Draw the Line Read online

  They have no idea I’ve created superhero versions of them. Maybe I’ll share those, someday, but I bet it’d freak them out. The only way to see someone, truly see someone, is to draw them. Drawing makes you study every aspect . . . understand a person’s essence.

  But they might not like what I see in them.

  Hey, a new comment pops up. From BigGreenBro: Really like your latest comics and how you draw. What’s next?

  Wow. That’s the first time anyone’s asked for more. Awesome.

  I reply. Graphite: Thanks for asking. More coming soon!

  BigGreenBro: Cool.

  I’ve tried in the past to find out who BigGreenBro could be, since he’s one of the few who leaves positive comments. He’s anonymous but has a page of his own on the DeviantArt site. But nothing’s posted—no art, no bio, no photo, no comments. Just a lurker, I guess.

  Graphite: You an artist too?

  BigGreenBro: Kinda. Don’t draw so good. And still in high school.

  Graphite: Yeah? Me too.

  Damn. Why’d I post that? Stupid! And my comments page is public so anyone can see.

  BigGreenBro: Cool. Thought so.

  Really? Gotta end this.

  Graphite: Later

  Why the hell did I do that? I get up and pace. Sure, he could be a teen, but he could also be some sixty-year-old pervert.

  Harley paws my leg. “Maow!”

  “Okay okay.” I twirl her ribbon and she pounces.

  I go ahead and delete the conversation, then log off.

  No harm done, I guess. I list no personal info anywhere on my site. I could be in Australia for all anyone knows. And maybe he really is just another teen?

  All right, enough of the outside world. Time to draw.

  I put on a Little Big Planet game soundtrack and kiss Harley on her tiny head.

  For inspiration, I like to look at my boyfriend. He’s Italian and his name is Bindo Altoviti. He’s hot, mysterious, and much older than me. Oh, and he’s dead. Pulling out Renaissance Portraits: The Bold and the Beautiful, I find him. Page forty-four. My Renaissance Hottie. So he died in the 1500s, big deal. A guy can dream. Raphael painted him to look so gorgeous, with those full lips, intense gaze, cascading hair—

  Hair. Oh, yeah. Don’t need the reminder of how drawing hair started this whole suck of a day. I flip the book shut and pull out my reference photos of my favorite palace, the Château de Chambord in France. A. Freakin. Maze. Ing. It has the craziest roof, filled with towers and spires like a whole little city in the sky. So, of course, Graphite’s Moon Palace already has a lot of that, but I think it’s time for a few more towers.

  As soon as I switch on my drawing lamp, Harley leaps up to her spot on my table and becomes a purring ball-o-fur. I pin my reference printouts to my corkboard in front of me and start to sketch. My ancient, taped-together pencil sharpener sounds like an airplane taking off, but that doesn’t disturb Harley. Her little ears do that radar turn thing, but she’s already in her zone.

  These new towers will be tricky. To get perspective right, you have to put yourself there in your mind and look at it from different angles. This is why I don’t sketch on the computer. With paper you can literally scratch the surface. Dig in. And when you erase something the paper still shows what you tried.

  I sketch it like you’re walking along one of the garden paths, spires and monoliths towering above. No, not like that. Ugh. This eraser’s almost down to the end.

  I used to trace other people’s art, and sometimes I still do. You can learn so much by copying something amazing. I once got a library book with every figure in the Sistine Chapel blown up big and spent an entire week tracing each page, over and over. Wow. Michelangelo sure knew how to draw smokin’-hot guys! Holy crap. With flowing fabric. And those faces, so intense. And the hands. And muscles. Mind-blowing. Those are some superheroes!

  I keep trying to draw muscles and bodies like he did. Once in a while I find Graphite starts looking like a hot floating saint.

  Uh-oh, now these roof spires are starting to look like Michelangelo’s arms and legs. Or other body parts. Oh, my god. I’ve pretty much just sketched an entire roof garden of penises.

  Hmmm . . . I don’t think Graphite’s palace needs a garden like that. I turn to a blank page and start—

  BEEEP! BEEEP!

  Harley lifts her head and yawns. Some annoying car horn. It must be the neighbor’s dog in the street again, blocking the way.

  BEEEEEEP!

  Oh, come on. Fine. I get up and pull open the curtain to see what’s the fuss and—

  Huh? It’s Audrey.

