Harmonious Hearts 2019--Stories from the Young Author Challenge

by Ryan Almroth

  It’d be romantic, magical, and perfect.

  This isn’t the right place, the right time, or the right boy. But…. Gavin’s right. It’s the game. He’s made his bed, and now he must lie in it.

  Ethan doesn’t look at Julian when he leans toward Gavin, doesn’t glance over at him when he presses their lips together. His heart practically screams in outrage, feeling as if it leaps out of his chest and jumps into the hands of the boy watching them with nothing but betrayal and anger in his big, beautiful brown eyes.

  Gavin’s lips are chapped, rough against Ethan’s, and unpleasantly salty. Ethan feels like it’d be the exact opposite with Julian, like he’d be kissing clouds instead of sandpaper.

  When he pulls away, he doesn’t even have a full moment to settle back in his seat before Julian’s standing up, muttering out something unintelligible. Julian clamps his long fingers around Ethan’s wrist and pulls him up, away from the group, and toward the stairs.

  JULIAN DOESN’T release his hold on Ethan until they’re up the stairs, through the hall, and up on the second level. He slams a door behind them both, sealing them in an undisturbed bedroom, his teeth clenched and a dark fury overtaking his eyes the likes of which seems impossible for someone his age to muster. Ethan watches uneasily, able to imagine Julian as a ticking bomb set to go off at just the wrong breath.

  Julian glares daggers into the carpet beneath their feet, chewing furiously on his thumb. Ethan takes a deep breath, thinking if he doesn’t say something now, the floor will just spontaneously combust from Julian’s anger.

  “Jules…,” he starts, his tone soft and gentle as if he were speaking to a wounded animal, “talk to me. What’s wrong?”

  Julian laughs, actually laughs, at that, the sound empty and unfeeling. He looks back to Ethan in disbelief.

  “You kiss another boy right in front of me, and you ask me what’s wrong?” Julian scoffs, rolling his eyes. He turns fully to face him, crossing his arms over his chest. When he finally meets Ethan’s gaze, the anger dissipates ever so slightly, replaced by pain.

  “I know you’re not stupid, E,” Julian begins, his gaze dropping once more, as if unable to look at Ethan as he goes on. “I know you’ve got to know how I feel about you, even if I’ve never said it…. Hell, when Sawyer said you had a crush on someone, I thought maybe, just maybe, you’d finally woken up and realized how right we are for each other! But, no, I guess I was wrong. I guess Gavin’s the one you like? I mean, you were so eager to kiss him, I can only assume—”

  “I don’t like Gavin,” Ethan is quick to assure him, shaking his head. This shuts Julian up, his eyes narrowing to mere slits. He doesn’t seem as if he quite believes it, his shoulders drawn up with tension. Ethan hesitantly takes a step forward, gulping thickly. “I… I was going to tell you the other day, but Sawyer talked me out of it. He didn’t mean to, but I guess I just psyched myself out….”

  “Tell me what?” Julian demands. Ethan sees then so clearly the hope in Julian’s eyes. It’s the same hope he’d see in his own gaze every time he’d get ready for school, fantasize about telling Julian his true feelings. The same hope that’s giving him a sense of grounding now. Ethan pauses, taking a steadying breath, the slowest breath in all the world, before he gently reaches forward to touch one of Julian’s hands.

  “I like you, Julian,” Ethan tells his best friend, his voice steady despite the heavy truth it carries. He gives a small half smile, the anxiety of being rejected clear in his eyes. “I just… I didn’t think you felt the same way, and I didn’t want to ruin us, so I thought keeping it to myself would be best.”

  “Then why’d you kiss Gavin?” Julian demands, refusing to just melt into a puddle at the first word. His shoulders drop, though, a relieved sigh escaping through his nose. But, the hesitant look in his eyes says he clearly doesn’t want to let Ethan off the hook quite yet.

  “Because… it was the game,” Ethan says lamely, an unspoken apology in his voice. “I only agreed that we should play it because I thought Sawyer had figured out a way to get it to land on you and me. I don’t think it landing on Gavin was part of the plan at all.”

