28. Drawing
DRAWING
I clutch the straps of my bag and walk out with Samantha. We weave through the middle of the school, where most of the silver seats are, and it feels like hundreds of pairs of eyes are watching me.
Examining me.
It’s like being exposed in the most humiliating way, as if I were walking through the school naked. They see me as a piece of meat. Even in this jumper, I feel exposed and completely nude.
Once we are clear of the crowd, my heart beats faster as we get to the corner of the building. As we round it, Dylan is with Wylan, and they’re leaning against the brick wall. My shoulders slacken, and the constricting feeling in my throat relaxes when there’s no Andy.
“Where’s Andy?” Samantha asks as she sits beside me. Dylan looks between us, and Samantha shakes her head.
“He sent me a message saying he is flaking,” Wylan answers.
“Ah.” Samantha nods her head. “Fucking pussy.”
I smile at her until I notice someone in the corner of my eye. My body stiffens, and I look up at Conner standing over us. He leans down, and my hands tighten on my sleeves as he places a package of chicken and lettuce sandwiches on my lap with a bottle of orange soft drink.
“Hey, Conner,” Samantha says as she nudges her chin at him.
“Hey, Sammy.”
Conner sits next to me, and I lean towards Samantha until our arms touch. He notices and moves away, keeping his distance. He still leans forward to look at me, but when I don’t budge and keep the hoodie over my head, he leans back and sighs, “Hey, Noya.”
“Hey.” I grab the food and murmur, “Thank you.”
I pick at the sandwich, but I don’t eat it.
There’s a swelling in my throat that won’t go away, and if I try to eat, I may throw it all up.
And as the bell rings, I rise with the food and walk away when I notice Conner with Samantha.
Despite my curiosity about their conversation, I head to Creative Arts.
Mr Rogers writes “portrait” in bold letters on the blackboard.
I grab my art book and pencil case and sit where I always sit with Andy.
After a few minutes, Conner enters with bloodshot eyes.
I open my mouth and want to know what’s wrong, but I hesitate as a rush of memories of Andy in the car comes to mind.
“Okay,” Mr Rogers begins. “Team up into groups of two. One of you will sit there for the first forty-five minutes while the other draws you. Then, after that halfway mark, you will switch and draw the other person.” He waves his hands airily towards us and says, “This will account for thirty percent of your end-of-year scores. Now find a partner and start drawing.”
“Do you want to be my partner?” Conner asks cautiously.
“Um…okay. Did you want to go first?” I bring my pencil and art book closer, spin in my chair, and face Conner.
“With what?”
“Sitting still,” I clarify.
He nods and faces me.
I’m not particularly good at drawing realism. Everything I create manifests, twisting into something entirely different. Now, I’m reminded of why Mr Rogers asked us to draw something outside: to prepare for this moment.
I start with the shape, keeping my glances at Conner short and quick.
I experimented with his eyes. They’re the worst to draw, and it’s difficult to line them up perfectly.
After working on them for ten minutes, I leave the left eye slanted for now.
I’m sure Mr Rogers will give us time next week to work on this before submitting it.
Then I work on his nose. It points sharply, and with his lips, I make sure they look soft.
I also keep his angular features as I sculpt the rest of his face.
There are moments when my brain thinks it would be awesome to draw a crown on his head, a piercing in his ear, or maybe even a scar across his left eye to hide the slanted feature I drew.
I jolt as the buzzer goes off. “Time is up. Switch.”
I close my art book and face Conner. It’s a nerve-racking experience, and I’m afraid of any form of eye contact. However, fifteen minutes have passed, and I wonder if he is even drawing me. He never looks up, and he keeps his head buried in his art book.
Ten minutes pass, and a curious tickle itches at my scalp at what he’s doing. His focus never leaves the page as he sketches. Mr Rogers even notices and goes around the tables, but he says nothing when he sees what Conner is drawing.
He’s drawing me, then. Does he have a photographic memory and only needs a moment’s glance before he has the image of me burned into his mind?
My hands tighten against my jumper, and I arch my back before a hint of pain shudders across my stomach.
Slumping once more, I look at the tiles on the ground and stay there until the bell for lunch rings.
As I rise, Conner hands me his art book, grabs his belongings, and places them back into his drawer at the back.
I touch the paper, my fingers trailing across my upturned lips, smiling. My eyes crease, and I look…I look happy.
“Noya.”
I wipe away the tears. Conner reaches out to me when I step back, knocking the chair behind me, and the art book I hold drops. Conner picks it up and places it on the table.
“Why did you draw that?” I ask.
“Because I wanted to draw you when you were happy,” he says. “I didn’t want to draw you while you are like this. Broken and sad.”
My throat tightens.
Mr Rogers places the key on the table and says, “Lock up when you’re finished, Conner.”
“Sure.”
As Mr Rogers leaves, closing the door behind him, Conner steps towards me, and I step back. “I’m not going to hurt you, Noya.”
“Stop,” I say, my bottom lip trembling. “I don’t know what Samantha told you, but—”
“She didn’t tell me anything, but she didn’t need to. How you’re acting says it all.”
He takes another step toward me. I flinch but don’t step away. Not this time. And with another step, Conner is in front of me, his hand nears my face. “Where did he touch you?”
“Conner,” I breathe, shaking my head. “It’s nothing.”
“I knew he had done something. I saw it on his face when you looked at him.”
I ball my hands into fists at his words.
“I wanted to fuck him up.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You don’t like violence.”
I close my eyes. My breaths are shaky, and my bottom lip trembles. Reaching up, I cringe as my hand touches Conner’s. Taking hold, I move it in front of my face. As I swallow the lump in my throat, I rest his fingertips against my cracked lips. “Here,” I whisper.
Then, before I can stop myself, I place his hand on my chest. My breath shortens at the memory of Andy groping me as if he thought touching me that way would turn me on. “Here, too.”
I step towards him as his hand moves back to his side. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his chest. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t stop him.” My hands tighten on his shirt. “I just let him do whatever he wanted instead.”
His arms move around me, and he whispers into my hair, “None of what happened last night was your fault. None of it.”
“I tried to push you away because I was scared…”
“I know, but you can’t get rid of me that easily.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“No, Noya,” Conner breathes a laugh. “It’s because I really like you and want you to be my girlfriend.”
My fingers twitch, and a shallow breath escapes through my parted lips. “Conner, I can’t—”
“I’m not looking for an answer. What I want is for you not to push me away. Can you at least promise me that?”
“Conner…”
“Hmm?”
I look at him and ask, “Can you kiss me?”
He furrows his brow.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to. I just…I want to erase the memory of Andy kissing me, and I thought that kissing someone I like would help.”
“Noya,” he breathes. His hand cups my face, and he leans down.
I close my eyes, and my breath hitches as his lips brush against mine.
My hands tighten against his shirt, and I press myself closer to him, yearning for his presence.
I want nothing more than to dissolve myself into him and forget about everything—my home…
last night…all of it. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and his lips move away from mine, and when I open my eyes, Conner leans forward, pressing his lips against my forehead.
“I don’t want our first kiss to be for that reason. So, forgive me.”
I smile, saying, “I think I’m falling for you, Conner.”