  Oh, man! Six p.m. Haircut.

  Crap!

  BEEEP! BEEEEEP!

  Okay okay! I wave at Audrey through the window to stop her laying on the horn.

  I tuck away my sketchpad and art stuff, throw water on my face, grab my wallet and my phone (oh, yeah—never mind), reach the front door—then freeze. Why did I agree to this haircut? Not too late to back out, right?

  But another horn blast gets me outside and now I’m in the world again.

  A few dead leaves blow around in the gutter from the exhaust of Audrey’s purring black Beemer, named Athena, after the Greek goddess of wisdom and courage—her favorite. As I drag myself toward the car, Audrey looks over from the driver’s seat and her eyes get wide. Like she’s shooing flies, she flaps her hands at me, knocking the tiny toy high heels that dangle from the rearview mirror. She then turns off the car, flings open the door, and leaps out.

  “No, no, no! Step away from the vehicle!” She strides around the front of the car to face me on the sidewalk. “Turn.” She rotates her finger.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  I get a hands-on-hips I-ain’t-budging-till-you-do-as-I-say glare.

  “This is idiotic,” I say, but spin around.

  “What am I gonna do with you? I’m takin’ you to a nice salon, ya know. Did you get dressed in the dark again?”

  I look to the heavens. “Can we just go?”

  She surveys me up and down, glaring at the clothes I changed into after school. “Raggedy ol’ sweatpants? Ripped concert T-shirt? You wear this in public?”

  “First of all,” I explain, “this is not a concert T-shirt. It says ‘Trust Me, I’m a Jedi’—that’s not a band. Secondly, this is Rock Hollow, Texas, not Milan, Italy.”

  I should comment on how overdressed she is in her purple cashmere sweater, satiny charcoal pants, glittery black pumps, and ever-present bling. But I know better. She may have the opposite of a model’s body, but she sure knows how to look good.

  “Adrian, underneath that frightening hair and all the nerdy, uh . . . well, that”—she gestures at my clothes—“you’re actually cute. Where’s your fashion gene? What kinda gay boy are you?”

  “Shut up! People can hear you.” I glance around at the neighbors’ empty front yards. My stomach tightens.

  She opens her arms. “Who? There isn’t anyone out here but us and the squirrels gatherin’ up their winter nuts.” She looks up at the oak tree by the sidewalk and points over to me. “Do you care if he’s gay?”

  “I said shut up!” I look back at my house and lower my voice. “You never know who’s around.” I head for the car and jump in.

  Settling back in the driver’s seat, she closes her door and gives me the Audrey Eye.

  I scan the neighbors’ houses. “Just because I like guys doesn’t mean I have to be all fashiony fabulous.”

  “I take it you’re not gonna change,” she says.

  I glare at her. “You know how I feel. I’m not a cliché. I am who I am.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I know that. I meant your clothes.”

  I buckle my seat belt. “Maybe I should consult your little squirrel friends on what to wear from now on.”

  “Worth a try.” She pulls away from the curb and we head up the street.

  With Audrey so stylish and me so, well . . . not, at first glance you wouldn’t think we
’d even know each other, much less be friends. But ever since a tornado drill back in fourth grade, we’ve clicked.

  During a drill, you’re supposed to sit along the hallway walls and tuck your head between your knees. I remember being in “the position” and looking up at this girl ranting about how there was “no way” she’d sit on “that filthy linoleum in this Gucci skirt!” Mrs. Caruth informed her, “Better to sit down and get a little dirty than have some funnel cloud come down and snatch up you and that little skirt.” The appalled look on Audrey’s face cracked me up. But when she replied, “Sorry, Gucci’s worth it,” I laughed so hard I started snorting. Once the all clear sounded we got hauled off to the principal’s office. No better way to bond than that.

  “Why are you staring at me?” Audrey says. We’re stopped at a red light.

  “Huh? Ohmygod!” I say. “Trent!”

  “Oh your god Trent what?”

  “We have to pick him up. I asked him to come too.”

  MEEEEEEEEP! The car behind us lays on its horn.

  “Simmer down! I see it’s green!” Audrey zooms ahead. “Wish you’d told me. You’re tryin’ my nerves, Adrian. We can’t be late—Patricia’s squeezing you in as a favor.”

