by Daryl Banner
I frown. “You still have Dmitri. He’s got another year to go, if he keeps on track. And then Tomas too, right?”
She faces me suddenly. “Is it true that Brant’s dropping out?”
The question knocks me in the face. Not because I didn’t know, but because I didn’t realize Brant told anyone else. I thought we were keeping it a secret. “I, um … Who told you that?” I ask vaguely.
“Oh.” Sam’s a quick one. “Maybe it’s a secret. I don’t think Dmitri was supposed to tell me. I figured you’d know, since you—”
“I did.”
“Oh. Well, um … Dmitri tells me things. But he doesn’t always tell me not to tell others those things. I hate secrets.”
I smirk knowingly, then clutch my belly anxiously, curious about Brant’s whereabouts. Where the hell is he? I wonder, biting my lip.
“So how do you feel about that?”
I flinch, stirred from my thoughts. “About Brant dropping out?” Sam nods. “It’s his decision. I mean, you know him. Well, through Dessie and Clayton, somewhat. You know what he’s like.”
“Twenty different majors in four years. New girlfriend every week. No direction in life.”
Sam knows how to put it bluntly. “Well …”
“You basically saved his life.”
Now it’s my turn to blink in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Now he’s got all the things,” she answers simply. “He settled on one major. He has a direction in life now. And he’s got you.” Then Sam smiles. Or at least I think that’s what’s happening on her face. “Thank you for coming into his life, Nell. And by proxy, coming into mine. I wish I could’ve made art with you at some point.”
Unexpectedly, I find myself touched by Sam’s words. “Thank you, Sam.”
“I just stated facts, really. Nothing to thank me for.” She shrugs and glances off at the sunset again.
“You know, with you and Dmitri being such good friends, I think we’ll be seeing a lot of each other anyway. Brant’s still living there. I’m still in my place. Maybe you can come over sometime and we can … I don’t know … share inspirations or something. Maybe you can give that band next door to me a goddamned clue. Y’know, save some poorly abused instruments.”
“I have enough on my plate saving an abused one of my own,” she says sulkily, then her gaze drifts off to a particular someone standing by the grill—Tomas, who seems to be obsessed with poking at and flipping the burgers.
“He seems like a nice guy,” I encourage her with a smile.
“The nicest,” she groans. Then, with a minute shrug, she says, “Tell Brant congratulations on his decision. I think it takes a lot of bravery to cut ties with a school and leap into the artistic foray headlong. And if he suddenly decides yet again to change his career path, I can maybe give him a recommendation at the music school. I would peg him to be a cellist.” She offers me a muted smile, then makes her way across the grass toward Tomas, who greets her with a smile and seems to offer her a burger.
The rest of the yard teems with friends from the School of Theatre mostly, as the majority of the supporters here are for Dessie and Clayton. There’s a bunch of dancers here too, including a gorgeous black man named Avery who towers over everyone in a vibrant pink-and-yellow wig and says he’s an official member of the Brant fan club. I’m not sure what all that’s about, but he gasped with astonishment when he saw my work at the latest gallery showing a month ago and commented on its brilliance before even knowing it was mine, so he’s scored a few brownie points in my book.
Somewhere on the other side of the lawn, Minnie and a few of the others from the art school are gathered around a fire pit laughing about something and looking teary-eyed in their hilarity as they eat s’mores and make fun of each other when marshmallow hangs on their chins. Minnie and I didn’t speak again until somewhere around Valentine’s Day when we ran into each other at a “Lover’s Lament” showcase downtown. We’d ended up standing at the same exhibit, snarkily began providing our own critiques for it, and eventually made each other laugh. Then, unexpectedly, Minnie burst into tears, hugged me, and begged me to forgive her and to be her friend again. I clutched Minnie right there, said there was nothing to forgive, and apologized for being somewhat of an arrogant twat to her earlier. Then she invited me over to her big place for cheap booze and Netflix binging on her big fluffy couch, just like the old days, and everything was back to normal before we even reached the end of the first episode.
From across the lawn, Minnie catches my eye, then winks and gives a little wave before returning to hearing some joke her friend is telling her, and then the pair of them burst into laughter.
“You look beautiful,” comes a voice from behind, wrapping me up in a pair of smooth, strong arms.
“You’re just saying that because you want to bone me later.”
“That too.”
I turn and face Brant, smiling. He looks cute in his orange-and-blue plaid button-down shirt and distressed jeans. Those particular jeans make me want to grab his ass so badly and so inappropriately in front of all these people.
Suddenly there’s a camera in my face. “Cheese!”
I laugh just as the flash goes off, capturing me in that moment. The camera fails, however, to capture the moment right after: me smacking the shit out of Brant’s shoulder for blinding me.
“You know you love it,” he murmurs, getting right in my face.
He gets away with murder with that beautiful face of his. Really, it just isn’t fair. “I didn’t know you were telling people about your decision to become an official college dropout.”
“I didn’t! I was … ah, crap.” He curses to himself. “It was that damn Dmitri who can’t keep his mouth shut.”
“Are you embarrassed by it?”
