by Laurent Linn
I smile and head off.
OHmygodohmygod. Lev is coming to my house. Today!
As I dash to algebra, my brain whirls.
Good thing Mom works tonight so she won’t be around.
Bad that I’m on Dad Duty and he will be around.
Good that I can tell Lev about stuff and show him my art.
Bad that our house is the opposite of fancy and my room is a mess and looks like crap.
Good that who freakin’ cares about any of this because Lev and I will be alone . . . in my bedroom!
All through second period I ponder the possible outcomes of this and my body is all tingly, especially in certain areas south of the border.
Oh, boy, I’ve gotta distract myself here.
It doesn’t take long since algebra equals the opposite of horny. After a while I calm down—in all senses of the word.
While we work out an especially tricky problem the teacher’s writing on the board, I look around at everyone. I barely know any of these people. No one, really, just faces and voices and maybe a few names—and what categories they could fit into, what cliché boxes.
And they don’t know me. To them, I’m just categories and clichés, too. The geek. The gay boy. The wimp. Even though I screamed at Doug in front of everybody at Boo, what have I done since then that anyone knows about? I’m happily a geek and happily gay, but I’m no longer a wimp.
My art is my superpower—and I’m not afraid to use it.
I take a sheet of paper and rip it into small sections. Then, with my red pen, I write AmazingGraphite.com on each piece.
As the bell rings and I get up, I leave one behind on the desk.
Heading through the hall to my next class, I slow down. Observing people, I watch their faces, look right in their eyes.
How many secrets are in there?
It’s strange to be the one staring at others for a change, watching them stare back or scowl or look away. Some even say stupid things, like “What you lookin’ at?” But I just keep staring.
It’s a red day, after all.
And it’s so good to let go, open up.
Come out . . . in more ways than one.
Of course, there’ll be the haters, but my art is my own. And if they don’t like that Graphite’s a weird, sexy superhero/Renaissance hybrid creation—and gay—then screw them.
And who knows, I bet some might actually like him.
As I pass through the halls, I wedge some torn bits of paper with my site written on them in the frame of a display case, stick a few on a couple bulletin boards, and place them next to the water fountains. Then, when third period is over, I drop a couple on the desks as I leave.
At lunch, both Trent and Audrey are already seated at our table and eating when I get there.
Trent holds up his hand. “Hail, O woodland creature.”
“Huh?” I plop my backpack and lunch bag on the table.
“Lookin’ better,” he says. “Not so raccoony today.”
Oh.
Audrey stands and puts her hand against my forehead. “Somethin’s not right.”
I squint at her. “What do you mean? I feel fine.”
She shakes her head and points at my red shirt. “You’re wearing . . . a color.”
Suppressing a smile, I shrug. “And why not?”
Trent leans forward. “Well, allow me to elucidate the many many reasons—”
“Nuh-uh.” Audrey cuts him off. Then she inspects my face. “Much better. But you aren’t off the hook.” She points to a chair. “Sit and spill the beans. What happened?”
I do sit but don’t spill anything, just explain I’ll fill them in later. I’m still not sure what the hell to do, who to tell what.
The ball’s in Doug’s court. I’ve made my moves, so now it’s his turn. He claims he doesn’t want to be the “dumb-ass thug,” so let him prove it. I’m going to wait until he finds my note—my challenge to him—and sees I’ve put my name on my site and am spreading the word, that I’m not a wimp and won’t just go away. Then I’ll decide whether it’s time to put Thug to rest, no longer draw him and take him off my site—or not.
I’m not invisible anymore.
As I eat my squishy peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I tell Audrey and Trent about putting my name on my site and spreading the word. Then I rip up another piece of paper and write my website on the torn sections like before.
Audrey snatches one up and eyes it. “Are you crazy? Why are you doing that?”
Holding his taco halfway to his mouth, Trent leans over to look. “Maybe not the wisest move there, Señor El Asking For It.”