  A favor? This wasn’t my idea.

  But in a few minutes we’re waiting outside Trent’s house. You’d think it wouldn’t take that long to get ready when your entire wardrobe is black. Applying eyeliner in a perfect goth way takes time, I know, but it’s dealing with his mom that holds him up. Audrey knows better than to honk here. Same with ringing the doorbell. So we wait.

  Audrey’s purple-manicured nails tap the steering wheel while she eyes me and the dashboard clock.

  “Fine.” I slip out of the car, and just as I’m tiptoeing up the front walk, Trent appears in the doorway.

  He nods at me. “ ’Sup?”

  Inside the house the TV blasts way too loud.

  “What’s your mom doing?” I say.

  “Screwing with my SOUL!” he yells, slamming the front door with a BAM!

  As we hustle down the front walk, I ask, “What did God tell her to do this time?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “She’ll be passed out soon.”

  I reach out to pat him on the back, but he doesn’t notice and glides by.

  I glance back at his house. It’s so long now since I’ve been inside. Must be over a year, just after his sister went to college, his dad dumped them all, and his mom got remarried to Jesus . . . and bourbon. Freaky to think his psycho mom’s the same woman who was my gung-ho Cub Scout den mother when we were little. Cub Scouts. Makes me shiver. At least Trent and I became friends before we both dropped out. Never joined a group since. Obi-Wan be praised.

  The front door opens and his mom steps out. Wow, I almost don’t recognize her. Eyelids half-mast and hair all jumbled, she clutches the front of her nightgown. Then she spots me. In slow motion, her face goes from pinched to fierce. She points right at me and spits out, “Not today, Satan. Not today!”

  I back up against the car.

  “Mom!” Trent says through gritted teeth. He glances at the neighbors’ quiet houses and dashes up to her, puts his hands on her shoulders. She knocks them away.

  “Mom, calm down. You’re tired.”

  Glaring at me, she says, “You will not go anywhere with that queer!”

  Trent stands to his full height, tilts his head down, and whispers in her ear. His mom scans the street and the neighbors’ yards, then slinks back inside. Trent follows.

  I jump into the backseat of the car and gape at wide-eyed Audrey. “What the hell?”

  She just shakes her head.

  Trent reappears in the doorway, alone. He pulls the front door shut with a soft click. Then he hurries to the car and folds himself into the front seat, shutting the car door. Audrey and I share a glance in the rearview mirror.

  Audrey accelerates and we zip along the street, the setting sun flashing with a strobe-light rhythm through the gaps between houses.

  Trent grips his knees and breaks the silence with “Welcome to my very own personal Kingdom on Earth.”

  Audrey shakes her head. “Lordy.”

  I lean forward, holding the back of Trent’s seat. “What was that about me and Satan?”

  He sighs. “She thinks you’ll turn me gay.”

  “You told her I’m gay?”

  “No. She figured it out for herself.” He swallows. “Sorry.”

  I touch his shoulder. “Trent, I’m sorry. I had no idea you—”

  “Can we just drop it?” He grabs Audrey’s phone from the cup holder and scans through her music. “Let’s move on, all right?”

  I sit back and try to wrap my head around what just happened.

  Unable to find any morose music, Trent shuts his eyes and taps Audrey’s screen at random. We’re jolted by some vapid, poppy, dancy tune that I know everyone’s supposed to love. But, as with most things, I’m hardly the target audience.

  Glancing sideways at Trent, Audrey attempts to lighten the mood and shimmies in her seat to the beat. “Now we’re talkin’!”

  Trent cracks a smile, breathes in deep, then exhales long and slow. How does he live with a mom like that?

  Although there’s no way I’m gonna shimmy, there is something pretty awesome about speeding along in a BMW with a kick-ass sound system, no matter what the music.

  After a while, Audrey’s phone dings. Trent lowers the music volume and says, “Hey, you got a text from the famous Patricia.”

  “Oh?” Audrey says. “Read it for me.”

  “ ‘Did your friend sign the death waiver? Can’t be sued again for accidental ear chopping.’ ”

  Audrey groans.

  “Ha, freakin’, ha,” I say.

  “Uh-oh, dude. Listen up: ‘SOOOOO sorry, but I’m swamped! Can’t cut your friend’s hair now, and weekend not looking good. SORRY!!!’ Then she put about a hundred little sad faces and pink hearts.”

