Draw the Line

by Laurent Linn

  I smile. “Why, thank you.”

  Trent points at himself. “Uh, exsqueeze me? Way-too-tall but somewhat cute straight guy standin’ right here.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  I explain I have to run but I’ll look for them later. So I dash away before either of them can bring up my nose again.

  Head down, I weave through the halls, dodging people like an obstacle course.

  In my remaining classes I avoid eye contact and thus don’t see the what-happened-to-your-face stares. But my mind has already left the building and is soaring through space with Graphite. I just need to get home with my pencils and let him out onto paper.

  He’ll know what to do.

  The last bell rings and I hustle toward my locker. I just need to drop off—crap! Doug never comes down my hall after school.

  I hang to the side.

  He walks slowly, doesn’t see me yet. Buddy’s not with him.

  Through the general laughing and rushing around the hall, I watch Doug. He turns his head side to side, red cap like a beacon. What, is he looking for me? Has he come to make sure I keep my mouth shut?

  I stare at his face. That macho mask is back on. He isn’t the confused, out-of-control kid from this morning but wears the same Doug face as always.

  But Kobe’s face isn’t the same. Neither is mine. All because of Doug.

  I could just slip away as usual. But that’s not me anymore.

  Standing tall, setting one foot in front of the other, I move through the crowd. Stop right in front of him.

  His eyes go wide as he scans my bruises, then looks down at the floor. The brim of his cap covers his expression, but his shoulders sink just a bit. Then he puffs up, checks around, and catches my eye one last time. He steps past me, picks up his pace, and walks away.

  What the hell?

  People give me curious looks, so I make a beeline to my locker. I need to tuck away some books, then get the hell home and unload this camera and possibly my brain. I cannot handle anything else.

  I spin the lock and—really? Another note.

  I scoop it up and, making sure Doug’s not hanging around watching me, open it.

  Written on plain notebook paper in that same disguised Doug handwriting is just one simple phrase.

  It’s not easy being green

  I HOLD HARLEY, SCRATCH HER between the ears, and peer out my bedroom window. Over the houses across the street, the morning sun breaks through thick clouds. Bright golden light shines between the naked tree branches in my yard and right in my eyes. I squint but don’t look away.

  I’m up, dressed, and ready for school, but it’s early so there’s no rush.

  When I first woke up I checked in the mirror, and my face looks somewhat less scary. Still a dull throb underneath the skin around my nose, but the swelling has gone down a bit and the bruises under my eyes are now slightly lighter, like ink smears someone’s trying to erase.

  I still look “tough,” though.

  Harley wiggles, so I let her loose on the bed, then go to my computer. Blinking away the afterimage of the sun, I stare at my screen.

  Two files are open.

  One contains my new comic pages, signed, scanned, and set to upload to my site.

  The other has the video of me and Doug.

  As soon as I dashed home yesterday, I downloaded the video from the camera to my computer. I skimmed forward to when Doug entered the balcony but—I stopped watching. Then I shut down the computer. If I hadn’t, I think my head would have exploded.

  So I drew, breaking pencils and ripping paper, racing through one sheet after another. Graphite was even more confused than me.

  I paused only for a quick dinner, where I finally revealed my swollen and bruised face to Mom and Dad. I explained that I just slipped and fell “but it’s no biggie. No damage. The nurse checked me out and all is fine.” That wasn’t good enough for Mom, though. It’s hard to eat spaghetti while holding an ice pack to your face, but it did help cool me down.

  After dinner, with my door shut and a Batman soundtrack in my headphones, I sketched and sketched. I let Graphite guide me, show me what the hell to do, make everything clearer.

  Then around midnight I gave in. I was ready. Turning on my computer, I opened the video, watched and listened. I was so sure it would enrage me, bring back the anger, make me post the whole video then and there. But it didn’t.

  Seeing myself, grainy in the dark balcony, was like stepping outside my body. But this time I wasn’t some screaming, wimpy kid like in that other video. I was simply me. The real me.