I sit up and look at them. “Do you know what everyone at school thinks about me?”
They glance at each other.
I put down my pen. “Seriously.”
Trent blows the hair from his eyes. “Who gives a crap what they think?”
“I do,” I say, “when I have to always hide. When random assholes stare at me, yell at me, slam me into lockers. When all anyone knows is from lies or their own ignorance.”
Audrey surveys the noisy, crowded tables around the cafeteria. “How’s going public with Graphite going to change that?”
I lean back in my chair. “I’m not going to let people put me in some stupid category anymore, be a blank canvas for them to put on me whatever they think I am or want me to be. I’m going to show who I really am.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Trent says, swallowing a bite of taco. “I’m in your art too.”
“Willow’s pretty awesome, you know. Great outfit, right?”
He squints at me, then nods. “I’m cool with that. But I don’t know if Sultry here can handle going public.”
“Ha!” Audrey checks herself out in her phone and reapplies her deep-purple lipstick. “If anyone connects the dots that she’s supposed to be me, then they’re delusional. No way I look like that.”
“You’re right,” I say.
She shoots me a sideways look.
I turn to face her. “I could never draw a character as sultry as you really are. Face it, you’re hot.”
She caps her lipstick and holds up her hand. “We’re not goin’ here—”
“I am,” I say. “You’re special. You’ve got style, class, and sass.”
She arches her eyebrows and says to Trent, “You hearin’ this babble?”
He sits back. “Gotta say, dude’s right.”
“No offense,” she says, “but I wouldn’t call either of you an expert in what makes a woman hot.”
I grin. “Audrey, you can come up with all the excuses you like. But I draw the truth.”
She clears her throat and lowers her voice. “Speaking of which, all that art you did with Doug beating up Kobe—or at least their character versions, which anyone with a quarter of a brain could figure out—it’s still on your site?”
“Yes.”
She looks at my bruises. “I’m surprised I’m saying this, but you should probably take that down. What’s gonna happen when Doug sees—”
“No.” I ball up my trash. “Doug may not like it, but I can illustrate my own damn life any way I want.”
And, of course, he already knows my site all too well.
“What about Buddy?” Trent says. “Bootlicker? Dude, you drew him like a dog. A wiener dog.”
I cross my arms and nod. “I’ll be honest, I’m trying to not think about that. But he already wants to kill me and—guys, let me finish—he gets away with whatever the hell he wants to.” Like scrawling God Hates Fags across my locker. “Someone needs to call him out for the dog that he is.”
“Dude,” Trent says. “You got balls, I’ll give ya that.”
Audrey snorts. “That’s the problem with this planet. Way too many balls.”
I laugh. Then I stand to gather my stuff and—damn, Manuel’s staring right at me from across the cafeteria. “What is his deal?”
“Who?” Audrey scans around, then scowls. “Oh. Him.”
&n
bsp; Manuel sees me notice him, then looks at Audrey and averts his eyes. Starts talking to his buddy next to him.
I drop my backpack in my chair. “Hold on, I’ll be right back.” I stride past our table and start across the room.
His eyes go wide as he sees me coming, and he grabs his bag and waves bye to his friends. He’s trying to act casual but scoots out of the cafeteria, fast.
What the hell? He didn’t write those notes, so what is it?
But he’s gone. I spin around and go back to Audrey and Trent. I pack up my bag, toss my trash, and tell them, “Listen, just trust me about my website. I know what I’m doing.”
Audrey studies me as she tucks up a few loose strands of hair in the poufy bun she wears today. “You know, Adrian, I’m beginning to think you do.”
Trent pushes up from his chair. “Like I said, balls.”
He gets the Audrey Eye.
I say bye and move on.
On the way out, Carmen catches up to me. “Adrian, I saw your comics!”
I blink. “You did?”
“Yeah. So cool. I mean, like, way awesome!” She holds up her phone. “A few people forwarded it to me.”
Already? A few people? My pulse skips. That was fast.
