Part 12 (2/2)
Josh is surprised and happy to give me a tour through his works.p.a.ce: dozens upon dozens of brushes, pens and pencils, India ink, oil paints, watercolours, nibs, erasers, reference photographs, a hair dryer for speeding up ink-drying time, several different-size pads of what he calls his semi-precious paper, and an elephantine box where he keeps his best. Like me, he's crammed a skinny bookcase into his room, but his shelves are packed with bound sketchbooks, art books, reference books, and what appears to be every graphic memoir ever written Jeffrey Brown, Craig Thompson, Alison Bechdel, James Kochalka, Lucy Knisley, and tons of others I've never seen before.
There is a distinct absence of school-related work. The strap of his bag pokes out from underneath his bed, so I a.s.sume the rest has been shoved down there, as well. And below his dresser where I've placed a second dresser for more clothing he's placed a large metal flat-file. His own graphic memoir has been divided between its drawers. They're labelled: BSB FRESHMAN, BSB SOPh.o.m.oRE, and BSB JUNIOR.
”Do you have a senior drawer?” I ask.
”Not yet.” Josh taps his temple with a finger. ”I'm still storyboarding last summer.” He shows me what he's been working on blue-pencilled thumbnails of his annoyed self in DC, attempting to block out the sound of his father recording an attack ad about Terry Robb. Terry is his opponent in the upcoming election. ”It's easier to start like this. It keeps me from making bigger mistakes later.”
”What do your parents think about you writing about this? About your private lives?”
He shrugs. ”They don't know I write about our private lives.”
I wonder if that's actually true. ”What does 'BSB' stand for?”
”Boarding School Boy. That's the t.i.tle.”
I glance at the top drawer, his junior year, and then at him. He nods. I slide it open and find a stack of thick paper with fully inked ill.u.s.trations. The top sheet is a drawing of his friends in graduation caps, smiling, arms around one another. Josh stands apart from them, small and distant. I lift it up, delicately, to peer at what's below. It's a multi-panelled page of Josh wandering around a city that is unmistakably Venice, Italy.
Cartoon Josh is familiar. It's the same Josh that I used to see wearing silly costumes on his door. It's an accurate though exaggerated portrait of who he really is. His nose is more prominent, his frame skinnier. But he's still beautiful. He looks sad and angry and tender and lonely. I lower the top ill.u.s.tration and slide the drawer shut. His work is so personal. I don't feel as if I've earned the right to look at it. Not yet.
”I hope I get to read this someday.”
I know he'd let me, right here and right now, but he looks relieved that I've chosen not to. ”You will,” he says.
The rest of our day is spent in companionable silence Josh with his sketches, myself with my textbooks. When the sun begins to set, he turns on his desk lamp and scrounges for food. His fridge is packed tight with ready-made items.
”Aha!” Josh yanks out something from behind the orange juice.
I cap my highlighter. ”You do remember where the cafeteria is located, yes?”
”And you remember that I saw your electric kettle? The one against school rules?”
”As if you don't have one.”
”I have two.” He grins. ”And a hotplate.”
”The cafeteria serves food. Fresh food. Made by actual chefs! If it wasn't closed for dinner on Sundays, I'd prove it to you right now.”
Josh holds up a plastic cup. ”Creme brlee?”
I smile. ”Please don't ruin my favourite dessert.”
”Really?” He pauses, mid-foil removal. ”It's mine, too.”
My heartbeat picks up, pleased by this tiny discovery, as if it's more evidence for the case of us. But I don't speak of it. I only release a sigh. ”Lavender creme brlee. Ginger creme brlee. Espresso creme brlee.”
”I had rosemary once. Unbelievable.”
I grip his comforter with both hands. ”No.”
Josh consumes his dessert in two bites. He tosses the empty cup into his trash can and hops once. ”I'll take you there right now. Come on, come on!”
I laugh. ”Sorry. Sunday night is pizza night.”
He deflates. ”d.a.m.n.”
”Join us.”
Josh plops down beside me on the bed. ”That's...actually kinda weird. My friends and I used to have pizza on Sunday nights, too.”
”I know. I used to see you guys at our restaurant.”
”Seriously? Pizza Pellino?”
I nod. It wasn't a coincidence.
”Hey.” Josh grows uneasy. ”About Kurt. About your bed.” He bounces twice to demonstrate where he found the subject change.
”Yeah. He sleeps in it.”
I've correctly identified his question and given him the wrong answer. He tries to act as if it doesn't matter, but his expression resembles what mine must have looked like when I realized I was surrounded by the likeness of his ex-girlfriend. ”We've slept in the same beds our entire lives,” I say. ”There's nothing s.e.xual about it. I promise.”
”That's not how I'd feel lying beside you.” But before I can enjoy this thrilling and perfect response, an even more alarming question has popped into his head. ”Have you ever woken up and seen...you know. In the morning?”
”If you expect me to answer that, you have to say it.”
”I am not saying it.”
I pause. ”Fine. Yes.”
Josh baulks.
”But it's not like it's, ugh, aimed at me or anything. And it's not like we sleep naked. I mean, we've been friends for ever, so, yeah, we've seen stuff, but-”
”Has he seen you naked?” he blurts. And then he notices my expression and instantly regrets it. ”Sorry. That's none of my business.”
I'm opening my mouth to agree when I'm struck by a startling new truth. The situation has changed. Or maybe it's about to change. ”No,” I say. ”It is your business. If you want it to be.”
”I do.”
I swallow. ”Me, too.”
His brow lifts.
”Does this...does this mean you want to be my boyfriend?” My question sounds both immature and momentous. But Josh doesn't flinch.
”Yes,” he says. ”I want.”
<script>