  And Doug, confined in that frame on my screen, wasn’t scary at all. He was just pathetic, like some freaked little boy pretending to be tough.

  Watching it one time was enough.

  If I posted that video, whether I altered it to mask my identity or not, the tables would turn. I’d be the villain, letting my hate take over, seeking revenge, finding ways to hurt and destroy.

  But I don’t destroy—I create.

  So I turned away from the computer, back to my drawing table. I kept sketching, shading, refining my art until each scene was clear, each panel truly finished.

  Then, just before going to bed, I decided to make one last illustration. This time, not for my website, but for Doug himself—a drawing in the form of a challenge. I sketched it fast, then tucked it into my backpack.

  At last, I finally got some sleep, four hours or so.

  And now, here I am.

  Doug’s latest locker note rests on my drawing table. I pick it up.

  It’s not easy being green

  It’s not easy for Kermit the Frog, for sure, probably not for the Hulk, and evidently not for Doug. But guess what? It’s not so easy for me, either. I tuck the note with the others in the back of my desk drawer.

  Plopping down in my chair at my computer, I click the mouse and close the video window. I eject my camera and erase the video from it. My muscles relax in relief.

  But I keep the video copy on my computer. Just in case. There’s a lot on there Doug wouldn’t want anyone to know. And with the angle and low light, it kind of did look like he caused my bloody nose—tried to beat up another “gay kid.” But enough about this damn video.

  Okay, time to log on to my website.

  Here we go. Uploading last night’s comics takes only a few minutes. I check to be sure they posted, and wow, they look awesome: panel after panel of Graphite battling with himself, taking action and tossing a dark secret in the air . . . then watching it explode.

  Now it’s my turn to throw a secret into space.

  And man, will it ever explode.

  My heart speeds up, so I take a deep breath. Then I open the editing screen for my home page.

  “Oh, boy.” I put my hands in my lap and stare out the window, out at the world filled with blazing sunlight.

  It’s time. No more toxic secrets.

  I turn back to my screen and place my fingers on the keyboard. Then, on the home page under my banner that says The Amazing Adventures of Graphite, I type three new words:

  By Adrian Piper

  I hit Save . . . and light the fuse of my own truth bomb.

  Standing, I step back and look at the screen. I cross my arms and exhale.

  Harley leaps on the chair and curls up.

  Shutting down the computer, I bend and kiss her on the head. “Okay, little girl, wish me luck.”

  I go to grab my jacket and look down at what I’m wearing.

  Hold up, I can’t wear gray again. Not today.

  I pull off my charcoal-colored sweater and dig through my shirt drawer. I used to have a long-sleeved—ah, here it is. Pulling it out, I hold it up in the light, my only shirt that’s bright red.

  So it’s crazy wrinkled, who cares? I put on the shirt, then kick off my battered old sneakers and slip into my barely worn red shoes, the ones I wore on my date with Lev.

  Red may psychologically mean angry and sexy, but it also means “don’t sc
rew with me.” Well, today I’m ready to be all of the above and more.

  I put on my jacket and pick up my backpack, checking to be sure I have both Doug’s keys and that drawing I made tucked inside. I zip it up and head out.

  One last check in the hall mirror, and hey, I do kind of look tough.

  Both Mom and Dad check me out before I can leave. But they give their approval when I assure them yes, I’ll be sure to watch my every step and not fall again.

  And boy, ain’t that the truth.

  I head out the front door and the crisp almost-Halloween air slaps my cheeks. Curled brown leaves roll across my path as I make my way down the street, so I stomp on as many as I can with a crunch. Passing this one yard, I notice they’ve raked the leaves into a huge pile. I look around, but no one’s in sight.

  Like a little kid would, I speed up and plow right through it, making that fabulous swooshing-crumpling sound, kicking up leaves. The air smells like earth and nature and magic.

  Yep, it’s a red day for sure.

  Approaching the school, I pause. My insides do a little flip. Can I really do this, face the world after I’ve just exposed my art and myself?