  Julian sighs through his mouth this time, dropping his arms to grip on to Ethan’s hands as he steps closer. He fills the space between them, peering down at Ethan due to their different heights. His dark eyes twinkle down at Ethan, and he feels like he can barely breathe.

  “So you… wanna kiss me?” Julian says, a teasing lilt to his voice as he smirks. Ethan chuckles breathily, humming in affirmation. He brings a shaking hand up to cup Julian’s cheek, and the boy leans into the touch. Ethan ignores how his heart hammers so hard it hurts his chest, stretching up on his tiptoes to press a small kiss to Julian’s lips. Instead, their noses bump into each other, and both boys share a short chuckle before Julian leans down farther, tilting his head to the side and giving Ethan the perfect access point.

  Ethan had been right before. Kissing Julian is like kissing a cloud, or maybe cotton candy. His lips are soft and sweet, just like the boy they belong to.

  Julian opens his eyes after the kiss, smiling the widest, brightest smile Ethan’s ever seen on his face. Ethan can’t help but laugh, more air than sound. He leans up, looping his arms around Julian’s neck to keep him close. Julian’s arms snake around his waist, resting his forehead against his with affection shining in his gaze.

  “I like you too, E,” Julian finally says, his breath a whisper against Ethan’s lips. “I like you a lot.” Ethan can’t help but chuckle, petting at the hair at the nape of Julian’s neck.

  “Ditto, beanpole.”

  Julian snickers at the familiar nickname, shaking his head before leaning in for another kiss. The party music plays on under their feet, but neither boy hears it, stuck in their own little bubble of happiness.

  TWO WEEKS later, on a Wednesday, the boys sit at their usual lunch table: Gavin and Sawyer on one side and Ethan and Julian on the other. Ethan’s unpacking his and Julian’s lunches, three-layer sandwiches with carrot sticks, kimchi, and soup. Julian hums in appreciation as his boyfriend opens the thermos containing the soup, the steam billowing out most pleasantly.

  “I’m almost done with Asia,” Ethan reports, a bit breathless from excitement. “Once I am, I think I’ll start learning some of the staple Indian recipes.” Julian pouts at this, leaning against him.

  “You know I can’t handle spices well, E,” he somewhat whines, nuzzling his hair against Ethan’s cheek. “How am I supposed to eat lunch if you start making what I can’t eat?”

  “I’m not cooking for you, beanpole,” Ethan retorts, his tone playful. “I just happen to make too much, and—”

  “You’re dating now, Ethan,” Sawyer quips from the other side of the table, earning a light chuckle from Gavin. “It’s okay for you to outright cook for your boyfriend now.” Ethan shoots Sawyer a glare for interrupting their banter, though Julian just smiles as he presses closer to Ethan. Just having it pointed out that they’re dating now seems to make him endlessly happy.

  “Did I ask for your input? No?” Ethan nags, waving a plastic fork in Sawyer’s direction. “Then don’t give it.”

  “Sorry, can’t help it,” Sawyer quips back as he slurps up some greasy cafeteria pizza. “Your honeymoon phase is just actually making me wanna hurl.”

  Ethan purses his lips in dismay and lurches forward as if to argue, but Julian only sets a hand on his knee, and the touch causes him to ease. Ethan visibly relaxes, glancing at his boyfriend. He gives a meek smile before returning to getting the food out, not wanting to waste a moment.

  RHIANNON LEE began coming up with stories in her head when she was a small child entertaining herself with her dolls, and she has cultivated that into a lifelong passion for writing. Now, she is a young writer based in northern Louisiana. She is a literature student at Northwestern State University. Here, she helps lead the Demon Writers’ Guild as vice president and has been published via their online publication Demonic Verses. She
is a strong believer in equal rights for all, and she hopes that through her writing she can help bridge the gap to younger readers believing that as well. She can be found on Twitter @RhiannonLeeV and Tumblr @rhiannonleewrting.