“Hell no. College just isn’t for everyone. I’m really glad I came here, don’t get me wrong. I mean, I definitely learned a lot and I had my … fair share of experiences …”
“Experiences,” I echo, using air quotes.
He grabs my arms and pulls me into him, inspiring a guttural laugh from deep within me. “You better watch that adorable mouth of yours before I spank you.”
I lick my lips slowly and deliberately, watching as his face melts before my eyes with all the fantasies and realities of what, exactly, I’m capable of with these lips of mine. I love planting all the dirt in his head and watching as he suffers with it for hours until we’re alone and can do something about it.
“Clayton’s got an instrument room upstairs where he keeps all his lighting equipment,” he whispers.
“Don’t you dare think about it,” I warn him.
“I wouldn’t need very long.”
“Such the charmer.”
“We’ll be back before they cut into the graduation cake. Or the other-other graduation cake. Or before people start getting drunk and making pretentious speeches about the future and this and that.”
“Why don’t I just massage your crotch under the table and get the job over with without going anywhere at all?” I ask, running a hand down his body and hooking it under his belt.
“You’re so bad, Nell.”
“The worst,” I agree.
Brant
She looks so beautiful. I could stare at her every damn day and it’s like I’m being eaten alive by beauty. Maybe that could be the name of my next photo series: Eaten Alive. All the photos could just be of her, on and on and on.
“Babe, I know everyone’s all busy and they want me to take photos of all of you soon—the graduates, you included, sans me—but I have something I want to show you.”
Nell lifts her eyebrows. “Oh yeah? Is this a euphemism for wanting to show me your big dong in Clayton’s upstairs man cave?”
“Nope.” I reach out my hand. “Come with me, my lady.”
“Mistress of darkness,” she corrects me, to which I laugh. None of my terms of endearment sit well with her, but damn, that one thing I said the night she ne
arly burned down the End Of Year Showcase, she clings to it like a cliff.
I take her into the house, which is considerably quieter, what with everyone out in the yard, then we go up the curved staircase. There’s a big, beautiful couch by a giant window that overlooks the backyard, and it’s to that couch that I lead her.
I sit down first, then turn her with a little pirouette move before seating her on my lap. She smiles, suppressing a giggle, then hooks her arms around my neck.
“Now what?” she prompts me, curious.
I bring my camera up into her lap, and the screen flashes bright for us both to see. I start scrolling back.
“Showing me the graduation pics from this morning?” she asks me. “What is it? Did you catch Dessie and Clayton behind the curtains or something?”
“Nope.”
She chuckles, then waits patiently as I finally arrive at the correct photos. The moment they show up on the screen, Nell’s face changes. She tilts her head, taken. “Oh. These … These are from …”
“Westwood Light,” I finish for her.
There’s a photo of three of the kids playing with cars, using various stacked books and turned-over building blocks and a shoe as obstacles in their little roadmap.
I push my thumb. There’s a photo of a girl with brown hair whose forehead is screwed up in concentration as she adds a block to the top of a very tall stack she’s trying to keep balanced.
Another push of my thumb. The backside of two of the kids staring out the window at the street, a boy and a girl. The boy has his hands pressed to the glass, the girl has her hands linked behind her back, picking at her nails.
“Brant, these are beautiful,” she murmurs. “I wish the world could see them.”
“The world will.” She looks at me, mystified. “Well, at least the city will,” I amend with a little shrug. “You know Lori Turlington? She’s the owner of—”
“I know Lori,” she cuts me off, her eyes wide, already anticipating excitedly where I’m headed. “What about her?”
“She has contacts at several of the biggest newspapers nationwide. She also has a friend who works with a major art publication, though it’s not certain yet if my photos will be seen in that one, but …”
“Oh my god. Are you kidding? She’s hooking you up??”
“Nell, will ya let me finish??” I retort teasingly, poking her boob with my finger. She swats it away with a laugh. “Yes. That’s the crux of my news. Lori is giving me a platform to show my series of photos, which I called For The Children. But there’s more.”
“More?”
I steel myself for her reaction. I’ve been sitting on this news all day ever since Lori gave me the phone call this morning. I breathe in deep, then let it all out on my camera. “They’re also writing a story about them. An article, I guess you could say. It’s going to feature the kids, Westwood Light, and … how a person in the community with a heart can help these children.”
“Oh, Brant.”
“Donations. Major ones that could help turn their lives around—more so than just providing food and a roof. This story is going to be seen by so many people, Nell. This story—”
She interrupts me with a forceful kiss. Every damn thing in the world between us seems to be poured into this one, potent kiss. She damn near sucks my face off with her unapologetic fervor.
“Brant,” she murmurs when she pulls away, her face still close to mine, her green eyes flashing. “Your heart is bottomless. Your soul is so rich and so real, I didn’t even see it. I’ve been so trained all my life in looking for the falsehoods, in creating things that don’t already exist … I’ve become blind to the things that do. You are no fantasy, Brant. You are the real thing. You’re beautiful and you’re kind and …”
“Please don’t forget to mention my wiener,” I cut in. “He gets really sad when you leave him out.”
