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.”