  Out of habit, my hand goes to my pocket. But I don’t have a freakin’ phone anymore, so I couldn’t take my name off my site even if I wanted to.

  Making my way to the parking lot through the schoolyard, I crunch through more leaves. Watching them whip around my legs makes me think of Carmen and all her papers, tossed in the wind like the aftermath of a crime scene.

  Yes, I can own up to my creations and the truth they show . . . and I must.

  No more secrets.

  And no more games.

  Good, I timed it just right. Doug must be inside the school already—his truck is here.

  Hanging out at the edge of the lot, away from all the kids heading toward the building, I pull out the drawing I made for Doug last night and look at it for the first time this morning. It’s a portrait of Thug, in full-on attack position with the Dark Rage pulsing through his veins. At the bottom I wrote my website, AmazingGraphite.com.

  When I drew this in the middle of the night, it seemed perfect. But it’s not enough.

  I pull out my red pen from my bag, sit cross-legged on the grass, and add a note to the drawing:

  Thug.

  Is this who you really are? You don’t think so. I’m still not so sure. You like the Hulk, but remember, even though he has a dark side, the Hulk is a superhero, not a villain. What the hell do YOU want to be? In your alter ego football costume you’re a “hero,” so why can’t you be that out of costume?

  This note probably won’t do crap, but at least he’ll see it and maybe it will even make him think a little. Hope it doesn’t piss him off even more, but what do I know at this point?

  I’ve just gotta do what’s right for me.

  Slipping the pen in my pocket, I fold the paper and stand. Here goes. I grab my bag and walk through the lot, right past his truck, and hang out on the little steps by the cafeteria and the stinking Dumpster. I hope to Obi-Wan I’m never over here again. Ever.

  As people amble by, I sit like I’m waiting for someone and stare at his vanity plate. INEBG. I still don’t get it. Maybe it’s not beer-related after all? I Never . . . hmm. I’m Not Even Big . . . Green?

  Oh. Oh!

  It’s Not Easy Being Green.

  It has to be that. Crap, he really means it. He put it on his freakin’ license plate! Wow, I know way too much about this guy. I’m definitely about to do the right thing.

  The last bell rings, but this is worth being tardy for.

  The remaining stragglers disappear around the corner of the building at last. I reach in my bag and bring out Doug’s keys. When I hit the unlock button the truck goes bwoop! I scan the lot, but no one’s around.

  Opening my note for him, I place the keys right in the middle and fold the paper around them, like a little package.

  I’ve got to be quick. Putting on my backpack, I get up, go to the truck, and open the driver’s door. I place the note-wrapped keys on the seat, right in the middle where he won’t miss them.

  I check but there’s nothing under the seat; his sketchbook is gone. He must have figured I’d be back, which I am.

  Manually hitting the lock button, I shut the door and move on. I check over my shoulder, but I’m safe. There’s not a soul in sight.

  I make a beeline around the corner and right to the main entrance. As I hop up the front steps, my backpack bounces against my back. It’s so light. No video camera, no notes, no keys—just papers and books are inside, like it’s supposed to be.

  My shoulders relax.

  Taped to the outside of the doors are two orange Halloween Hoedown flyers. Pulling my pen from my pocket, I write AmazingGraphite.com in big letters across the top of them.

  I click my pen shut and grin.

  It’s definitely a red day.

  I yank open the doors and go inside.

  “WHAT’S UP WITH YOU?” LEV says as he and I leave first period. “You were so jumpy all through class.”

  “Come on, follow me.” I lead us through the noisy hall and out into the quiet courtyard. The dead grass is trampled flat out here now, so the ground is cold and hard. I stop by the same tree where I read that first note—Doug’s first note. I check the cafeteria windows, but this time he’s not there.

  Wow. I wonder if he was watching me then, thinking I was looking at his note.

  Lev elbows my arm. “So?” He puts his hands in his pockets to keep warm.

  I elbow him back, keeping my arm on his. Even just like this, touching him is electric. Makes me want to grab and hold him, pull him to me, like I did against that wall Saturday night.

