by Annie Harper
Peter turns bright, tomato red, but nods nonetheless. “Sure,” he manages to croak and offers the sketchbook to Charlie.
Noam is more than a little surprised to see her friend flutter her eyelashes—and is that a blush darkening her cheeks? Noam can’t be sure, but she thinks it is. She places the precious wad of paper in Peter’s larger palm, reciprocating his offer.
“Kids, you have to leave the school,” Mr. Siski tells them. They’re the only students left in the room. “But I’m sure the Mini Beanie will be more than happy to welcome you and your allowances,” he adds and winks. He looks pointedly at the folded screen, behind which Gordon is changing, and leaves the room.
“Well, I guess my date awaits me,” Gordon tells them as he emerges from behind said screen, fully dressed and with his hair a complete mess. “See you tomorrow, kiddos,” he tells them over his shoulder as he struts out of the room.
Charlie, Noam and Peter exchange an incredulous look and start to giggle.
They do go to the Mini Beanie, a coffee shop that is a block away from the school. And if they spend more time than might be considered normal sitting there, with their empty cups and three sketchbooks passing from hand to hand, well, nobody is judging.
* * *
By the end of the week with Gordon, it seems as though Peter has been part of their lives for a lot longer.
Noam is convinced that there should be a special word for the platonic soul mate, because the word “friend” doesn’t cover the way Peter has completely filled a gap in her life she didn’t know was there. The role of best friend was already taken, and “soul mate” carries an underlying sense of romance that doesn’t apply.
That said, Noam suspects that “soul mate” is the right term to describe what is cooking between Peter and Charlie. Noam is not one to spread rumors—or, God forbid, gossip—simply because some looks linger maybe a beat too long, but that doesn’t make her blind. She can see how those looks between Peter and Charlie walk the line between friendly and flirtatious, just as she notices that Charlie stops wearing her thousand cheap rings when Peter mentions a severe allergy to nickel.
Noam can only nod with a private smile on her face. She’s not about to deny herself the pleasure of seeing the two of them make idiots of themselves as they fall head over heels.
She is aware—at least, a part of her is aware—that she should feel jealous; Peter joined their company thanks to her. But jealousy is the furthest thing from her mind. She’s mostly happy for them, even if they are still tiptoeing around that leap.
Now, as they sit at their easels, Noam keeps her eyes on the folded screen and waits for the new model to emerge.
Their teacher peeks behind it and smiles at whoever shoos him away. “All right, padawans,” he calls loudly, “after a week of studying the male body, it’s time for a switch.”
A long, curvy leg emerges from behind the screen, and a murmur travels through the classroom.
“Come on, don’t play shy,” their teacher says.
The new model comes out in all her naked glory, and Noam’s heart is trying to jump out of her chest.
“Class, meet my good friend and former student, Amber,” Mr. Siski says, as he puts his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Amber, these are my new followers.”
Noam tries to smile as Amber looks at them, but she must look like Mowgli smiling at Shanti at the end of Disney’s Jungle Book, with her mouth twisted in an awkward approximation of her usual smile.
“Are you okay, Nom?” Charlie whispers and bumps their elbows. “You look like you’re having a stroke.”
“She’s beautiful,” Noam whispers, unblinking. “Like, I can’t just—I…”
“Close your mouth, babe. And yeah, she’s stunning.”
Amber is all curves, from the coppery hair that flows in rivulets escaping her hastily tied bun, to her full lips, to her full breasts and tiny waist, round calves and painted toes. The green varnish is a stark contrast to her caramel skin.
I want to find out if those curves are as soft as they look.
The fleeting thought makes Noam frown at herself.
Amber stands on the podium and puts her hands on her waist, waiting for the teacher’s instructions. Her eyes dart around the room; an easy smile is on her face. Her eyes are bluish-gray, and remind Noam of the gem on her mother’s wedding ring. Is it lapis? When Amber glances at her, Noam blushes. When her embarrassment becomes unbearable, Noam looks away.
