by Laurent Linn
“Ya know,” Lev says, studying more sketches, “Graphite’s not a superhero.”
“Why not? What do you mean?”
“He’s, I don’t know. . . . Superheroes are pretty common. There are so many and it’s easy to mix them up. But Graphite, he’s different.” He faces me. “He’s not like anything I’ve ever seen. He’s special.”
With those amber eyes staring into mine, I’d almost agree with anything he says. But I’ve got to ponder that one.
“And,” he says, “Graphite’s body is frickin’ hot. Look at those hands.” He’s staring at mine.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
We both jump away.
“Coming!” I yell, glancing at Lev. “Um, I mean, just a sec!” I turn off my drawing table lamp, then sweep my art into a quick pile and place the book on top. I open my bedroom door.
Dad peers in. “How’s the French goin’?”
I nod. “All’s good.” My voice squeaks.
“Well, Pete’s here,” he says, “so I’m headin’ out.”
Somehow I missed hearing the doorbell and Dad shutting off the blaring TV.
“Bonne chance,” Lev says. “Hope your team wins.”
“They’d better!” Dad totters down the hall and out the front door.
I close my door and cross my room to look out the window.
Lev comes up behind me. “So, how long will he be gone?”
“Forever. Those games are endless,” I say to the window. “And Mom doesn’t get off work until late, so . . . just you and me.”
Oh. My.
Taking his time with his cane, Dad makes it to his friend’s car and they drive off.
I exhale. “Well, they’re gone.” I turn and bump right into Lev. He pulls back.
The Spirited Away soundtrack playing through my speakers is bouncy with horns, playful and dramatic.
Lev glances out the window one more time. “Do you think he suspects that, well, you know?”
I swallow. “That you’re my boyfriend?”
His cheeks flush and he looks at the carpet, a few loose strands of wavy hair falling over his face. “Am I? Are we?”
“I don’t know.” I cross my arms. “What do you think?”
He grins. “I’d like that.”
“Me too.” My insides quake.
He tucks the loose hair behind his ears, then takes off my jacket that he’s wearing. “Hot in here.” His eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t mean that as some line. I’m really hot.” His face gets redder. “You know what I mean.”
I sure do.
All of me does. Boner is definitely the most accurate word in all of the English language.
I reach out. “Here, I’ll grab it.” My voice squeaks. “My jacket! I mean.”
He steps over and hands it to me, but doesn’t let go.
We look at each other for a moment, holding the jacket together.
Then, at the same time, we drop it to the floor.
I slide my arms around him and he wraps his around me. I taste his lips.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I know.”
“You okay?”
I pull back and hold his hands. “Have you ever, like, been with a guy before?”
He swallows. “Yes. I mean, kind of. Haven’t done much. Well, some, but not, you know, that.”
I nod. “How many?”
“Just one. It only lasted for the summer. I met him at the LGBT center, but it didn’t mean anything—all right, it did, but not like this.” He smiles and looks in my eyes.
I clear my throat.
He frowns. “Does that bother you?”
“No, it’s just that . . . well, I’ve never . . .”
He moves his hands up my arms, holds my shoulders. “I don’t care. This is just you and me here. We do whatever we want. Or don’t.”
I reach down, grab his belt loops, pull him to me. “I want.”
We kiss. He holds my face, and our tongues slide and play.
I press my crotch into his.
Whoa.
I’m still shivering but heating up, too.
The world fades out as we take our time, kissing in different ways.
We slowly swivel our hips in opposite directions, back and forth, rubbing fabric together, hardness to hardness. Back and forth.
MAN.
I gotta take a breath. “Whew.”
He’s panting too. “Yeah.”
I step away, turn my back, reach down and adjust myself in a flash. In the corner of my eye I see he does the same.
“Okay. Gotta sit. Harley, move.” I gently push her off my pillow. She slinks back into the closet. I plop down on the corner of the bed.
Lev sits beside me. He rubs his hand in circles over my back, sending voltage through my veins.
