Draw the Line Read online

  For my parents, with their dazzling superpowers of unconditional love

  And for Chris, whose superhuman strength carries me through the darkest clouds into the brightest sun

  “He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster.”

  —FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE

  “Every line tells its own story, even the very tentative ones.”

  —GILLIAN REDWOOD

  “These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”

  —OBI-WAN KENOBI

  I SHOULD HAVE BEEN BORN with an owner’s manual.

  You know the WARNING page at the beginning that mentions all the dangers? This morning I’ve got a new one to add to the growing list that would come with mine: Don’t let nerd boy cut his own hair. I could add: at 3 freakin’ a.m. on a school night, but really, any time would have been a bad idea.

  They say that everything always looks better in the morning. Well, they lie. As I blink through this 7:something a.m. sunlight blaring through my bathroom window, all I see in the mirror is irreparable damage and, over on my drawing table, the art inspiration for my hair massacre.

  When it’s late at night and the world finally leaves me alone, I shut my bedroom door, settle down, and draw. People talk about how when they smoke pot or take some other crap or whatever, they go somewhere else in their head. Well, the feel of a 3B pencil skimming across the paper’s surface, trying to control that tiny resistance to the graphite leaving its mark, lifts me up . . . to a world I create. That’s my zone.

  I completely escape.

  So there I was last night with my best pencils and inking pens all lined up, an epic video game soundtrack in my headphones, plenty of Dr Pepper at the ready, and my calico cat, Harley Quinn, asleep under my drawing table lamp. She was kinda curled up right smack in the way, but that’s okay. We understand each other.

  I started sketching and, after a couple hours, was speeding along on drawing a new comic panel of my secret superhero creation: Graphite.

  I set up a website for him a couple years ago, which has a nice little following out there. But it’s anonymous. Just two people on earth know the site’s mine, and my only two friends would never tell a soul.

  Crafting the details of my world takes time, so I don’t update the site very often. But when I do finish a comic sequence it’s cause for whoopin’ it up or, it seems, grabbing the nearest scissors.

  I was so loving how I’d drawn Graphite’s hair to flip up in such a perfect way that, in my caffeinated, sugared-up, sleep-deprived stupor, I lost it. Possessed by this delusional superhero side of me, I just knew I could re-create that hair on myself . . . with craft scissors. Actually, with slightly-rusted-and-gummed-up-with-bits-of-tape craft scissors (even though my good pair was just a drawer away).

  Starting with my bangs, I was soon snipping along, moving around the sides. I may be a good artist, but hair is a tricky material, especially when one is being an idiot. It went scary wrong. So in my continued brilliance I set out to “fix” what I’d already done by tiptoeing around and searching for Dad’s electric hair buzzer. I found it. My repair job didn’t quite work out how I’d hoped.

  So basically, in the middle of the night I became a toddler.

  And here I am now, applying globs of hair goop from every container I have and that I could sneak out of Mom’s bathroom after she left for work. But all this stuff only darkens my copper-brown hair more, making the missing chunks scream out.

  I need hair cement, but I got nothin’! What’s thick and sticky . . . maybe toothpaste? Stupid, I know, but I’m desperate. Hey, yeah, it kinda works. Oh, god, no it doesn’t. It just adds glittery blue sparkles.

  CRAP!

  From my bed, C-3PO’s muffled voice moans, “We’re doomed!” Digging through the sheets, I find my phone.

  Text from Audrey: Hey boy, just seeing ur text from . . . 3AM!?! U = certifiable. WTF!?!?! Howz the new do?

  I roll my shoulders, which pop, then type: I’m very talented. Wait till u see in person.

  Audrey: Lordy. I’m scared. Those selfies u sent would wake the dead - which you look like.

  Me: YOU’RE scared?!

  Audrey: What were u thinking, Adrian? You’re 16, not 6. Shoulda consulted with me first. You need a fashion chaperone.

  Me: If u say so

  Audrey: Chill. Maybe not so bad in person? & after all, you’re the superhero, Graphite Boy.

  Yeah, right.

  I type: See you before first period?

  Audrey: If i can apply my face in time!