  Make a Note of It

  By Abigail FitzGibbon

  Pretty, mysterious, magical María Arellano cries tears of ink and can tattoo someone with a touch, and Cora Armstrong thinks about her more than she probably should. When they’re partnered for an art project, Cora gets the chance to ask María some of the questions she’s been wondering about—and to reveal a secret that might blend harmoniously with María’s greatest wish.

  THE GIRL who sits next to me in art class has ink in her veins.

  In her book bag, she carries a plastic switchblade, white except for the words SPECIAL AID stamped in red on the flat of the knife. When she presses its tip into her finger—usually her middle, though sometimes her index or ring—a bead of blackness wells up, and when she touches her finger to paper, lines unfurl like a time-lapse drawing video.

  She always finishes her pieces before everyone else.

  HERE ARE the things I know about her:

  Her name is María Arellano.

  She doesn’t speak or sign. Instead, she writes notes in copperplate cursive on a pad of paper, carrying around a new one every week. It seems like a whiteboard would be easier, but maybe her ink isn’t dry-erase.

  If you sidle up to her by the water fountain during lunch and flash her fifty bucks, she’ll meet you in the back alley after school. When she touches you, ink flows onto your skin: quick, painless, permanent. It’s the only time she touches anybody. Carmen from my algebra class went to her last month, and hiked up her pant leg the next day to show me the monochrome morning glory vine twining around her ankle. I spent the whole period wondering what María’s skin would feel like—whether the ink beneath her skin makes her cool to the touch, or if, in defiance of all logic, her blood runs hot.

  She sits near the back of American History, on the fringes of the goth group, although the blackness of her nails and lips and veins is not artificial. Earbuds in, she slumps over the top of the desk until her eyes are barely visible above her crossed forearms.

  Her tears are ink too.

  IT’S NOT that I have a crush on María, not exactly. She’s not the star of all my daydreams or the girl who sent me spiraling into my bisexual crisis (that honor belongs to Sherah Leóng, captain of the girls’ volleyball team and owner of a really nice pair of calves). It’s just sometimes that in art class, it’s hard not to sneak peeks at the line of her jaw and the curve of her eyelashes. And sometimes when I’ve finished my history quiz fifteen minutes early, my eyes drift to María’s reflection in the window, tracing the line of her back as she hunches over the paper and bites her lower lip in concentration. And on some sleepless nights, when I stare up at the ceiling and wonder about things like why racists and homophobes can’t just mind their own business, and why the sandwiches at the Subway across town are so much better than the ones at the Subway two blocks over, I also wonder what it would take to make María laugh.

  It’s funny; it seems like the question that would be the easiest to answer, but somehow, it also seems like the most impossible one.

  Until it’s not.

  WHEN OUR “facial portraits” project is announced in art, there is a tiny part of me that hopes partners will be chosen by last name, same as seating arrangements—Arellano and Armstrong. Most of me just hopes that, by some incredible stroke of luck, the assignment will be canceled entirely. Or better yet, my counselor will tell me he’s finally managed to fix the scheduling mishap that landed me in Art and Design II instead of Marine Biology in the first place.

  But instead, the teacher announces that we will choose our own partners, and María turns to me and raises her eyebrows expectantly.

  I stare at her stupidly until she spells it out for me. Want to work together, Cora?

  “Uh. Sure. Yes. Yeah, that’d be great. Thank you.”

  Okay. You live on Elks Avenue, right?

  “Um, yeah. In the yellow house with the treehouse out front.”

  Great. I’ll come by at 4:30 so we can work.

  The bell rings, and María grabs her bag and sweeps out the door before I can ask her to wait.

  IT’S 3:45 when I ring the little bell installed by my sister’s soundproof door. It takes some time for her to respond—probably caught up in practicing—but eventually, the door swings open, and she signs, What is it?

  My little sister Serena has piano keys for teeth. Despite years of speech therapy, her speech impediment is so severe she prefers to use ASL. I don’t know what my parents expected; they met in a jazz band, Mom on keyboard, Dad a vocalist. Everybody knows the odds when both of your parents are artists.

  “So,” I begin, “do you know María Arellano?”

  The girl with the ink?