She grabs my sleeve. “It’s supposed to be Kobe, right? That character, Kerosene?”
I nod.
“Amazing,” she says. “Does he know?”
Oh. “No, but he should. Will you send him the link? I don’t have my phone.”
“Of course.” She smiles, then turns away.
My art is being looked at, exposed to the world with my name front and center.
They’ll know it’s me, all the bystanders, heroes . . . and villains.
There’s no turning back.
AS LEV AND I WALK to my house after school, the wind kicks up and makes the almost-bare tree branches sway and dance.
“October’s not usually like this, right?” Lev pulls up his shirt collar and crosses his arms.
I take off my Windbreaker. “Here, wear my jacket. I’m okay without it.”
“No, you’ll—”
“Seriously, I don’t need it.” I hold it out, so he puts it on. “And anyway, we’re almost to my house.”
And we’re almost to my bedroom.
These aren’t just butterflies flapping around in my stomach, but every winged species known to man.
“Weird seeing you in my jacket,” I say. “Looks good.”
“Feels good.” He grins, then looks away.
Oh, man. I’m already getting way too excited.
But one block later the excitement is gone. Here’s my house, which means here’s my dad, and here’s major awkwardness.
I take out my keys, which jangle. Keys. My heart skips—Doug will have found his keys by now, and my note. Or maybe he won’t see them until later, after football practice?
Okay, push that aside. Don’t go there. Stay here.
I inhale and open the door. The sound of some blaring TV commercial greets us.
I’ve rehearsed this Dad conversation in my head all afternoon. I awkward-grin at Lev and close the door.
I exhale. “Dad, I’m home.”
Using his cane, he shuffles out of the kitchen holding an iced tea. “How was—oh!” He goes over to the remote and mutes the TV. Silence.
Lev does a little wave. “Hi, Mr. Piper.” His voice cracks.
Dad’s fully dressed, shoes and all. What’s that about?
“Bone-joor. Come on in.” He gestures toward the living room.
Obi-Wan, why?
“Bonjour.” Lev steps from the entry hall into the room.
I stand next to him. Guess the place doesn’t look too bad. Mom and I keep it pretty clean, but Dad’s area is a mess. And this furniture is ancient.
I talk fast. “We’ve got this big test coming up in French, so we’re going to study in my room.”
Dad looks at Lev. “Well, I’d offer to help, but I never took French.”
“What did you study?”
Lev, really? Let’s get moving.
“Well, I went to school to be an architect. But math and I aren’t such good friends. So . . .” Dad waves his hand in the air. “You don’t want to hear about all that. You guys go par-lay in French and have fun.”
“Thanks.” I move toward the hall and Lev follows.
Dad turns. “Oh, Ade?”
Damn, don’t call me that. “Yeah?”
“My buddy Pete’s pickin’ me up soon and we’re gonna watch the game at his place again. I’ll have dinner there.”
What! Really? This is too good.
“Hey, Lev,” Dad says—wow, he remembered Lev’s name—“you a football fan?”
Lev glances at me, then says, “Kinda, but it’s not my favorite.”
Dad smiles and shakes his head. “Sounds like a certain kid of mine.”
With Lev right behind me, I head down the hall and call back, “Have fun, Dad!” My voice comes out too loud.
I glance back, but he just settles in his chair.
We’re at my door, which I always leave open just a little for Harley to come and go. “Okay, I, like, didn’t clean up or anything. It’s a total—”
“Don’t worry.” Lev nervous-laughs. “You haven’t seen my room. Bet I’ve got more binders and folders and papers piled up than you.”
From the living room, the TV sounds resume.
I take a deep breath. “Welcome to my messy-yet-cozy Hobbit Hole.”
We step in and, so Dad won’t suspect anything, I leave the door open a tad. For now.
Just us.
Lev and me.
Alone.
Lev nods toward the door and says softly, “You said your parents don’t know about you, right?”
“Not yet.” My turn to nervous-laugh.
