hate seems pretty messed up to me.

  After a few blocks, my run turns into a stride, then into a regular walk. I’m still sweaty but breathing normally now.

  God hates fags.

  Fag. What a strange word. As if those three letters could contain the meaning of me.

  Of Kobe . . . or Lev . . .

  Of anyone.

  Fag. I don’t care who flings it at me.

  I will not be contained.

  No more screwing with this fag.

  As I arrive at my block, I make out the glowing windows of my house. It’s never looked so inviting.

  I enter my brightly lit living room and let out a long breath.

  Mom and Dad are at the table eating pasta and veggies. Not even taking off my backpack, I give them each a big hug, squeezing hard. They hug me back but look at me funny.

  “Changed my mind about dinner at Trent’s,” I say. “I’ll wash up and be right back.”

  Splashing water on my face and changing shirts helps, and cuddling Harley in my room for a minute calms me down even more. As I glance over at my drawing pencils, my fingers itch to dive in, but pasta sure sounds good right now.

  At the dinner table I deflect my parents’ questions about “Is everything okay?” I just tell them Trent forgot he had plans, and besides, I have a lot of homework.

  I never think about that little gold cross Mom always wears around her neck. But I glance at it now. I wonder what her God would think of me.

  Dad asks how French is going and says he thought my “new friend” was so polite. I nod and say, “He’s cool to study with.”

  Well, and other things.

  Dinner over, I scoop up Harley from the living room couch, bring her to my room, and shut the door.

  I stare at the doorknob. Can’t imagine never knowing if you’re safe in your own damn room.

  I message Trent, asking if he’s okay.

  His reply pops up right away: Yeah, she’s out cold. Messed up, right? I’m OK. Sorry you had to see that.

  I respond: Hang in there, Willow. See you tomorrow and we’ll plan something FUN for this weekend. For real.

  I stand and stretch tall, every muscle, and feel my body again.