  “Wish I could kiss you right now” comes out of my mouth.

  He smiles, looks around, then says through a sigh, “I know.”

  I eye the rows of windows that surround the courtyard and inhale. “This is so not the way I wanted to tell you about Graphite, standing under a shriveled-up tree while we have, like, just a few minutes. But it can’t wait. Can I see your phone?”

  He scrunches his forehead. “Huh? You’re speaking in tongues.”

  “You know how you wanted to see my art? Open a new web page on your phone.”

  He eyes me but gives me his phone, so I type in my site and my home page appears. Even on this little screen my newly added name pops out.

  I hold the phone to my thumping chest. “His name is Graphite. He’s my hero. I mean, he’s my superhero—I created him. And this website.”

  Lev looks at my hand clutching his phone. “Can I see?”

  I start to hold out the phone. “Wait!” I pull it back again. “There’s something you should know. Um, okay, it’s that he has friends? You know, superhero friends? And one of them is, like, more than a friend? And he kinda looks like you.”

  I hold my breath.

  He grins. “Is he cute?”

  “Very.”

  I hand him the phone and watch over his shoulder.

  “Oh, no,” I say, “my art looks so much better on a big screen. You need—”

  “Hush, let me look!” He bumps me, then focuses on the first image. Mouth open, he looks at me, then back at the screen. “Adrian, you drew this?”

  I nod.

  He flips through panel after panel. “When you said you were an artist I didn’t imagine comics. This is freakin’ amazing! You’re so talented. I mean, like, professional. Look at this! And Graphite—way cool name, by the way—is hot. He looks just like you.”

  I shrug. “I dunno.”

  He gives me a sweet smile, then studies my face. “Even with those bruises under your eyes. They kinda resemble the A markings on his face.”

  Whoa. I didn’t even think about that.

  “His eyes are—” Lev studies the screen and then me, his mouth shaped like an O. “It was you.”

  “What? It was me what?”

  He glances around. “You put up t
hose flyers in the halls! Those eyes.”

  I cross my arms. “Yeah, but it didn’t quite work out as planned. It was supposed to intimidate Doug, not start a new damn fan club hashtag.”

  “Still, that was gutsy.”

  “I guess.”

  “See, more proof you are the Adrian.” He keeps swiping the pages, then stops. “Who’s this hottie, Oasis?”

  I swallow. “Uh, that’s . . . you?”

  He enlarges the image and studies Oasis’s face. Then turns and looks me in the eyes.

  Oh, god, he hates it.

  “No one’s ever drawn me before. Ever.” He looks down at the phone again. “This is how you see me?”

  I lean my shoulder against the tree. “Uh, yeah.”

  “Really? But he’s so . . . beautiful.”

  I study Lev’s face, his jawline. Arms. “Looks just like you.”

  He blushes, clicks off the phone, and slips it in his pocket. “Don’t know about that.”

  “I do.”

  “Oasis,” he says, gazing past me. “No one’s thought of me like that either.” His face turns even redder.

  People are racing inside before the bell, so we hoof it across the courtyard toward the opposite doors.

  “I wanted to let you know because today”—my throat catches—“today I put my name on my site. Until now it’s been anonymous.”

  “Why today?”

  Okay, Adrian, you can do this.

  I stop, grab his sleeve, and lean close to his ear. “I have a lot to tell you. And I really want to show you my art in person. So . . . you wanna come over after school?”

  He turns to me. “Your dad’ll be all right with it?”

  “I think he likes you. You actually talked with him. And it’s not like he has to know what kind of friend you are.”

  He smiles. “Okay.”

  “Really?” My insides jump like they’re on a trampoline. “Excellent.”

  I open the door for him and we step inside. Waves of chatter, locker slams, and squeaking sneakers hit us all at once.

  We make a plan to meet after school and I tap his shoe with my foot. He taps back. As we turn to go our separate ways he says, “Oh, and great shirt. You look good in red.”