My pulse is racing.
I slide my hand up his back, scrunch my fingers in that gorgeous hair, and pull on the elastic ponytail band to free his—
“OW ow ow ow! Ow.” He throws back his head and reaches around, grabs my hand. “Stop.”
I let go. “Ohmygod—sorry! Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It’s okay, I got it.”
As he untangles his mass of hair, I get up, close the curtains, then switch off the lights.
Early-evening sun makes the curtains glow. A soft golden haze fills the room.
I turn up the music a little. Sounds of slow horns and violins and echoing notes swirl around us, gentle and haunting.
On the bed, I lie down next to Lev. He lies down too, and rolls on top of me. Heavy, pressing into me. It’s hard to breathe but feels so good.
He holds my face again and our mouths lock together.
“OwOwOw!” I cover my nose.
He pushes up on his elbows. “Ooh, sorry! Sorry!”
“Still tender is all. I’m all right.” My nose and the skin under my eyes throb.
But so does the rest of me.
I move my hands down his back to his ass. Whoa.
He kicks off his shoes, so I kick off mine and press my toes on top of his.
We fit so well together.
Is this really happening?
OH, my. He nibbles my neck.
This is so happening.
We roll over, me on top.
He pulls my shirt and gently peels it off. With my hand, I protect my nose from the red fabric sliding over my face.
I grab his shirt and, with him arching his back, wiggle it off his body. It’s so tight, though, it’s stuck around his neck. I yank harder—
“Gurgg,” he chokes out, grabbing the fabric. “Hold up!”
Tugging, we both slip it over his chin and face and toss it to the floor.
I smell his sweat and that spicy cologne, stare at his chest. “Look at that.”
He hums, staring at mine. “Look at that.”
We lock eyes. I ease back down on top of him. It’s like we’re melding, skin to skin, beating heart to beating heart.
I grab his hair, his amazing gorgeous hair, and gently push my fingers through it. It lies around his head on the pillow like an electric crown.
Time, everything, disappears. It’s as if we’re swirling through space, just him and me.
Closing my eyes, I nestle my head between his neck and shoulder. Listen to him breathing, like the notes of music that fill the room, scaling up, down, then up and up.
And up.
OKAY. I’D BETTER STOP DRAWING now. If I keep going this’ll turn into that kind of art pretty quick.
I drop my pencil, stand up from the drawing table, and look over at my bed, where Lev and I were naked together.
“Naked!” I holler.
Harley’s eyes snap open.
I scratch her head, warm from my drawing lamp where she’s curled up under the light. “Sorry, just can’t help my happy freak-outs.”
Poor kitty has had to endure me screaming Oh my god oh my god! at random ever since Lev went home about, what, thirty minutes ago? As long as I st
ill have the house to myself before Dad or Mom gets home I might as well shout and let it out.
My whole body is warm and tingly and buzzing, like I just stepped off a two-hour roller coaster on the surface of the sun.
We didn’t go all the way, but what we did do . . .
“OH MY GOD OH MY GOD!”
I look over my sketches, which were fun to draw from memory. I glance over at the rumpled sheets on the bed. Oh, boy, I’m getting excited again.
No way I’m scanning or posting these new sketches—oh, crap, my website. I didn’t even think to check it!
I sit, log in, and take a deep breath. How many people have seen Graphite by now? Here comes my home page—holy crap. Eighty-seven new comments. Eighty-seven!
I maybe get that many in one year, never in one day.
I wanted this, right?
I scan through but looks like a bunch of anonymous or bullshit usernames. Okay, focus, Adrian. One at a time.
you really are a freakin’ fag
Asshole. Delete.
wtf is this site? and ummm . . . why?
Delete.
Burn in hell faggot.
Really? Well, back at ya, asshole. Delete.
Haaaaayyy Adrian. Youre soooo fagulous!!! (how do you type with a lisp?)
Delete!
