Draw the Line Page 4

  Still, I just want to eat and get out of here.

  I follow Trent and Audrey to an open table and plop down on a lumpy old couch. You can scrawl anything you want on the walls here, and people do. Audrey’s always bugging me to let loose with Graphite, but no way that’s ever gonna happen.

  “Hey,” I say to Trent, “virgin territory.” Our wall right here is one of the few he hasn’t practiced his symbol on, some math formula he created called Infinite Radical. Since he’s the math genius—as well as infinitely radical—I leave that to him. It’ll be his first tattoo, he claims, once the design is perfect.

  “Look,” Audrey says, “there they go.” We watch the vampirey goth kids from school head out to the parking lot. A couple of them glance our way. Audrey turns to Trent. “I bet they still can’t figure out why you won’t even talk to them.”

  “Tough,” he says.

  “They’re still the same people you used to hang out with,” she says.

  “That was a while ago. You know how I feel.”

  Trent and addiction don’t go well together. Not a mystery why, considering his mom.

  Audrey rolls her eyes. “They can’t all be stoners, or meth addicts, or whatever else they do.”

  “You think they’re heading outside to catch the last rays of the day?” I say.

  She laughs. “If only! Still can’t figure out why they don’t disintegrate in the sun.”

  Trent smirks in spite of himself. I smile too, and exhale. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath.

  “Hey, don’t look now,” I say, “but guess who’s working tables tonight.” Of course, they both look now, and there he is. Loudly gossiping with some girl, drama queen Kobe reclines against the coffee bar. This morning was intense, but like at lunch, he now seems back to his normal everyone-look-at-me self.

  “Okay, boys,” Audrey says, “this girl needs to eat!” The melted cheddar cheese and sautéed mushrooms at the table behind us do smell good. She waves and gets Kobe’s attention.

  Great. No doubt he’ll burst into song about what we order, jazz hands all aflutter.

  Instead, he saunters over to our table and does his diva thing of facing you but looking away into the distance, like he’s waiting for far more exciting people to appear, while pushing up that spiky bleached-out hair. As if gravity could possibly affect it with all the crap that must be in there. Well, today, I’m hardly one to talk.

  Dropping one beat-up menu on our table—which, of course, we don’t need—he says in a flat voice, “Hey, y’all.”

  When Audrey’s annoyed, she has this way of talking real fast without breathing, all with a big smile. “I’ll have a Morocco Wrap French fries and Diet Coke thank you very much.” She’s so good at returning attitude. I sometimes feel like I’m her Attitude Padawan, learning from the Master.

  Trent speaks up next. “Veggie burger. Iced tea.”

  Still staring into space and not writing any of this down, Kobe quips, “How original.”

  Trent sits up taller and fidgets with the prongs of his fork.

  I say, “Hey. I’ll have the BBQ turkey burger? And a Dr Pepper. Please.”

  Kobe puts his hand on his chest and gasps at my hair. “Ohmygod! Who did that to you?”

  Ah. The familiar burning sensation returns to my face. Didn’t he already see my hair this morning in the hall? I guess he must’ve been too focused on getting the hell away.

  “Uh, how was your day today?” I say. “All okay?”

  Kobe tilts his head. “Um . . . what?”

  I swallow. “Just, uh, wanna be sure everything’s fine.”

  “What are you, my mommy?” He puts his hand on his hip. “Yeah, all’s dandy.” One last scowl, and then he leaves.

  Trent looks from Audrey to me, then sings, “Awkward.”

  “What was that?” Audrey says.

  I blink. “Just came out. With the crap he got this morning, thought I’d ask.” That was weird.

  “Smooth move, Samson,” Trent says. “Stopped him ragging on your hair.”

  “Samson?”

  With his fingers, he motions cutting his hair. Oh, that Samson. When Samson’s hair was cut, he lost his strength. Wonder what I lost? Didn’t have much to start with. All I know is I need to keep my damn mouth shut. I may have deflected Kobe’s focus from my hair, but I just made an ass out of myself.

  Audrey studies me. “Well, since his usual attitude is fully intact, everything must be all right.”

  “Guess so,” I say.

