There is a distinct absence of school-related work. The strap of his bag pokes out from underneath his bed, so I assume 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 SOPHOMORE, 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 title.”
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 illustrations. 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 illustration 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. “Crème brûlée?”
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 crème brûlée. Ginger crème brûlée. Espresso crème brûlée.”
“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. “Damn.”
“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 sexual 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.”
Chapter thirteen
Josh is my boyfriend.
Josh is my boyfriend.
It’s a miracle that after only a single weekend, we are a real-life, not-just-in-my-dreams couple. Every morning, he arrives at my door before Kurt so that we can have a few minutes alone before breakfast. And then he joins us in the cafeteria. I think, maybe, he needed reassurance that he wouldn’t be sitting at an empty table. It’s strange to realize that Josh – detached Josh, composed Josh – worries about these things, too.
It might even explain the detachment.
We’re inseparable until our schedules split apart in fifth period. But we reunite after school, and I walk him to detention. If Kurt is the expert of roads less travelled, Josh is the expert of rooms long forgotten. All day long, he sneaks me into spaces that are cramped and hidden and neglected, and we kiss through the darkness until the warning bells ring.
I work on homework while he’s in detention, and when it ends, we all have dinner in the cafeteria. And then we re-separate from Kurt. We leave campus for the privacy that our dormitory no longer allows. It means that I usually visit the Treehouse twice – once with Kurt in the afternoon and once with Josh in the evening. We spend our nights in liplocks, sweet and earnest, while fumbling sublimely around things less innocent.
When Josh dated Rashmi, they were notorious for their public displays of affection. It was torturous. I was both envious and repulsed. With me, he’s quiet. He holds my hand and steals my kisses, but he saves most of his affection for when we’re alone. I think he understands that I don’t enjoy drawing attention myself. I also think, perhaps, he’s placed a higher value on his own privacy.
Even so, our relationship hasn’t escaped the notice of our classmates. But I’m happy. Despite my shyness, I still want to parade him in front of the entire school. I want to shout, Look! Look at this perfect boy who wants to hold my hand!
On Friday, Hattie startles us from behind in the hall. “So you’re the guy who busted my sister’s nose. Either you have the best aim or the worst. Which is it?”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Josh says.
“Whatever. Isla, I need forty-six euros.”
“Why?” I touch my nose self-consciously.
“Because
I want to buy a weasel skull and put it on this one girl’s pillow.”
I try not to sigh. I’m not successful.
“She’s my friend,” Hattie says.
“No,” I say.
“Ugh, fine. Maman.”
We watch her stalk away. “Was she for real?” Josh asks.
“I’m never sure.”
He shakes his head, mystified. “Your older sister isn’t like that, is she? We had studio art together my freshman year. She always seemed cool—”
“She is.”
“Yeah. She always seemed like…she had things figured out. Like she had the motivation and confidence to do anything.”
I smile. “That’s Gen, all right. Last summer? She shaved her head and came out as bi. My parents really like her new girlfriend. But my mother is pissed about her hair.”
Josh laughs. When I drop him off at detention that afternoon, I run into another opinionated force. The head of school stops me. “I’d be concerned,” she says, “but Monsieur Wasserstein has been remarkably punctual, as of late. You must be the reason.”
I’m not sure how to respond.
The head looks down at me through her glasses, which are perched on the tip of her nose. “You’re a bright girl. Be careful there.” And then she strides away.
I don’t appreciate her tone. Or her presumption that hormones might be getting in the way of my intelligence. Is she afraid that Josh’s attitude will rub off on me? That I’ll stop caring about my education? Well, she can take her concern and shove it up her ass. But when I open my bedroom door a few hours later, Josh is also unusually cross.
“It backfired,” he says. “You know that whole detention-on-the-Sabbath idea? I asked the head about it, and she went straight to my parents.”
I wince.
“Yeah. And even though this time the excuse is – in theory – legitimate, my parents agreed that I’m being impudent, and now I have two additional weeks of detention.”
I’m shocked. “Two weeks? But that means—”
“Detention through the end of October.”
“That’s insane! What the hell is the head’s problem?”
He kicks off his shoes and flops onto my bed. “Welcome to the latest attempt at trying to get me to take this school more seriously.”
“I’m sorry. The Sabbath thing was my idea. My stupid, stupid—”
“Hey.” Josh sits up on his elbows. “Only because I didn’t think of it first.”
There’s a commotion in the hallway. “Look who’s on Izla’s bed,” Mike says. “Give us a show, girlie girl! Give us a sneak peek.”
Emily hoots. “Is Kurt jealous?”
Dave pushes his shaggy hair away from his eyes. “Nah. They’re getting ready for a threesome.”
I want to punch them all in the throat. But Josh is staring down Mike. “Her name is Eye-la. It must be difficult to remember when your brain is smaller than your penis. Which, rumour has it, isn’t that big in the first place.”
“Fuck you, Wasserstein.”
“Good one.”
The stairwell door clangs open, and Sanjita appears behind them. Her gaze is fixed on something ahead in the lobby. It’s an unnatural position that tells me she already knows this is my room. “Come on, Mike.” She tugs on his arm. “I’m hungry.”
He’s still puffed up like an angry baby owl. He points a finger at Josh. “I’ll get you.”
They swagger away, and Josh scowls at the doorway with supreme irritation. “Has there ever been an emptier threat?”
“What is with people today?”
“I don’t know. But I hate them. I hate everyone in the world but you.”
“And Kurt.”