I’m gonna break this mouse if I hit Delete any harder. I expected this, though, didn’t I? No surprise, and it’s not like people writing crap on my site is new.
But it’s the first time they’ve used my name and know exactly who I am. It’s so easy to spew hate anonymously.
Well, screw you if you can’t even own up to it.
I take a deep breath and keep reading. Delete and delete and delete and—wow.
HO-LYyy fluffy pancakes from heaven! This is beyond EPICNESS! Adrian you drew all THIS?
Yay, some love. Username is just Princess. Someone I know? I reply: Thanks! Yes, been creating this comic for a long time. So glad you like!
I go through a few more baffled comments asking what Graphite actually does, then read more likes, even a few loves, mixed in with more stupidity.
What’s this?
Listen up, haters. Until you can draw THIS good and do something more in YOUR OWN damn life than be a troll, you should just SHUT THE HELL UP.
I check the username. Has to be . . . yes. Sultry.
Wow. Audrey’s amazing, and finally admitting she is sultry!
I reply: You got that right, my friend!
I sit back in my chair and roll my head around, stretch my neck, then keep scrolling through the comments. Here’s one saying Graphite is SOOO HOT. Love that.
But not this, posted by Anonymous:
How friggin STUPID can you be? Thug? Bootlicker? Supposed to be Doug Richter and Buddy Jones? Your ass is gonna be shredded.
I inhale and stare at the screen. I almost reply Screw you, ANONYMOUS, if you can’t handle seeing the truth. But, instead, I hit Delete.
My art speaks for itself, speaks for me.
Maybe I am stupid, not for drawing my life, but for hoping Doug might do the right thing and pull back, keep Buddy in line, and leave me and my friends the hell alone. And, as unlikely as it is, maybe he’ll even come clean about how he beat Kobe not in self-defense. He says he’s more than just a thug, but he’s got to prove it.
And if not, I still have that balcony video. In case.
“Bye!” I holler from the front hall.
Holding her breakfast yogurt and spoon, Mom peeks out from the kitchen. “Have a good—oh, don’t you look nice? Glad you’re finally wearing that shirt I got you, last Christmas.”
I shrug. “Just seems like a good day for yellow.”
She scans my face. “Thanks heavens, that bruising is almost gone. Your nose feel all right today?”
Every part of me feels all right today. I touch my nose, which is a tiny bit tender but no biggie. “Yep, all good.”
I head out the front door and down the block. The bright sunlight and crisp wind make the air buzz. Or maybe it’s me sending out shock waves since my whole body is still humming from being with Lev last night.
Being. With. Lev. Last. Night.
Between that and attempting to make sense of all those comments on my site, I’ve been so distracted: bumping into things, leaving faucets running, losing my toothbrush only to find it was still in my mouth. It’s like I’m a toddler again, learning basic motor skills.
But the sidewalk seems to stay under my shoes and I’m heading the right way to school. Thinking about seeing Lev in French makes me pick up my pace.
Crossing the school’s front lawn, I scan the side parking lot. Standing out among all the boring cars, there’s Lev’s lemon-yellow Beetle. Guess I match it today with this bright-yellow shirt.
Doug’s parking spot is still empty. My stomach drops. He’s had a whole night to think about my note. There were no comments on my site from BigGreenBro and none of the anonymous ones sounded like they were from him either.
It’s still his move.
Since it’s about ten minutes until first period, there are tons of people arriving and goofing around. How many have seen my site?
I pass by a cluster of giggly girls who don’t even glance at me. Most people keep to themselves.
As I make my way to the entrance, I pass three guys huddled, sitting on the grass. I recognize them from the geek boy table at lunch. They’re writing in sketchbooks on their laps and notice me. One with bleached-blond hair looks up and says, “Hey.”
“Um, hey,” I say.
“You’re Adrian.”
I stop. “Yeah?”
He nods. “I checked out Graphite. He’s cool.”
I exhale and smile. “Thanks.”
He holds up his sketchbook pages with portraits of some manga characters. “You like Naruto?”