  I stare out the big windows at the parking lot, almost blinded by car windshields reflecting the last flash of sunlight.

  Trent asks Audrey for a pen, then starts drawing his Infinite Radical equation and supposed future tattoo in a space on the wall between a sucky cartoon of Bart Simpson and where someone wrote Living scares me to death.

  Audrey starts lecturing him about the evils of permanently mutilating one’s body, but I can barely hear her over the blare of turned-up music and turned-up talking. More people pack the place, including the returning goth kids.

  At last, Kobe appears with our food. After two trips of avoiding eye contact and basically plopping everything down in the middle of the table, he leaves without a word. Guess he’s done with me and my hair. No complaints here.

  After our mandatory rubbing of the hands with Purell (thank you, Mom—I mean, Audrey), we jump into eating. I’m hungry and want to make this quick so we can go.

  As soon as I pick up my barbecue turkey burger, it starts dripping sauce, so I angle it toward my mouth to—

  Splat!!!

  “CRAP!” A warm, gooey mass slides down the front of my T-shirt. I grab every napkin in sight, scoop the contents of the burger from my chest and lap, and dump it on my plate. “Aw, man!” So greasy and goopy.

  I wipe off the remaining globs of turkey, tomato, and melted cheddar cheese glued together with Boo’s special BBQ sauce.

  Since Kobe didn’t bring any water, that’s the best I can do. Lumpy red smears cover my shirt, sticking to my skin.

  “Unfortunate bun malfunction, there, Jedi,” Trent says.

  Audrey’s grossed out. “You’d better wash that off right away. Cold water.”

  “It’s fine, I don’t care.” No way I’m parading to the men’s room like this.

  “Uh-uh.” Audrey points toward the back of the place. “That shirt is not getting in my car and dripping on my leather seats. Go!”

  Fine. I stand and survey the quickest path to the bathroom. No sign of Kobe—don’t need more loud shrieks of shock—but it’s hard to see with just these old lamps scattered here and there. With my head down and hands covering my chest, I channel my inner Graphite and make myself as invisible as possible. I weave my way through the chairs and the noise and the smells, keeping my eyes on the floor. Almost there. I only have to squeeze by this one little—ouch! I bump my knee hard into a table leg.

  “Uh, you okay?”

  I look up—it’s Lev. Holy god. Hot guy from French class. He’s holding his spaghetti-wrapped fork in midbite. He exchanges a weird look with his girlfriend, Kathleen, sitting across from him.

  “What . . .” Kathleen scans me up and down, from hair to shirt to hand rubbing knee. “What happened?”

  I cough. “It’s, well, I didn’t see . . . the table leg. Doesn’t hurt too bad, not broken. My knee! Not the table, heh, heh, heh.” Holy crap. Lev’s looking right at me. Wow. With his deep, dark amber eyes. He clenches his jaw—those hot neck muscles. Okay. That’s not such a good expression. His eyes are bigger. Now he’s kinda weirded out . . . by me. Look away, Adrian. Now.

  “Are you really all right?” Kathleen says.

  “Huh?” I breathe in. “Uh, no, it’s fine. I just . . .”

  I realize I’m clutching my chest, fabric splattered in dark-red barbecue sauce.

  “Oh! No, no. It’s not blood.” I grab my shirt and pull it forward, all gooey as the fabric peels away from my skin. “See? Tomato! Tomato sauce! BBQ.
You know, the special one!”

  They gape at me like I’m a shrieking monkey.

  I babble faster. “You know. Slipped out! The bread . . . it slid! Like, gravity!” Stop talking, Adrian, stop talking.

  They look from my shirt to my face to each other. Dropping his fork on the plate, Lev busts out laughing, shoulders shaking, his long, dark curly hair falling in his face. Kathleen puts her hand over her mouth and tries to stop giggling, which doesn’t work.

  I let go of my shirt, which resticks to my skin in baggy folds. Then I turn toward the bathroom and limp away.

  THANK GOD, THE MEN’S ROOM is empty. Well, almost. There in the old, funky mirror is a derailed social experiment basted in BBQ sauce (not so special, though). Had no idea I look this pathetic.