  Me: ok

  Well, what did I expect from her? She’s never even had one strand of hair out of place, much less sculpted a topographical map on her own head.

  How’d it get to be almost time to go? I’ve gotta hurry.

  Dammit, I’m better than this! I’m so careful about blending into the background—how’d I slip up like this?

  I dump my whole shirt drawer on the bed and apply what I know about color psychology. Blue is true, white is pure, red is angry or sexy. Purple is regal and commanding. Maybe I still have that purple T-shirt? Here it is. . . . Oh, yeah. With Super Grover crashing into a streetlamp printed on it. Not so commanding. I toss it to the floor.

  The mound-o-shirts moves and a pair of jade eyes peers at me from between the folds.

  “Comfy?” I say. Harley Quinn blinks at me.

  That’s it: camouflage. I don’t mean the army kind, too aggressive. I need the animal kind that blends into its surroundings to avoid predators. The school lockers are taxi yellow, the hallway tile is navy blue, the cafeteria is eggshell white, so, what . . . plaid? This is insane.

  I go for my usual smoky gray, psychologically meaning death, depression, and nothingness.

  To a gray T-shirt, I add faded jeans, cheap old sneakers, and a gray hoodie . . . my almost-perfect cloak of high school invisibility. Like any good freak superhero wannabe, I’m an expert at fading into the background. However, I’m neither super nor hero. Just freak.

  My drawing table is piled up like a crime scene, so I shove everything into my mess-of-a-desk. Oh, god, not this? In the bottom drawer I uncover the piece I entered in that Freshman Art Show two years ago. It was my best work way back then. I called it Renaissance Hero. I worked so freakin’ hard on it, but it didn’t win anything. Instead, some a-hole vandalized it, scrawling across it what other kids always thought of my art. I never showed anything at school again.

  In fact, that was the last time I signed my name on my art.

  And now I’m about to waltz into school with my latest masterpiece . . . attached to the top of my head.

  I put my old, defaced drawing back, cover it up with stuff, and shut the desk drawer. Then I tuck away last night’s Graphite drawing between pages sixty-six and sixty-seven of Michelangelo at the Louvre. My parents wouldn’t think to look at my art books. Not that they’d even bother to come in here, but you never know.

  Why did I hang this Power to the Geek poster so high on the back of my bedroom door? Whenever I leave, Geek stares me right in the face. Like I need reminding.

  I replace Mom’s hair goop, and then up goes my hood and I hustle down the hall, past the gallery of old framed photos of little-kid me. My stomach still gets queasy seeing the one of me squealing with Mom and Dad, taken as we plummeted down the big drop of that massive Six Flags roller coaster. Back then—when Dad used to be Dad and, well, we did things—we actually took family pictures.

  I stop and try to straighten the photo frame, but it just wants to hang crooked.

  So I dash to the front door, grab the knob, and yell, “Bye, Dad.”

  “Yup.” Dad twists in his recliner to glance at me from the living room, giving me his half-assed wave. I step outside and shut t
he door.

  Here we go.

  It may be October, but in Rock Hollow, this hometown slice-o-heaven, it’s still hot, and this hoodie over my head doesn’t help. Even though it’s a quick walk to school, I slip my backpack off my shoulders and carry it to avoid a lovely bag-shaped sweat stain.

  In picturesque places I’ve never been to, a few leaves on the ground at the beginning of fall probably mean a gorgeous, colorful autumn is on the way. But here, the horrific Texas summer drought has pretty much killed everything, so the dead leaves are just dead leaves, all starting to texture the front yards of sickly pea-green grass.

  One last corner to turn and . . . this is it. Glorious Rock Hollow High.

  I SQUINT AT THE STEEL-GRAY sky. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope. Oh, yes, I pray to Obi-Wan. If people knew, they might laugh, but he may actually listen to me. Unlike certain other divine beings . . . you know who you are.

  Passing a parked car in the school driveway, I catch a glimpse of myself in the window. It’s a faint reflection, but enough to see a sleep-deprived nerd in a drooped hoodie staring back.

  I take a deep breath and walk toward the main doors at my practiced don’t-notice-me pace as others zoom past. A couple guys greet each other with a “Whatup?” and a hefty arm punch.