She couldn’t say why she’s embarrassed. After all, she has done nothing wrong. They are asked to look at Amber—but Noam doesn’t look at her with her usual objective eye; she is far too flustered by the model, who is still looking at her with her head cocked and a Mona Lisa smile on her lips.
“All right, just like last week,” Mr. Siski instructs. Noam shakes her head to focus. “We’ll start with a long pose, shortening it as we go and then moving to details. Amber, dear, if you could choose a pose you’ll be able to endure for a while.”
Amber finally looks away from Noam.
“Do I have something on my face?” Noam whispers to Charlie and Peter; her fingers probe her nose and lips.
Charlie shakes her head, and Peter scrutinizes her before shaking his head, too.
“Then why was she staring at me?” Noam mumbles, more to herself than to her friends, but Charlie shrugs.
“Maybe she thinks you’re beautiful, too,” she whispers.
Noam scoffs and rolls her eyes, then turns her attention to her easel and the model, who is now lying on her side facing Noam, one hand holding her head up and one leg folded at the knee.
Yeah, no way that… that, that goddess thinks Noam is interesting. Maybe the pattern of freckles on her face interests her.
Noam takes a deep breath and tries to push all these thoughts of attraction and whatnots from her mind, these treacherous thoughts that she doesn’t know how to handle, and focus on realizing an accurate portrait of the pose Amber has chosen—.
The first forty-five minutes are fulfilling. Noam manages to draw a rough outline that brings a reversed Grande Odalisque to mind—without the additional vertebra and shortened leg Ingres gave his woman—and she looks up in surprise when Charlie touches her shoulder.
“You want to come out for the break?”
Noam shakes her head. “No, I’m good—have fun.”
Most of the students want to use their ten-minute break to soak in some sun. As the room empties, Noam pulls out her “private” sketchbook, the one she uses to rework the various sketches she makes on the run.
“Hey.”
Noam looks up and finds herself face to chest, so to speak, with Amber, who has wrapped a black and white robe around her body.
“H-hi.” Noam tries to look up. She feels like a pervert; her eyes keep going to Amber’s chest.
“Can I look?” Amber asks, and Noam has to hold back a sigh at the velvety quality of her voice.
“Oh, sure,” she replies, after maybe a moment too long. “I mean, it’s just a preparatory sketch, you know, nothing fancy; it’s not good, really. Actually, you don’t want to see this—oh, you’re already looking, good,” she rambles, inwardly smacking her own forehead.
Amber leans forward; her eyes follow the lines on Noam’s paper until they find her little doodle with the measurements in the corner. She points at it, and a colorful tattoo on her wrist catches Noam’s eye.
“That is really smart of you.” Amber crouches so she can get closer to the little sketch. “Really shows an artistic mind.”
“I thought artists were supposed to trust their guts and not overthink,” Noam replies, twirling her pencil between her fingers.
Amber gives a very unladylike snort. “Impulsive artists don’t last long,” she says, cocking an eyebrow at Noam. Her gaze is intense and tugs at Noam’s heartstrings.
The moment stretches between them, but this time around Noam isn’t embarrassed; she is captivated, in the most literal sense of the word, as if A
mber’s eyes are chains she is voluntarily attaching to herself.
Is this what it is to like someone? Is this what makes so many people act so strangely? Is this the beginning of… attraction?
“You… um, you seem to know a lot about artists,” she stammers.
Amber hums in agreement. “Well, I am a freshman at Parsons,” Amber replies. “Not bragging, of course.”
“Why would it be bragging?” Noam exclaims. “Parsons! That’s—that’s the dream! Congratulations!”
A light blush appears on Amber’s collarbone and creeps up her neck as she beams—literally, it looks as if her face lights up—at Noam. “It’s nothing, really.”
“Not nothing—Parsons!” Noam cuts her off. Noam’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry, that was so rude.”
Amber giggles. “It’s all right, don’t worry—you’re passionate, it’s… it’s endearing,” she replies, batting her eyelashes slowly.
Just as Noam wonders what she could possibly say in reply, the students begin to return, guided by their teacher. Amber straightens up and moves back to the podium, after brushing her fingers on Noam’s shoulder.