Hands in his pockets, he checks out my room. My cluttered, tiny room.
He eyes the bed for a moment, then too quickly turns and points at my sci-fi and superhero action figures lining the bookshelves. “You have quite the collection there of, you know, those things.”
“Uh-huh.” Throat’s so dry. I reach out to grab my vintage Caesar figure from Planet of the Apes. “Some of these are really old—” I bump the shelf and knock a whole row of action figures domino-style all over the floor. Crap!
As I bend to pick them up, so does he and we bonk heads.
He grimaces. “Ooh—sorry!”
“No, no, my fault.” I rub my head, then shove the figurines into a little pile and to the side.
His eyes travel around my room. “You sure like sci-fi stuff.”
My brain thinks of words but my mouth won’t budge. Instead I scoop up dirty clothes that litter the carpet and dump them in the clothes basket in the closet. A pair of glowing eyes stares at me from the shadows. I bend down and pet Harley. “It’s all right. He’s nice.”
“Huh?” Lev says.
I stand. “Talking to my cat, Harley Quinn. She’s shy with new people, but she’ll come out. Just gotta give her time.”
“Sounds like me.” He nervous-laughs again and comes over to peer in the closet. “Aww, she’s cute.”
That sounds like you too.
We’re just a couple inches apart. There’s that spicy cologne he wears. My insides vibrate.
One touch and I know I’d burst into flame.
He must feel it too. He steps back and turns away. “Hey, you put it up,” he says, pointing to my bulletin board, where I pinned little Jimmy’s unigiraffe painting.
I eye the open door and say in a low voice, “Still can’t believe they have art classes at the gay center.”
Damn. Look at him. His hair’s pulled back in a thick ponytail, exposing that jawline, that neck. Lips.
“So,” he says. “Can I see your . . . you know . . .”
My what?
He clears his throat. “See your art?”
Oh! “Right, yes. My art.” I step over and shut my door, somewhat quieting the TV sound
s that bounce down the hall.
From my bookshelf I take out Elements of Renaissance Architecture. Standing next to Lev, I click on my drawing table lamp and open the book to where I’ve tucked some art between the chapters on arches and domes. Stop it, hands! They’re shaking like crazy as I spread out my drawings on my table. “This is Graphite’s origin story. Some of the first art I posted on my website—”
My stomach drops. My website! Oh, my god, how many people have seen it by now? I eye my computer. Should I look? No. The comments can wait, good or bad. How often is Lev here? Never.
Hands behind his back, he leans over my art.
“So,” I say, shrugging. “What do you think?” I bite my lower lip.
He hesitates. “Well . . .”
The longer he’s quiet the more my face heats up.
Crap. He thinks it’s stupid.
“I don’t really know comics and stuff like that.” Now he’s blushing. “So I’m kinda out of my league here? Your art is SO cool and, I don’t know, I just don’t want to say the wrong thing.”
“Oh, you won’t! But . . . do you hate it?”
“No! It’s just that—ah! I’m all nervous.”
He’s not the only one.
Holding up the sketch of Graphite’s Moon Palace, he says, “Seriously, you’re crazy talented. Have you always been able to draw like this?”
“I’ve always drawn,” I say, “but I guess you just get better as you go, right?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know anyone who can do this.”
I turn on my computer, but not to go to my site. I scan through my music and put on the soundtrack from Miyazaki’s Spirited Away. Those magical opening notes flit from the speakers, piano and synthesizer lifting us up.
“Wow.” Now he’s holding a sketch of Oasis. “Look at that ass. And those muscles. No wonder you like to draw so much.”
Oh, man. When does that freakin’ football game start?
My midsection sizzles as I lean against Lev and look down at the drawing table. “See, he does look like you.”
“Me? Oh, that’s Oasis?” He swallows. “No, he’s much hunkier than I am.”
I whisper in his ear, “You’re wrong.”
Our shoulders are locked as if by superconductor magnets.
Harley slinks out from the closet and settles nearby on the bed.