“Sure, but I don’t follow it.” I step over and look at his art. Thin, sketchy inked lines with colored-pencil shading. “That spiked hair is great.”
One of the other guys points to his drawing of a sexy girl in a school uniform. “I can’t do clothes. How do you do fabric like in Graphite?”
I shrug. “You have to think of it as in motion like—”
AH! I’m shoved from behind. I fall, palms and knees slamming into the dirt. I jump up and spin around.
Buddy.
He scowls and his nostrils flare. “You freakin’ asshole fag!”
I shake out my wrists.
The three guys grab their stuff, scramble up, and get back. People move away from us.
I stand my ground. “What’s your problem?”
“You take that shit down.”
“Take what down?” I breathe heavy and pull my shoulders back.
“Don’t screw with me, faggot. That Bootlicker shit you did about me.” He pushes up the sleeves of his Saber Cats jacket.
I sneer. “There’s no character named Buddy on my website. What makes you think that’s supposed to be you? You see a resemblance?”
He grits his teeth. “I ain’t no bootlicker.” He eyes the crowd watching us. Spitting on the ground, he turns and storms inside.
I brush the dirt from my hands and jeans, which, dammit, are streaked with stains at the knees.
One of the guys blinks at me. “Man, you pissed him off.”
I inhale deep and let it out. “No, he pissed me off.”
From the parking lot, Doug’s red pickup catches my eye. The motor rumbling, he pulls into his spot.
What’s up with him and Buddy not coming to school together anymore?
I so want to know what he thought of my drawing and note, but not here, not now. I head up the front steps and inside, stepping into the din of the hallways.
In the bathroom, I wash off my scraped wrists, which sting from the soap. If Doug doesn’t do something about Buddy, I will. But I’ve no idea what.
The first bell rings. Making my way to my locker, I watch faces and listen to voices to discover who might have seen my w
ebsite. From the variety of reactions I get—smiles to quizzical looks to wide-eyed stares—I can tell a lot of people have. Excellent.
Swinging open my locker, I grab my stuff, then get to class.
I walk through the doorway, and just laying eyes on Lev’s beaming face, I can tell this is going to be torture. How am I supposed to sit so close to him but act normal, whatever the hell normal means? He’s right here, but I can’t even touch him.
I plop into my seat and he nervous-giggles. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Is it possible for my face to smile too big?
I check around as more people arrive and the general talking gets louder.
“Hey,” I say, “give me your French book.”
“Why, you forget yours?”
I put out my hand. “Just give it to me.”
With a curious look, he reaches into his backpack and hands me his textbook.
Opening my bag, I pull out a folded paper.
Last night before going to sleep, I had to stop all that website crap from swirling in my brain. So I drew a quick portrait of Oasis, floating against the stars, his sexy eyes staring right out at the viewer.
I slip the drawing inside the book’s front cover, hand it back to him, and lower my voice. “Look at it later.”
“Okay,” he says, but goes ahead and peeks at my art anyway. He slams the book shut and covers it with his arms. “Wow.”
I grin and turn around.
And, just like I thought, the rest of class is pure torture.
After the bell we head into the hall together. He bumps my shoulder and whispers, “That was fun last night.”
“And holy freakin’ how!” I bump back.
He eyes me. “Your parents suspect anything?”
“No. By the time they got home I had everything all cleaned up.” My face heats up like someone flipped a switch.
His pocket buzzes, so he pulls out his phone, reads a text, then looks at me. “Wish I could text you.”
I sigh. “God yes. I HATE this no-phone crap.”
“I’ve been thinking, your mom said you have to pay for a new phone yourself, right? And you have to get a job?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I have an idea. I called Maria, you know, that woman I volunteered for at the LGBT center?”
I stop walking. “Okay . . .”
“I told her how much you liked the art room there and what a freakin’ amazing artist you are. She said she’d connect you with that art teacher we met. Maybe you could help teach the kids or something?”