“And Kurt,” he agrees. “Where is Kurt?”
“It’s sushi night. Remember?”
He sinks into my pillows. “Oh. Right.”
We discussed it earlier and decided that Kurt and I should keep Friday nights, and then Saturday nights will be ours. But I’m disappointed, too. The schedules, the rules, the people.
As soon as his Sabbath detention is over, he’s back at my door.
“I want to draw you again,” he says. “Before dinner. While there’s still light.”
My bloodstream courses with euphoria as he hurries me towards the Arènes de Lutèce, an amphitheatre long abandoned by the Romans. Once, it was immense and crowded and used for gladiatorial combat. Now, it’s smallish and empty and park-like. It’s only a few blocks away from our school, but it’s wholly concealed behind its surrounding apartments. No matter how many times I visit, I’m always still surprised to find an entire ancient arena hidden back here.
The park tends to stay quiet. Today, a father is teaching his young son how to dribble a football in its large and dusty centre. Josh and I climb the stairs to the original stone niches above the field. Each niche contains a modern bench, and we pick the one with the best view. Against his knees, Josh props up a sketch pad (one with thick, removable pages) and immediately commences drawing with his favourite brush pen (a capped pen with a brush tip). He works as he always does, with his thumb tucked underneath his index finger. I love watching his hand.
“What should I do?” I ask. “How should I sit?”
“Sit however you want. But try not to move too much,” he adds with a smile.
There’s nothing like being openly stared at by an attractive member of the opposite sex to make me feel as if all of my limbs were in the wrong place. I search for a distraction. “So…what’s the story behind your sticker?”
Josh flips over the pad, expecting something to have appeared.
“The one on your sketchbook. The American WELCOME one.”
“Oh.” He snorts. “There’s no story. My dad had a huge stack of them in his office, and I just took one. There were a lot of assholes on Capitol Hill ragging on Mexican immigration that week, so I drew the word I wished they were talking about instead. But it wasn’t an original idea. I saw an Australian sticker like it once.”
“You know what I like about you?” I ask, after a few minutes.
“My dynamite moves on the dance floor.”
“You’ve crafted this bored veneer, but you’re always giving yourself away in moments like that. In the moments that really matter.”
“I don’t care about anything,” he says. “But I care about you.”
“Nope. You have a mushy heart, Joshua Wasserstein. I can see it.”
He smiles to himself and keeps drawing. There’s a fragrant gust of wind, and the first leaves of the season rain down upon us. A nip pierces the air. I watch the tiny boy in the arena dart between his father’s legs and listen to the faint crunch of gravel as an elderly couple walks the footpath behind us. The sun grows lower on the horizon. There’s a new stillness, and I realize that Josh has stopped working.
He’s staring at me. Spellbound.
“What is it?” I’m afraid to move. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve never seen the sun shine directly through your hair before.”
“Oh.” I glance down at the glowing curtain. “It never looks the same, does it? Inside, it’s auburn. Outside, it’s more of a red.”
“No.” Josh reaches out. He softly touches one of the waves. “Red isn’t the right word. It’s not auburn or orange or copper or bronze. It’s fire. It’s like being mesmerized by the flames of a burning building. I can’t look away.”
I’ve blushed far less around him lately, but – at this – my cheeks warm.
“And that,” he says, as I look down at my lap. “That rosy blush. And your rose-scented perfume. God, it drives me mad.”
I lift my eyes in surprise. “You’ve noticed? I don’t wear much.”
“Trust me. You wear exactly the right amount.”
“You smell like tangerines.” I say it before I can take it back.
“Satsuma.” He pauses. “You have a good nose.”
“Yours is better. At least, the shape of it is.”
“My nos
e is huge.” He laughs, and it makes his throat bob. “Yours is like a bunny rabbit’s. What the hell are you talking about?”
I laugh, too. “It’s not huge. But it is interesting.”
“Interesting.” He raises a teasing eyebrow.
I smile. “Yes.”
Josh smiles back. His ink-stained fingers thread through my hair, and he leans in towards my lips. But then he pauses to smell my neck. A shiver runs through me. He kisses my neck softly and slowly, and my eyes close.
I want him to kiss me there for ever. But he pulls back, languid, letting his fingers fall back out gently through my hair. He smiles at me again. “Roses,” he says.
My head and heart are in full swoon. “Thank you. And thanks for saying such nice things about my hair,” I add. “Not everyone is that nice.”
“Who wouldn’t say nice things about it?”
“Ha-ha,” I say.
But he appears to be genuinely confused.
“Really?” I take a deep breath. “Well, okay. When I was little? Every grandmother would stop me on the street to tell me how much I looked like one of her grandchildren. ‘She has hair just like yours,’ they’d always say. ‘Except hers is more orange’ or ‘hers is more auburn’. It was so uncomfortable, especially for someone as shy as me. Hattie’s the only one who ever talked back. ‘Then it’s not just like mine, is it?’ she’d say.”
Josh laughs.
“And when a redhead hits puberty? You become this magnet for gross men. A month doesn’t pass without one telling me that I must be good in bed because all redheads are sex fiends, or I must be a bitch because all redheads have fiery tempers. Or they’ll tell me that they only date redheads, or that they never date redheads, because we’re all ugly.”
Josh is stunned. “They say those things to you? Strangers?”
“At least a dozen men have asked if ‘my carpet matches my drapes’. And now there’s the ginger insult – thank you, England – and some cultures think we’re unlucky, and ohmygod, you know what the French say about redheads, right? They think we smell.”