Isla And The Happily Ever After Part 11

Josh takes a huge bite of bread and talks before swallowing. "I can't believe they knew Kurt Cobain. That's so cool."

I used to watch Josh in the cafeteria, and he's always been a sloppy eater. I feel oddly pleased to see this bad habit up close. Maybe because it reminds me of the Josh that his friends knew the relaxed, barriers-down, inner-circle Josh. Or maybe because it reminds me of Kurt, and Kurt is safe.

"No," Kurt says. "It blows. I was named after a guy who committed suicide. Also, people a.s.sume I'm this huge Nirvana fan, which isn't even logical, because it's not like I named myself."

"Do you like them at all?" Josh asks.

"No. We can switch names, if you want."

"Kurt Cobain Wa.s.serstein." Josh says it slowly and laughs. "Nah. Doesn't have the same ring."

"Kurt Donald Cobain Wa.s.serstein. You can't forget his middle name. I can't."

"Which would make you...Joshua Elvis Aaron Presley Bacon."

Kurt startles. "Are you serious? That's your middle name?"

Josh's stone countenance makes me snort with laughter.

"Isla, is he serious?" Kurt asks again, but then he reads my own expression correctly. "Oh." He wilts. "Never mind. You were just..."

But then a perfect moment occurs as Kurt straightens back up. He grins.

Josh points a finger. "You are not going to say it."

"...joshing me."

Josh clutches his chest in agony as Kurt explodes into loud belly laughter. My heart might burst from happiness. Josh shakes his head. "I'm only letting you get away with that because I'm trying to make a good impression on your lady friend, okay? My real middle name is David."

Kurt considers it for several seconds. "Deal. I'll take it."

Josh takes his first sip of coffee. "Oh, man. You weren't kidding. This is terrible."

"So what should we call Isla?" Kurt asks.

Josh sets down the stein to properly examine me. He gazes into my eyes as I think, David. Josh's middle name is David. Thanks to sleepless nights on Wikipedia, I know it's also his father's middle name.

"Isla is a good name," he finally says. "The right name."

Kurt isn't impressed. "Isla was named after something, too, you know."

"Don't you dare," I say.

Josh sits forward. His eyes shine. "Do tell."

"Prince. Edward. Island," Kurt says.

There's a long pause. And then I'm the one sighing. "Yeah, so my parents did that horrible thing where they named me and my sisters after where we were conceived."

Another pause.

"They did not," Josh says.

"Alas. Genevieve was named after the patron saint of Paris. 'Hattie' is short for Manhattan, and, yeah...Prince Edward Island. My parents were on vacation. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad my name isn't Prince or Edward. But the notion of island travel? Completely ruined for me."

Their laughter is interrupted as the stairwell door opens with a booming metallic clang. A swarm of girls peer in at us as they pa.s.s by my open door. More than one eyebrow is raised. I hear my name murmured down the hall and into the lobby, accompanied by laughter that's not nearly so friendly.

"You know," Josh says, with a glance towards me. "I'd almost forgotten how annoying this room is. Those stairs drove me nuts."

"I don't like the window," Kurt says.

"Seriously. The prisonlike bars, the traffic. Do you remember that opera singer who used perform out there?"

"So what are you doing today?" I ask, pushing the girls from my mind.

My question catches Josh off guard. "Um, working. Drawing. By myself. In my room. On the top floor?"

"Oh. Cool!" I try to sound chipper. How naive for me to a.s.sume that we'd be hanging out. Of course he's busy. "We'll be working down here. On homework. Like usual."

But Josh seems...confused. Disappointed.

It takes me a moment. And then I realize that he's just told me that he'll be alone in his room and where his room is located. And I told him that I'll be here with Kurt. The guy who slept in my bed last night.

"Unless you wanted to hang out?" The words spill from my lips. "I'll come up. To your room. If you want."

Josh's entire body brightens. "Yeah?" He glances at Kurt. "You're invited, too, of course."

"I don't think you mean that." Kurt drains the last of his coffee. "And I'd pa.s.s, anyway. I'd rather not watch you guys feel each other up."

Chapter twelve.

The sixth floor isn't a regular floor. True, it has the same peculiar contrast of crystalline fixtures and fluorescent bulbs, antique wallpaper and industrial rugs, but it's what the French call les chambres de bonne. The maids of the aristocracy used to live up here. The ceilings are lower, and there are fewer rooms. It's also silent. No voices, no music. Eerie.

I pa.s.s a door that's been plastered with a dozen images of the same boy band, another with a small whiteboard that has a phone number scribbled on it, and another with a large whiteboard that's been tagged with the words DAVE HAS TINY b.a.l.l.s!

Room 604's door is blank.

In previous years, Josh would tack up silly ill.u.s.trations of himself in various costumes cowboy, pirate, clown, robot, bear. My heart tugs at yet another reminder of his current state of unhappiness at our school.

I smooth the front of my dress. It's been an hour since breakfast, because I needed to take a shower. I also needed to apply some serious bruise-covering make-up. I take a deep breath and copy his signature knock.

Josh opens the door with a knowing smile.

I return it shyly.

He steps aside, and I enter. I expect him to close the door behind me, because, well, he's Josh, but he props it open with a book about Parisian architecture. I'm touched by this gesture of respect...even though I wouldn't mind the privacy right now.

"Sorry, it's such a mess." He shoves his hands into his pockets. "I cleared off the bed, though, and the sheets are clean."