  I. Do. Not. Understand. This. Species. Why would you hit someone to say hi?

  I check that my hood is up and join the flow as I climb the steps, scanning for a friendly face, not seeing any. Only two of those exist, really, but Audrey’s in front of a mirror somewhere, and Trent, my other friend, is the master of tardy.

  Once through the doors, I navigate the noisy crowd toward my locker and notice all the guys with “professionally” cut hair. No one else looks like some deranged five-year-old randomly attacked him in the night with a Weedwacker. Even though you get in trouble if you wear hats or hoodies in school, I gotta keep this hood up as long as I can.

  Ow! Someone bumps me in the elbow with their backpack.

  “Huh?” A girl I don’t know turns around. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t see you.”

  Good.

  “No prob—,” I say, but she’s already moved on.

  I keep going.

  Like a giant sponge, Rock Hollow High absorbs kids from three suburbs, so every day I see faces I don’t know, and who don’t know me. Though I doubt even some kids I’ve gone to school with since birth would know my name.

  Oh, boy, I sure know these two faces, though. Doug is cruising in this direction, his telltale keychain jangling from his belt loop. Even with shoe squeaks and locker slams bouncing off the walls, those keys have a distinct pitch. And Buddy, his suck-up lackey, trails right behind.

  Not only is Doug Richter massive—he’s so solid it’s like he has no neck, with his head sitting right on his shoulders—he’s a super-talented football player. Evidently. I wouldn’t really know since I’ve never been forced to go to a game, praise Obi-Wan.

  People veer out of his way, except for some giggling girls and the school security guard, who does a fist bump with Doug as he passes. It’s hard to tell where Doug’s looking with that raggedy red trucker cap he always wears pulled down so low over his eyes. Of course, he can wear whatever the hell he wants. At Rock Hollow, when you’re big on the football team you’re about as big as Jesus. And in these parts, nothing is bigger than that.

  Doug’s little leech is on “the team” too, but Buddy is a sucky player. He hasn’t been kicked off only because he’s fearless and will go after anyone or anything to get the ball. And once he has it, he protects it as viciously as Gollum guards his precious. Or so I’ve heard.

  Doug lumbers by me as Buddy, in his usual Rock Hollow Saber Cats jacket, yaps away. They don’t even glance in my direction.

  Good. This hoodie seems to work—my own cloaking device.

  I make it to my locker. Someone’s taped up orange flyers all over saying:

  Don’t Forget: HALLOWEEN HOEDOWN, Oct 29th!!!

  See a member of the Pep Club to volunteer.

  COSTUMES ENCOURAGED, Y’ALL!

  Good to know where I won’t be on October 29th. But if it were now instead of a few weeks away, I could just blend in with the zombies.

  A couple of teachers head my way, so I ease down my hood. As far as I can tell, no one notices my hair.

  Seven minutes to class. As soon as the teachers pass and turn the corner, I pull my hood up again. Taking my time, I put things away, grab what I need for French, and shut my locker door. As the five-minute bell rings, I survey the hall, but it’s clear I’m still invisible as usual.

  I have just enough time to check my site.

  You’re not supposed to use phones in the hall, blah blah blah, but I go to my Graphite website. I’m a little obsessive—I check my comments all the time—but hey. I’d much rather be in Graphite’s world.

  Someone behind me laughs. Just some loud girls walking by.

  I face the lockers and drop my backpack on the floor between my feet. Come on, “global network.” This crap phone’s so slow. I look over my shoulder, but no one’s even remotely looking my way.

  I got some new posts. One’s from BigGreenBro, who always likes my stuff, asking, How do you draw muscles so good? I almost reply, You can learn a lot on porn sites, but instead type, You just have to study the body and how it moves.

  BigGreenBro always has positive comments. I figure he must draw too. Or she? Well, a girl wouldn’t call herself Bro, but what do I know?

  A comment from Anonymous says what’s up with the lame-ass costume? what are those ribbony things? welcome to the 21st century. Real sweet. Delete. And then one from phaserstud, who always thinks it necessary to say I should draw tits, which is so annoying since Graphite’s gay.

  Bam!