  “Yeah. She’s coming over in half an hour. It’s for a project in art class.”

  Serena frowns. Did you ask Mom and Dad?

  “She’ll be gone before they get home.”

  They’d still want you to ask.

  “She’s coming over, Rena. I can’t tell her not to—I don’t have her number or anything. So why bother them about it?”

  Serena squints at me. Do my chores for a week, and I won’t tell them.

  I scowl at her, but we both know I’m relieved.

  Be careful, she signs, and shuts the door in my face before I have a chance to respond.

  I FINISH setting up the easels in the kitchen at 4:25. María arrives at 4:28.

  You want to go first, or should I? she asks, holding her pad of paper in one hand as she shrugs out of her coat. My mouth goes dry when I realize she’s changed out of her usual sweatshirt and ripped jeans, and into a daisy-patterned sundress that shows enough leg to make me avert my eyes on instinct.

  When I drag my eyes back up to her face, she’s staring at me with one eyebrow arched, and I realize I never answered her question. “Oh! Uh, rock-paper-scissors you for it?”

  María blinks, then smirks. She has to put her pad down to ready her hands, but I can read one thing in her expression as clearly as if it were written across her forehead: “Bring it.”

  Her confidence, however, appears to slip just a tad when my rock crushes her scissors into oblivion.

  She grabs her pad again. Best two out of three.

  My paper settles smugly over her rock. We tie on the third round with double scissors, and because I am a young woman of taste and class, I do not make a scissoring joke about it. Instead, I merely match her smirk, gesture to the easels and say, “Whenever you’re ready.”

  She rolls her eyes. Go stand by the window so I can get some decent lighting.

  When she turns her drawing around for me to see a few minutes later, I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or pleased or surprised. She captured my flaws—close-set eyes, protruding chin, the uneven slope of my nose—but didn’t exaggerate them. It’s unmistakably me, but the likeness isn’t so uncanny that I’m about to mistake it for a mirror. Anyone with some talent could have drawn it.

  My sketch of her, however, is another matter. Fifteen minutes in, I have tried and failed to capture her face shape five times, each attempt newly and uniquely awful.

  Do you want to take a break? she writes.

  “I want to not have to do this,” I mutter, rubbing my blurring eyes.

  No offense taken, I’m sure.

  “No! No, it’s not because of you, I’m just—”

  She’s smirking.

  “Ugh. You know I’m awful at art. You’ve had to see my stuff for the last month. So why’d you ask to work with me?”

  She shrugs. Not like I’m getting graded on your piece. Why’d you say yes?

  “Why would I say no?”

  Her eyes are unreadable. You could be scared of me.

  I think about the reports about bullying they made us read in sophomore year health class. The pr
oportion of Gifted youth who report feeling unsafe in their school: 82 percent. Some places are better than others for visibly Gifted people, but our school isn’t one of them. Last year, some people cornered a freshman with colored pencil fingertips and sharpened them down to the bone. “Why would I be the one who’s scared of you?”

  When María’s shoulders start to shake, it takes me a second to understand that she’s laughing.

  You’re the only person who’s ever said that.

  “It seems pretty obvious.” The only truly prevalent Gifted violence is self-destruction. I mean, you hear about the crazy cases, but I can’t really picture María leading a cult.

  So you’d think. Are you going to keep drawing me?

  “You say that like I didn’t give up ten minutes ago.”

  Then talk to me.

  “About what?”

  She tilts her head like she’s sizing me up. I’ll give you a pass. You can ask me three dumb questions. No more. No less.

  I hesitate, wondering if it’s some kind of test, but my curiosity is bigger than my caution. “Why do you cut yourself to draw but not to write?”

  Drawing uses more ink.

  “Then why don’t you cut yourself for tattoos?”

  Do you know exactly why your body does what it does, Cora? It just works like that. Anything else?

  “Why don’t you talk?”

  María throws back her head and opens her mouth wide. Where one might expect to see a tongue, a pen nib glints silver.

  Haltingly—I’m much better at interpreting ASL than speaking—I raise my hands and ask, Do you sign?