  “No way!” I say. “Let me see.”

  He holds up the phone for me to read as Audrey pulls into a parking lot to stop and see for herself.

  “This sucks,” I say. “What am I gonna do?”

  Audrey texts her friend back, then tosses the phone to Trent. Squinting at my hair in the rearview mirror, she says, “We’ll figure out something.”

  “Like what?”

  Giving me a thumbs-up, Trent says, “Don’t change a thing, looks awesome.”

  Rolling her eyes, Audrey slaps his hand away and gets us onto Settlement Street again.

  Trent goes back to scanning Audrey’s music. “So . . . what now?”

  Although my drawing table pops into my head, my stomach has a different idea. “What’s for dinner at your house, Audrey?”

  “Parents’ Methodist church group and Bible study,” she says.

  “Noooooo thankee,” Trent says, playing another too-peppy song.

  Audrey eases to a stop at a red light. “We’re right near the mall. If Chili’s is too crowded there we could do the food court.”

  I jump. “I can’t go into the mall with my hair like this!”

  “Maybe Tito’s Taco Truck?” Trent says.

  I shake my head. “Not in the mood to eat outside.”

  Audrey sighs. “C’mon, now, it’s getting later and I’m in no mood to get pulled over for ‘Driving While Black.’ ”

  With no other easy eating options left—not at my or Trent’s house, for sure—I suggest Boo, our usual place. Happily, they agree. Not only is the food good and cheap, but Boo is laid-back and pretty dark inside.

  This is not at all the night I’d hoped for, but here we are—a badly dressed gay boy, a fashionable black girl, and a moody vampire—all out for fun on a Texas Friday night.

  Yee-ha!

  AS TRENT ATTEMPTS IN DESPERATION to find a nonbouncy tune on Audrey’s phone, Boo’s purple neon sign comes into view. Boo isn’t fancy, being part of a strip mall and all, but there’s no place like it.
Its actual name is La Boulangerie, which means bakery in French. But, of course, it’s impossible for most people to pronounce, so it’s been called all sorts of different things, like Bowl Angry and, my personal favorite, Blue Laundry. Somehow, though, it has simply become Boo.

  The only downside is the too-close-for-comfort redneck hangout next door, Bubba’s. No joke, that’s really its name.

  We turn into the parking lot and, wow, there are already tons of cars here. Big-ass pickups, too: bubbamobiles. Just great. As we circle to find a parking spot, we glide past a couple of guys in well-worn cowboy hats ambling toward Bubba’s. They eye us through the windshield, do a double take, then glare like we’re sideshow freaks.

  “Park as close to Boo as possible, please,” I say to Audrey, my fingers checking the door lock. Trent just ignores them.

  Audrey mumbles to the rolled-up window, “Keep starin’ at me like that and I’ll shove those hats where the sun don’t shine.”

  We find a close spot.

  Trent unfolds himself from the front seat, always an amazing sight.

  “Six hundred and nine days, my friends,” he says. “Six hundred and nine.” His daily Countdown Clock to Graduation helps him somehow but only makes escaping high school seem further away than ever for me.

  As we walk to Boo’s entrance, he turns to Audrey. “Just two hundred and forty-four for you. Sure you don’t want to flunk out and keep us company next year?”

  She arches an eyebrow. “Not a chance, funny boy. UT Austin, here I come!”

  As soon as we step inside Boo, Audrey’s shoulders slump. “Damn, wish those fries didn’t smell so good.” She pulls the bottom of her sweater down over her hips.

  My eyes adjust as I survey the maze of mismatched old couches, chairs, and tables in dim pools of light, all divided by columns wallpapered with overlapping flyers, like a giant work in progress. I can relate.

  Over the din of voices I just make out a classic Rolling Stones song. “Finally!” Trent says. “Actual music.”

  Here and there are some usual faces from both our and our “rival” high school, and it looks like some community college kids, too. We’re surrounded by the ever-present black clothes, splashes of bright neon here and there, blue and/or pink hair, the skinny-jeaned scruffy crowd . . . and no bubbas. To find anywhere else like Boo near Rock Hollow suburbia, you’d have to drive all the way to the cool parts of Dallas.