  As if I needed more proof that the superhero side of me is pure fantasy.

  Praying no one walks through that door, I grab wads and wads of wet paper towels and do my best to clean up. It sort of works—T-shirt looks better than before, I guess. Later I’ll check out the bruise I’m sure is spreading across my knee.

  At least splashing water on my face feels good. That’s the only thing.

  I want to disappear from the planet but need to leave the bathroom first. With a deep breath, I open the door and make a beeline to our table, not even glancing at Lev or Kathleen or anyone.

  As I slide in next to Trent on the beat-up couch, Audrey sees my T-shirt and says, “Oh, good, much better. Sorry about your dinner. And your shirt.” She pauses. “Well, maybe not that shirt.”

  Ha. Ha.

  “Another benefit of wearing black, my friends,” Trent says. “Spills don’t show. Less laundry.”

  Audrey shakes her head. “Lordy.”

  I face the pile of gross napkins and turkey burger remnants. While I was gone, Trent finished off his sandwich, but Audrey’s still going on hers.

  With me eyeing her plate, she says, “Have some fries. You want to order something else?”

  I shake my head, then glance over my shoulder. Here near the front of the place, I thankfully can’t see Lev or Kathleen at all.

  “I just made a total ass of myself in front of that guy Lev Cohen, from my French class? And his girlfriend. They’re sitting back there.”

  Trent checks behind us. “Do tell.”

  I cover my face with my hands. “I’m such a . . . ugghhhhh!”

  He blinks. “I see.”

  Audrey pushes her plate of fries toward me.

  “Guys,” I say, “you didn’t see how Lev gawked at me when I walked into class today. He sits right behind me, so basically he was forced to stare at every gap in my scalp for almost a full hour. I couldn’t even look at him when class was done. And now I just babbled at them both about gravity while dripping puddles of barbecue sauce and looking like a mental ward refugee!”

  “Is this the guy you think is hot?” Audrey asks.

  I nod. “With the long wavy Renaissance hair. Full lips. Chiseled chin. Amber eyes.”

  “The hot straight guy?” she says.

  Trent reaches for one of Audrey’s fries but gets his hand slapped.

  “What does it matter?” I say. “Not like I’m ever gonna meet anyone.”

  “Honey, especially not if you look at straight guys—”

  “Okay okay, I get it. It’s just that I gave him and Kathleen one hell of a story to spread around about pathetic Adrian,” I say. “Besides, Audrey, you’re hardly one to give advice on guys.” I stuff four fries in my mouth.

  She flashes me the Audrey Eye so fast it practically throws me back. “Just because I haven’t yet found man material worthy of Ms. Audrey Hill doesn’t mean I don’t live in this world. You do remember what happened to Jacquie, right?”

  I swallow. Beyond horrible. Her older sister, Jacquie, was date-raped two years ago, the night of her prom. By her “boyfriend.”

  Audrey straightens out the overlapping layers of sparkly bracelets on her left wrist. “You never know who to trust. Why do you think I’m so picky?”

  Trent sneaks some fries, then says, “Picky? Have you, like, even been on a date?”

  She glares at him. “Now, don’t you start.”

  He opens his mouth to talk but chomps down on some fries instead and slumps down lower in his seat. Ever since last year when his goth girlfriend broke up with him (after all of three months), Trent claims to be asexual. Since when is a teen boy asexual?

  Well, what the hell do I know?

  When it comes to dating, or anything resembling sex, none of us can actually talk.

  “Audrey,” I say, “at school, guys check you out all the time.”

  She crosses her arms over her stomach. “Don’t think so. Not with these swerves and curves.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on. Of course they do. I keep telling you, you’re hot.”

  “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to lie?”

  “Audrey, you have amazing style and a body to go with it. You’ve got classic Renaissance beauty.”

  “Yeah, I know. You’ve showed me all those paintings. So they liked fat girls back in the Dark Ages. Guess what? Welcome to the twenty-first century, Graphite Boy!”

  I eye the tables next to us. “Don’t call me that in public.”

  “Nobody heard me,” she mumbles.

  “Listen,” Trent says, “dudes do check you out in the halls. One of them must be ‘worthy’ of a date.”