My eyebrows practically hit my hairline.

"To sit on." His accusation is made jokingly, but his skin turns melon pink. "Nice shoes, by the way."

I'm wearing flats. "Nice deflection, by the way."

"Nice to see you, by the way."

"Nice save, by the way."

Josh grins as I drop my homework-stuffed bag to the floor. In theory, I'm going to study, and he's going to draw. In reality? I hope we make out.

His bedroom is spectacular. The small s.p.a.ce feels extra small, because of the sheer volume of artwork, which is everywhere. But the room doesn't feel cramped. It feels like a coc.o.o.n. His drawings are on his desk which isn't even our standard-issue desk, it's some kind of drafting desk on his dresser, on the floor, on top of his fridge. And they cover nearly every inch of his ceiling and walls.

"I feel like I'm inside of your head." And then I regret saying it. Because, creepy.

But Josh seems to relax. "My friends used to say that, too."

I examine his work closer. The ill.u.s.trations are in black ink, and I recognize locations from all across the city: the rose window and spires of la Sainte-Chapelle, the hedge maze inside le Jardin des Plantes, a wall of human skulls and femurs inside les Catacombes, a caged bird in le Marche aux Fleurs, the opulent exterior of le Palais Garnier the phantom's famous opera house.

And the faces. So many faces.

St. Clair; his girlfriend, Anna; his ex-girlfriend Ellie; St. Clair and Josh's mutual friend Meredith; and of course...Rashmi. My eyes fall on a drawing beside Josh's window. Rashmi is lounging across a lobby sofa her head on one armrest, her feet on the other reading a novel. Her long hair is draped over the back of the armrest in rich, black waves.

"Wow," I say quietly. "Rashmi looks really pretty."

Josh swallows. "I did that one a long time ago. Did you see this?" He points to a funny picture of St. Clair poking Anna's back with someone else's arm, but now I'm distracted and disoriented. I'm surrounded. Rashmi alone. Rashmi with friends.

Rashmi with Josh.

"She's my friend, Isla. Or she was. I haven't even talked to her in months."

"No, I know." And I shake my head, because I do know. I'm not sure why this caught me by surprise. I sit on his bed and smile to show him that I'm fine. She's his friend, and he clearly misses his friends, so it's good that these drawings are here. Sure. If I can convince him, maybe I can convince myself.

Josh stares at me for a long time. I keep my eyes on his bedspread blue-and-white plaid, very male and try to remember how Isla-of-the-past would have fainted if she could see Isla-of-the-present. "If I show you something," he finally says, "you have to promise me that you'll take it as a compliment. No judging."

I tilt my head in question.

"I'm serious. You have to promise."

"Why? Is it bad?"

"No, I just...wasn't planning on showing it to you. At least not yet."

"And now you're worrying me." I'm only half joking. "Is this the part where you confess that you've been taking pictures of my discarded yogurt cups?"

"I lied," Josh says.

My worry becomes whole as he slides open a drawer, removes a battered sketchbook, and places it in my hands. I turn it over. WELCOME, the blue sticker says. "That's the one I was using last June," he says. "I didn't leave it in New York. Obviously."

"This is it?" My relief is profound. "Yeah, I know. I've seen it in your bag."

He blanches. "You have?"

"It's okay. I understand. I mean, the drawing isn't flattering, right? I was so out of it. I understand why you wouldn't want to show me."

"Uh, no." He's squirming. "That's not it. Not even a little bit. Not even at all."

Consider my curiosity way more than piqued.

Josh sits down beside me. He sighs. I open the book, and it flips right to it. As if he looks at it. A lot.

I stare at the page. Pages. There are two drawings of me. In the first, my elbow is propped up against the table in Kismet. My head rests in my hand, and my hair tumbles loosely around my face. My eyes are closed in reverie. In the second, my head rests on my arms, which I'm using as a pillow. My hair spreads across the table in sweeping waves and curls. My lips are oh-so-slightly parted.

The pictures are...s.e.xy. His brushstrokes are all curves.

Josh reaches over and turns the page.

There's a third drawing.

This one is from memory. I'm standing in the rain. My hair is wet. My sundress is soaked. More curves mine are exposed. A giant garden rose floats behind my head like a halo, and I'm staring straight ahead at the viewer. The artist.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears. I look up at Josh, eyes wide.

"Kurt asked to see it," he says. "When I thought you were dating. I thought he'd kick my a.s.s."

"My dress is rather clingy."

Josh groans. "And now you think I'm a pervert."

I smile. "Only if the rest of the book is like this." I b.u.mp his shoulder softly as I proceed to thumb through it. At first I don't realize what's happening, but...I am looking for others. There are plenty of women, of all ages, inside even some pretty ones but as I continue to search, it's clear that mine are unique. They're the only drawings that look like that.

Josh b.u.mps my shoulder in return. "Feel better? Or am I still on par with that Finnish photographer?"

"No." I'm still smiling as I set down the book. "Definitely not. For sure not."

"Good." His voice is deeper, quieter.

I stare at him. He stares back. His fingers comb through my hair, and he cradles my head in his hands. My eyes close. I slide my own hands up the nape of his neck, and then further upward, nails raking against his scalp. Our mouths hover, a murmur apart. Our breathing is fast and warm. He parts my lips with his.

And then we clash together like the ravenous animals we are.