Isla And The Happily Ever After Part 12

I climb onto his lap, needing closeness, pushing my hips against his. The skirt of my dress rides upward. I feel desperate, in agony. A ragged sound escapes from between his lips. Our kisses grow frantic, and his mouth is a.s.sertive and his hands are strong and- "Ah hem."

We bolt upright. Nate is standing in the doorway. I tumble off Josh, and he grabs the sketchbook and lunges into his desk chair, strategically planting the book on his lap. Every square inch of my skin is on fire.

"Have a nice day," Nate says wearily. He trudges away.

I groan. "I can't decide if the new rules suck more for him or for us."

Josh bangs his forehead once against his desk. "Definitely us." Before I can reply, his phone rings. He lifts his head to peek at the screen. And then he swears under his breath. "I have to take this, or she'll never stop calling." He picks it up. "Hey, Mom."

Don't think about the sketchbook. Do not think about what it is covering.

"Yep. Everything's fine." Pause. "I'm doing homework." Pause. "No." Pause. "No, I'm not." Pause. "Yeah. I know." Josh rolls his eyes as he tosses the sketchbook back to the bed, a twofold message that the mood is beyond repair, and I'm welcome to look at anything inside. "No. I know." Their conversation continues like this for five minutes until he cuts her off. "Oh, man, fire drill. Gotta run, bye." He hangs up. And then he slings his phone across the desk and drops his head into his hands.

I give him a moment before asking. "Fire drill?"

Josh lifts his head. "Usually I come up with a better excuse." He stretches out a leg and taps one of my shoes with his. "Hard to think with you sitting there."

I tap back. "I take it you aren't close with your parents?"

"No. I'm not."

I wonder how often they talk. I only talk to mine about once a week, but our calls always last for at least an hour. "Is that why you're here? In France? I have to admit, I've always thought it was kind of odd that a senator would send his kid to a foreign country to be educated."

"Paris wasn't exactly their first choice." And then he gets this strange expression, as if he's surprised by his own words.

"What do you mean?"

"I...I've never admitted that to anyone before."

My brow furrows.

Josh stares at his hands, ma.s.saging his left thumb into his right palm. "My friends were aware that I don't get along with my parents, so...they sort of a.s.sumed that I was shipped here because I'm difficult. Or whatever. And I never corrected them. I guess I wanted them to believe it, because...it's less embarra.s.sing than the truth." He looks back up at me and holds my gaze. "I chose this. Being stuck here is my own fault."

My eyes widen. I wait for him to explain.

"When my parents started looking at private high schools in New York and DC, I talked them into believing that sending me overseas would be better for my education. And I was immature, and I was dumb, and Paris sounded romantic and artistic and all of that bulls.h.i.t, but the moment I got here, I realized...it's just a city. You know? And, yeah, it's beautiful and cultured and everything the cliche says it is. But, I don't know. It's always felt like I'm killing time here until my real life can begin."

Killing time. I don't think he counts me as a part of this, but the words are still wounding. I try not to let it show. "So where would you like to be? New York? DC?"

"No. And definitely no. I'm going to Vermont next year."

I frown. "Vermont? What's in Vermont?"

"The Center for Cartoon Studies." Josh perks up at my confusion. He scoots closer in his chair. "It's the only one of its kind it completely focuses on sequential art. And it has this insane faculty, all of the best cartoonists visit to teach there."

"Cartoonists? Like, what? The guy who draws Calvin and Hobbes?"

He shakes his head. "No, anyone who draws sequential art is a cartoonist. Superhero stuff, graphic novels, graphic non-fiction. It doesn't just apply to the people who draw comic strips."

"Oh." And now I feel dumb. "How big is the school?"

"It's not big. It's about half the size of SOAP." He picks up a pencil and rocks it between two fingers. "So what's next for you?"

The nerve is struck. Just like that. "I...I don't know."

His pencil stops.

I should have seen the question coming, but it blindsides me. I'm humiliated to find myself fighting back tears. "I'm applying to both la Sorbonne and Columbia, but I don't know where I want to go. I don't know where I belong."

Josh moves onto the bed, beside me again. "Hey. It's okay. You still have plenty of time to decide."

"No. I don't. And you wanna know the worst part? I kind of hope one of them will reject me so that I won't have to make the decision myself."

His eyebrows raise. He's silent for a long time, debating something in his head. "I've seen the charts in the head's office." He's choosing his words carefully. "You're the best student in our cla.s.s. Both schools are going to accept you."

So he does know. I scratch at my peachy-pink nail polish. Chip it away, bit by bit.

"What do you want to study?"

The pit in my stomach grows deeper. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I mean...I don't know. I don't know what I want to do, or who I want to be, or where I want to live. It's like everyone else has their entire future mapped out except for me."

Josh's expression falls. "You know that's not true."

"Maybe at other schools, but at ours? People have plans. You have plans."

"Well. Which city do you like better?"

I tug on my compa.s.s. "They both feel like home. When I was young, my family spent summers here and the rest of the year there. Now it's the reverse. I'm a citizen of both countries, I'm fluent in both languages, and I'm comfortable in both cities."

"Comfortable."

Something about the way he says it. "What?" I ask.

"It's just...don't you want to try something new? What about all of those adventure stories weighing down your bookshelves?"

I don't know. I don't know. I like reading about adventure, sure, but I also like doing it from the safety of home. But what is home, besides a quilt-covered bed? Where is it?

Josh sees that I'm getting upset with myself, so he tries to lighten the mood. "You know where I think you should go? Dartmouth."

"Yeah. I don't even know where that is."

"It's in New Hampshire, on the Vermont border. And the Center for Cartoon Studies? Just so happens to be on the other side. And I've heard that Dartmouth has an amazing programme in Nothing. The best Nothing programme in the world. That's what people say."

I finally crack a smile. He's teasing, but it's still nice to know that he wouldn't mind me living nearby. Or, at least, that he likes me enough to joke about it. I nod at his drafting table. "So show me your real work. Show me what you do in here all day."

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."