  She sits up straight and takes a sip of her Diet Coke. “You kiddin’? Our school? Slim pickin’s there. And here? Well, I don’t happen to have a thing for chewin’ tobacco and boots.”

  I follow her gaze out the windows and, lit by the yellow parking lot lights, see a few rednecks from next door. Since people get carded at Bubba’s sometimes, they take the party outside and swarm between their pickup trucks like orcs prowling around the Tower of Saruman. Even with reflections in the window making it hard to see, I recognize a few of them out there from school.

  “Guys,” I say, “can we get the check and go now? We’re done, right?”

  Audrey waves at Kobe, who’s sitting at a table yapping.

  Trent watches the parking lot. “Starting earlier than usual.”

  Hard to tell exactly what’s going on out there, but it’s pretty clear the bubbas are spreading over onto our side of the lot, like a virus.

  “Oh, joy,” Trent says. “Guess there’s no football game tonight. Leaning on that silver car, isn’t that Buddy?”

  “Where?” My stomach drops. “Not only him. There’s Doug, with that damn red cap.” I can just make out his massive figure in the bubba cluster. I scoot closer to the wall. Hard to tell how well they can see us inside. It’s almost darker in here than out there with those big parking lot lights kicking on and the sky filled with that just-past-sunset glow. But you never know.

  “Dude.” Trent taps my arm. “Stop gripping the table. They’d sooner go to the ballet than come in here. So chill.”

  Audrey finally gets Kobe’s attention and makes the check please sign. “It’s only Doug out there,” she says. “Okay, and Buddy and whoever. But just because they made you drop your phone and laughed at your crazy hair doesn’t mean they’re out to get you.”

  “Yeah,” I say, leaning back a little. “You’re right.” All around us, people continue to talk and eat and all. No big deal. I guess.

  Kobe’s tapping on the computer screen, so hopefully it’s our check. I turn to the windows. “What’s Doug doing now?”

  “Listing to starboard,” Trent says. “Man, he’s trashed.”

  “Shocking,” Audrey says, raising an eyebrow.

  “Hey, Kobe!” yells one of the waitresses, standing near the front door. “You need to see this.”

  “Relax, honey,” Kobe says from behind us, still at the computer. “I don’t go for those big beefy types. Whoever he is, you can have him.”

  Some girls near him laugh.

  “No, really,” the waitress says. “Come look.”

&nb
sp; Well, of course everyone wants to look, so I sit up taller to get a better view out the window.

  All around us there’s a collective “Gross!”

  “Ugh!” Audrey says. “Thank God we parked Athena in the side lot.”

  Can’t tell which drunk bubba it was, but about two parking rows away, one of them just threw up all over the back of a pale blue Mustang. Outside, pushing through the bubba crowd, Doug wobbles over to see the car. Buddy doubles over laughing.

  Kobe glides past our table, then stops in his tracks. “What the hell? That’s my car! My Mustang!”

  Some jerk says, “Doesn’t barf burn through car paint?”

  Kobe stares out the window for a moment, then quickly grabs a roll of paper towels from the coffee bar. The waitress tries to stop him, but he strides to the door, pauses with his fist on the handle, stares down at the towels for a second, then pushes out the door. What does he think he’s doing?

  I stand for a better view and see Kobe head right into the pack of bubbas around his Mustang. The back windshield and trunk are kinda gross—really disgusting, actually—but dealing with some puke on your car isn’t worth going out there.

  Kobe’s arrival brings more guys over. Of course, Doug’s smack in the middle, checking out the scene. Is Kobe really . . . ? He rips off some towels and starts wiping the trunk. You’re being so stupid!

  Boo’s manager zips past us to the window. “What’s going on out there?” He runs outside.

  While the door is open we can just hear Buddy holler, “Look! He wants to make it pretty!”

  “Kobe, get out of there,” I say. “It’s just a car.”

  “He can’t hear you,” some genius near me says.

  By this time, everyone in Boo is glued to the front windows, making it hard to see. I push to the front, Audrey beside me. Trent stays back at the table. All around us, people are jabbering, even laughing. What’s wrong with them? This isn’t funny.