Fly on the Wall: How One Girl Saw Everything (16 page)

edge of the T-shirt
shadow at the collarbone
neck, neck, shadow under the jaw
he's wonderful
he's wonderful
ear, ear
cheekbone
eyebrows
eyelashes
Titus,
Titus,
Titus.

I put all my love into the picture, I really do. There are soft gray lines crisscrossing his face, since we're not supposed to lift up the charcoal, and they make him look a little sad, a little trapped. I'm surprised when Kensington says our half hour is over, and we should all stand and walk around the room to see what other people have been doing.

I look up, and there is Titus, looking at me. Looking right at me, like he sees me. Like he's been looking into my soul, stupid as that sounds.

He looks down at his pencil case, getting very busy putting the charcoal away.

Kensington won't be happy with what I did. It still has the bold black comic-book line I like to use, and the stylized shading.

I just like it.
It feels like me.
It's how I draw.

No doubt she will lay into me as usual, will say something loud and humiliating that everyone can hear, because she only seems to like it when I'm fake and obedient and I draw the way she thinks is good, the way I did when I did that horrible self-portrait, week before last.

But news flash:

I no longer care if Kensington likes it.

I no longer care if she says something mean and tells the whole class I'm derivative and I don't make art like what hangs in museums.

I am good at this, at comic book drawing.

I'm good at it and I love it.

It is the way I want to draw.

Which is enough.

Besides, this is New York City. Somewhere, in the offices of DC and Marvel, behind the counters of Forbidden Planet on Thirteenth Street, somewhere—lots of places, even—are other people who love it as much as I do. I just need to find them and not be existing in my tiny world anymore.

We walk around the room, looking at what other people have done. Kensington is giving quiet critiques to people, one at a time. Surprisingly, she doesn't say anything to me at all.

I'm dying to race around the benches to see what Titus drew, but I force myself to move slowly.

I can hear Kensington talking to Adrian about negative space and not projecting preconceived ideas onto the subject but just drawing what you see.

When I finally get to Titus's picture of me, I can't quite believe it.

It's beautiful.

It's me, with my bangs hanging crooked and my collar awry,

but the girl in the drawing is lovely.

Titus never draws people so they look lovely. He's a warts-and-all kind of artist, like he's trying to capture the core of someone's individuality.

But me, he made me lovely. He did the mole on my left cheek and my thin upper lip and the shadows under my eyes. But if I were to look at that picture and not know it was me, I would say that the girl was gorgeous.

And that the artist thought she was too.

i
n English, Titus sits next to me and it's like he's made out of magnets. I used to think all the time about him touching me, brushing my arm with his by accident. But this time, all I can think about is
me
touching
him.

It's like everything is different, since I saw all those naked bodies and the picture he drew.

Like now, I don't just know what I want; I also know I have to go after it.

I should be taking notes on what Glazer is saying. Especially since I've missed a week of “Metamorphosis” discussions and I'm sure there's a test coming up. There's a pen in my bag, but I leave it where it is. Instead, I reach across Titus's notebook and snag his extra Rollerball.

“Can I use this?” I whisper, putting my hand on his shoulder even though it's unnecessary.

“Go ahead,” he whispers back.

Then in my notebook I doodle a picture of Gregor Samsa as a giant cockroach—antennae waving in distress as he sits on his human bed. I shove it over toward Titus.

When Glazer isn't looking, he writes on my paper: “That's how I look, first thing in the morning.”

“Me too,” I write.

Thinking about what he must look like—wearing pajamas, eyes heavy with sleep, hair even messier than usual—makes me start to sweat. And then I whisper what I actually think. “I'm sure you look delicious.”

He blushes, and smiles,
and looks down at his notes like he's concentrating.
When class is over, I catch up with him in the hall.

Hell, maybe he doesn't like me back.

Maybe he doesn't think I'm beautiful and the picture was just a fluke. Maybe he was trying something new with the way he draws.

But if I never ask for what I want, I may never get it— because I know something about Titus now that I never knew before: he is insecure. He thinks he's skinny and bad at sports (which he is), but he thinks it makes him unattractive. That girls won't like him because he's not built, like Shane, or athletic, like Adrian.

So he may never ask me, even if he likes me.

I have to do something myself.

“Wait up,” I say, my hands shaking like I've had too much coffee. He's with Adrian, laughing about some nothing, and he turns to look at me. “What? Sure. Ip, I'll catch you later. I have to talk to Gretchen about something.”

Adrian, being who he is, socks Titus on the shoulder and waggles his eyebrows. Which is embarrassing, since he's absolutely right about what's going on—at least from my end. But then he disappears down the hall.

People are swarming around us, rushing to get to class before the next bell, but all of a sudden it's like we're the only two people there.

Me and Titus.

Titus and me.

There isn't much time. I better get it out and get it over with.

“You want to go see a movie with me on Friday?” I ask. “We could get dumplings at this place I know, they're like five for a dollar on the street in Chinatown, and then go to the Angelika?”

I can't read his face. He looks surprised, certainly, but I can't tell what else. Whether he wants to go or not. “What's playing?” he asks.

Hell. I don't know what's playing!
I had it all figured out about the dumplings
and where the theater was
and everything,
but I never checked what's playing.

I take a deep breath. “I don't care,” I say. “I just want to see it with you.”

Because it's the truth.

I want to go somewhere, anywhere, with him.

And then he's grabbing my hand, and pulling me into a storage room they use for art supplies. And he puts his finger to his lips, and the walls are filled with pads of paper and boxes of colored pencils and jars of paint,

and I'm laughing

and he shuts the door behind us

and leans up against it to stop anyone coming in

and like he's trying to get up his nerve now that he's started something,

before we've ever gone to the dumplings and the movies—

he leans in and kisses me.

His lips are cold. The kiss is soft. He has gum in his mouth, and he stops, and giggles nervously, and takes it out and throws it in the trash can,

and looks like he feels embarrassed to have kissed me with the gum,

but I don't care,

and so now I kiss him,

and he's tall enough that he has to bend down to get to me,

and I put my hand on his neck, which is smooth and warm,

and we kiss for a minute in the storage room,

and I want to run my hands up his shirt suddenly—

but I don't.

He pulls away for a second and touches my cheek.

“I thought you'd never ask,” he whispers.

“I thought I never would either,” I say, “but I did.”

“Good job,” he says, and kisses me again.

And I feel lit up inside, I know it's a cliché, but that's the only way I can say it,

and the bell rings, which means we're late,

and we run, laughing, down the hall,

and I get to math and stand in the doorway a second, watching his scrawny body

tearing down the hall

to whatever he's got next.