“Had fun?” Charlie asks as she sits down.
“I think so, yeah,” Noam replies, dazed.
“At your drawings, people,” Mr. Siski instructs.
Amber gets back into the pose; her eyes never leave Noam.
The whole family is sitting at the dinner table that evening, enjoying the cannelloni Alan made—“From scratch, just so you know”—when Dana pokes Noam.
“You’re awfully quiet, little duck,” she says softly, using a childhood nickname in a rare moment of tenderness. “Not jabbering about your art class and other nonsense as usual,” she adds with a snicker, and the moment is gone.
“Dana,” Alan says, his voice low in warning. Dana rolls her eyes and pokes at the cannelloni on her plate. “Though she could have phrased that differently, your sister’s right.” He turns to look at Noam. “You’re awfully quiet tonight—is something wrong?”
Noam blushes and looks down, hiding behind her glass of apple juice. “Nothing’s wrong. I just—have a lot on my mind.”
Myriam pushes her plate away to put her hand on Noam’s arm. “Do you want to talk about it, Nomchka?”
Noam shakes her head. “No, not really.”
“Shocker,” Dana mumbles, just loud enough to be heard. Noam spends the rest of the meal avoiding her sister’s gaze.
Noam should have known that her parents wouldn’t let it go so easily. Later that evening, just as she closes her laptop to get back to her sketches, a knock gets her attention.
“May I come in?” her mother’s voice calls from outside the closed door. Noam sighs, but opens the door nonetheless.
“Mom, I really don’t want to talk about it,” she says, sitting at her desk while Myriam sits on the bed. “And not because I don’t trust you, but because I need to make sense of… of what is on my mind first.”
“Maybe saying it out loud would help,” Myriam says softly. She takes off her glasses and cleans the lenses.
Noam makes a noise that conveys her doubts, but she puts down the sketchbook and sits on her feet.
“I… may, just maybe,” she starts, looking for the right words, “have feelings for the model we have in class.”
Her mother nods, clearly waiting for more. When Noam stays silent, she scooches closer to her daughter. “Is he older than you?”
“Yes,” Noam replies, biting her lip as the white lie settles.
“Would it be problematic to date him? Because unless he’s much older than you or has a swastika tattooed on his forehead—”
“She just has a little rainbow flag tattooed on her wrist, Mom,” Noam says all in one breath and waits for her mother’s reaction.
While her mother processes what Noam just said, Noam realizes that she just came out to her mother. They have never talked about homosexuality, and if Myriam and Alan have an opinion on it, they have never mentioned it in front of their daughters. What if Myriam is homophobic? What if her mother hates her now? God, what if her parents kick her out? What if…?
“And you want to date her?”
What?
“What?” Noam looks at her mother and lets her jaw fall open.
“Well, if you’re attracted to her, honey, you should ask her out, get a coffee or go see a movie—do you need a little extra weekly allowance?”
“Mommy,” Noam cries with a dry throat and jumps from her chair into her mother’s open arms.
“There, there, sweetheart,” her mother whispers as she pets Noam’s hair and scratches her scalp in the way she knows Noam loves. “The heart wants what the heart wants. I just want you to be happy, okay?” Her mother gently pushes Noam away to look at her and wipes a stray tear from her cheek.
They cuddle for a little while longer. Noam clears her throat. “Mom?”
“Yes, bubbeleh?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“And I’ll come to you if I have more questions about love.”
“As you should.” Myriam kisses the top of Noam’s head, then stands up and checks her watch. “Lights out in forty minutes, baby.”
Noam sighs and smiles at Myriam as she leaves the room. “Fine.”
She returns to sit at her desk, but she leaves the sketchbook where it sits. She feels lighter all of a sudden.
The door opening doesn’t surprise her, since she assumes it’s her mother coming back to add something, but she smiles when she sees that it’s actually her sister.
“Hey, Dana, what’s u—” she starts, but her sister’s glare silences her.
“So you’re a dyke now? Is that the latest trend?”