  I clutch my phone to my chest. Just someone slamming a locker.

  Breathe, Adrian.

  Now that I have muscles on my mind, I hunch over even more and scan my gallery page for my favorite drawing, which I still can’t believe I posted, even though my name is nowhere on my site. Graphite, kneeling in the Trevi Fountain, is shirtless and, well, wet. Very. That was fun to draw. And research. It may be time for another inspired work like—“Hey!”

  Someone plows into my left side. My phone flies out of my hand and hits the wall with a crack! I spin around. “What—”

  “Sorry! Not my fault!” It’s that senior drama kid, Kobe, his spiky bleached-out hair at full attention.

  Behind him is Doug’s pet asswipe, Buddy, gangly and wiry and always switched on. He kicks at Kobe’s pointy purple boots. “Hey, homo, don’t go shovin’ people like that. Ain’t ladylike.” Buddy motions to push him into someone else, then smirks as Kobe flinches.

  Backed against the lockers, Kobe glares. “Really? This is how you ask me on a date? Roses work better, ya know.”

  “What’d you say, faggot?” Buddy spits out the words.

  I step to the side. Rubbing my shoulder, I glance at the floor and spot my phone. Crap. Between it and me is Doug, arms crossed. He doesn’t look at me, though, and no one seems to notice my phone.

  From under that dirty red cap, Doug eyes Buddy, then glances around. Even with everyone rushing to first period, a few people hang back and watch the scene. How come there’s no teacher in sight?

  Kobe turns to go, but Buddy grabs his arm and swings him. Kobe trips and falls into Doug’s chest.

  “What the—” Doug shoves him off. I jump out of the way as Kobe hits the floor hard.

  He scrambles to get up and screams at Doug, “Get away, you damn cow pussy.”

  Buddy gapes at Doug. “Holy shit! Did he just call you a damn cow pussy?”

  Some guy nearby goes, “Whoa, dude said that to Doug?”

  “Is that even a thing?” someone asks.

  “Oh, man.” Buddy shakes his head and smiles at Kobe. “So much for you, little bitch.” He steps aside to give Doug room. More kids gather around.

  Another guy next to me says, “This ough
ta be good.”

  Good?

  I try to blend in with the lockers. I check around but can’t just slink away or pick up my phone.

  With all eyes on him, Doug scans up and down the hall, inhales, and steps toward Kobe. “You need to shut your fuckin’ mouth.”

  Kobe’s eyes dart from Doug to Buddy. Then to me. I freeze. The fear in Kobe’s eyes stops my breath.

  Buddy looks at me. “Ha!” He barks out a laugh and points at my head. “What the fuck happened to you?”

  Crap! My hoodie fell back. “Nothing,” I try to say, but my throat won’t work.

  Doug turns his focus to me.

  With quick strokes, I smooth down my hair as best as I can. My face is on fire.

  Using the moment, Kobe dashes down the hall through the crowd. Buddy spins and takes off after him.

  As Doug turns to follow them, I eye my phone, a few feet away by the heating vent. He notices and, with his stupid keychain clanking against his hip, walks toward it.

  “Hey,” I mumble, “that’s mine—” and I trip over my backpack and fall on my ass. A few gawkers laugh.

  Doug reaches for my phone.

  Out of nowhere, big black leather boots stomp over and kick my phone. It slides under the heating vent, into the wall. Gone.

  Only one person wears boots like that. All six foot three inches of him, skinny, dressed head to toe in goth black, cascades of silver chains jangling from his belt, and looking bored. Trent. Man, am I glad to see him.

  “What the hell’s your deal?” Doug draws out the words. But Trent just stares down at him, his face blank.

  Doug grunts. “Freak.” Then he heads off in Buddy’s direction.

  Trent helps me stand.

  “I can get up,” I say.

  He hands me my backpack. “El haircut-o no work-o, I take it?” he says.

  Turning my back to the dispersing crowd, I say, “Trent, why the hell did you kick my phone into the vent?”

  “Favor, dude.”

  “Favor? Really?”

  He rolls his eyes. “No time to reach it. At least piss brain doesn’t have it, does he?” He motions down the hall where Doug went.