She growls at me frustratedly, then gets in my face and goes on. “You’re so amazing that you can’t even take my damn compliment, can you? Always deflecting them away with humor and jokes …”
“My dick is no joke.”
“And neither is your heart.” Nell presses her lips together. “Brant.”
I find I can’t make any more humor, so struck by the way she’s looking at me right now. I want to capture this moment and put it into a bottle and drink a tiny bit of it every day, just so I can preserve the emotion that’s so captured me right here on this couch with the woman I love.
Then I realize I can. “Hold that thought,” I murmur, lifting up my camera.
“I love you so damn much, Brant.”
I lift my big ol’ complicated device to my face, then give her my signature cocky smirk. “Right back at ya, babe.”
Aim. Focus.
Flash.
The end.
Continue for a bonus epilogue of Dessie & Clayton!
Bonus Epilogue
Clayton
– One Year Later –
The Summer After Graduation
I never planned to have someone in my life.
The way I pictured it, I was going to be the house on the street that everyone avoided. I was going to be the dark tech wizard whose hands were always blackened and cut up from metalwork. I was going to grow up and live in a shell of my own misery, bitterness, and distaste for humankind.
And then Dessie shattered that dream and replaced it with a new one.
Everyone’s here. All the couples and all the singles. Dmitri even brought this girl he’s been getting fresh with in one of his creative writing classes, a blonde with a beautiful face who always seems to squint at everyone she smiles at. The pair of them are snuggled up at the end of the table, which is the longest damn table we could find here at the Throng & Song that could seat everyone. Brant is near him with his girl too, and though he’s always had one girl or another by his side for all the years I’ve known him, I know this one’s going to be around for a while. It’s something about the way he looks into her eyes and how she seems to have none of it, not easily impressed, keeping him on his toes and smirking knowingly when he tries one of his signature Brant moves. She’s a keeper, that take-no-nonsense attitude tells me.
Sam has been oddly quiet. And I don’t mean that in some sort of humorous ironic sort of way, considering I’m deaf. I can tell when someone seems off or doesn’t seem to be engaging in the conversation at the table. She’s been picking at her nails and eyeing her boyfriend a lot, who sits there like a lump on a log as he chats across the table with Eric about something I can’t quite make out—their lips are moving too fast to read.
As I kick back and watch my friends, I start to muse about what they’re discussing. I’m guessing Dmitri is telling Eric and his girl all about the story he’s working on—maybe it’s about a world where everyone’s bisexual and no one has to second-guess whether or not a dude or a chick is into them; everyone just goes for it—but no matter what his story entails, the girl at his side seems more interested in carefully selecting each nacho she pulls from her basket, daintily plucking them with her index finger and thumb, then eating them in tiny bites. It takes her six nibbles to eat one damn nacho—I counted.
Dmitri finally meets my eyes after finishing a point he was apparently trying to make—which Eric seems to have lost interest in, judging from the roll of his eyes and the crossing of his arms. Dmitri smiles and lifts his hands, signing at me: How are you doing? Have you eaten?
Knowing that he, ironically, wouldn’t be able to hear me if I spoke, considering the usual noise and loudness of this place, I lift my hands and sign back at him: Not hungry. Have you seen Dessie?
An odd look crosses his face before he swallows hard, itches his nose, then replies: No. I’m sure she’ll be here soon. When do you guys leave? Brant wanted to throw you guys a going-away party.
His peculiar behavior doesn’t go unnoticed, but I ignore it for now and reply: End of the summer.
He’s talking about when Dessie and I leave for New
York. The truth is, I’m terrified to go. Sure, I’ve been there a number of times with Dessie—twice at Christmas to see her family, once last summer, once in the spring—but every time I go, I feel like I’m visiting a new city. It never seems the same, as if the city itself is some giant temperamental organism that thrives and writhes restlessly, never settling. I sometimes look at my lighting designs that way: always struggling to find the right angle, to spill the right way on the stage, to color and accent the actors in just the right balance of vibrant and muted lights. Maybe New York City is the perfect place for us and I’m just slow to see it.
All this anxiety in my stomach, though … I know it all goes away when I’m with Dessie. No matter the obstacle, no matter the fears that grab at your feet the farther you try to climb in life, when she’s at my side, I feel fucking boundless. She’s my strength and she knows it. I wish I could give her half as much as what she’s given me. I can’t even begin to imagine how much differently my life would be right now without her in it.
With these thoughts floating through my head, I catch myself looking up, studying the lighting instruments that hang above and are used to light the modest stage upon which the band—and eventually tonight, Dessie—perform on. I observe them thoughtfully, trying to predict which ones are used for what, and how I might arrange them differently had I been involved at all in the design choices this restaurant slash piano bar employs.
Just then, I notice a lighting instrument that seems slightly out of place. It seems to have a strange gobo installed—if I’m looking at it correctly. Gobos are basically stencils placed inside or in front of an instrument to control the shape of the light that shines out of it. I squint at that gobo, trying to make out its shape. Maybe it’s something the band uses. Maybe it’s their logo or something.