The use of the slur is a punch to the gut. Noam is not only speechless, but also breathless.
“I—did you listen to my talk with Mom?” she finally replies, enraged at the attack on her privacy.
“The walls are not that thick,” Dana sneers. “So?”
“Maybe, I don’t know, but even so it’s none of your business,” Noam says, turning her back on Dana to keep her sister from seeing her eyes fill up with tears.
“I wouldn’t wave a rainbow flag just yet,” Dana replies between gritted teeth. “I’m sure it’s just a phase you’ll put behind you when you meet the right guy.” She slams the door closed.
Noam closes her fists over her eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to keep her tears at bay. It’s too late, though, and the familiar sensation of her nerves lighting up like a bolt of electricity right under her skin slowly spreads through her body.
As tears of anger spill from her eyes, Noam starts scratching the electricity away. Not for the first time, Noam wishes that her sister didn’t act as if her purpose in life is to make Noam’s life miserable.
* * *
“That bitch,” Charlie growls the next morning during their break, when Noam has a chance to explain how Dana has upset her. From her chair, she pulls Noam into a tight hug. “But hurrah for your mom—can I be your mom when I grow up?”
Noam laughs and wipes at the infuriating tears that persist in rolling down her cheeks.
Peter, bless his soul, remains silent and simply offers her an old-fashioned handkerchief and a soft smile.
“What’s going on?”
The three look up at their teacher. Mr. Siski’s concern is apparent. He puts down his travel mug and sits at Noam’s side. “Noam, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, sir,” she replies and blows her nose one last time. “My sister is being… mean,” she adds, not willing to insult her sister with a stronger word.
“More like being an ass,” Charlie mumbles, before Noam can plant an elbow in her ribs.
“All right,” Mr. Siski says softly, patting her knee. “My office is always open if you want to talk about it or if I need to talk with your parents about it, okay?”
“Thank you, Mr. Siski,” Noam replies. Then she sees Amber approaching
and gasps. “Shit, how bad do I look? On a scale from manga cries to Claire Danes cries?” she asks her friends, and Charlie stands up and cocks her head.
“Somewhere around Alice crying in Wonderland?” she offers. She clears her throat and turns to Peter. “Say, I think I need a boost of caffeine—we should get some hot drinks. See you later, Nomnom!” She grabs Peter’s hand and practically runs away, waving at Amber as they pass her.
“You all right?” Amber asks, and Noam wants to say that yes, everything is wonderful, but her heart has just decided to set the beat for a rumba and butterflies have apparently grown in her stomach, so all she can do is nod and point at Amber’s braids.
“That’s cute,” she replies, and Amber fidgets, playing with the end of one of her skillfully tied Bohemian side braids.
The gesture looks simultaneously vulnerable and coy, and Noam’s lips stretch into a smile against the weight of her heavy mind.
“I think Charlie’s suggestion had some merit,” Noam rushes to say, willing herself to speak before she can overthink. She stands and straightens her dress. “May I… may I offer you a cup of coffee?” she asks. Her heart beats even faster as she takes the leap of faith.
“Oh—I… I don’t drink coffee,” Amber replies, and Noam is already berating herself, silently praying for the ground to swallow her now, please—or a giant eagle kidnapping her would work—when Amber touches her shoulder. “But I’d love a hot chocolate?”
Noam blinks at her and leans into her touch without realizing it. “Really?” she murmurs and smiles at Amber.
“Without a doubt—I definitely want a hot chocolate,” Amber replies with a teasing smile, and her hand moves from Noam’s shoulder to her hand.
Noam doesn’t know if she’s lesbian, if she’s bi, or if she’s just Amber-sexual, but she keeps her mother’s wisdom at the forefront of her mind. The heart wants what the heart wants, and right now, her heart wants to keep her hands in this girl’s. And after that?
After that, she has new poses to draw.
Noam sighs loudly, as she puts her pen behind her ear and looks away from the easel. This gets Mr. Siski’s attention.
“Everything all right, Noam?” he asks, his voice soft.