“I’m like forty pounds heavier than that, but I’m not gonna complain,” she said. “Can I have that when you’re done?”
“Sure,” I said, turning to a new page. “But yeah, I’m not dead set on New York. I just know I want to get as far away from here as possible.”
“Word,” Bee said, holding the camera close to her face and screwing her nose up in concentration. “Fuck this place.” She pointed the camera my way and snapped a few photos before I could turn away—a reflex from years of being unable to stomach the sight of myself in photographs. “Why a girl like you doesn’t want to be seen is a mystery to me,” Bee said, shaking her head. “How’s that boy of yours by the way?”
“Good,” I said, sketching out a bunch of random shapes that I would go back later and fill with faces. I felt my cheeks burn the way they always did when I thought of Grant. I thought of the movies we hadn’t paid any attention to, and the rolled-up-jeans walks by the lake, and fingertips brushing and smiling glances in first period while Parker glared sullenly. “Great, actually. Except…” I trailed off, unsure how much I wanted to say.
“Trouble in the garden?” Bee said, grinning. “Does he have bad breath? Is he, like, super racist?”
“No,” I said slowly, arching an eyebrow. “Nothing like that. He’s just … It’s just…” I looked up at Bee’s inquisitive face, and realized that as much as I loved talking to Virginia, I wanted to talk to someone about Grant who actually knew Grant, and the words began tumbling out. “He’s weird sometimes. Like, we have to meet up for all our dates; he won’t pick me up. He says his car is in the shop, but it’s been weeks now. And he’s always busy with something he doesn’t want to talk about. Like, we’re lucky if we get to hang out once a week, you know? No way football takes up that much of his time. I feel like he’s keeping things from me.”
“Maybe he’s gay,” Bee said. She obviously meant it as a joke, but I couldn’t help imagining the worst, that he only liked me for the boyish things about me. Was it possible?
“You don’t really…” I began, only to trail off. I wondered for a horrible moment if that was why he liked me, but Bee gave me a weird look and stopped my mind from swirling. “You don’t really think he’s gay, do you?”
“How would I know?” Bee said. “Just ’cause I’m bi doesn’t mean I have magic powers. I’m not the plucky queer sidekick in your romantic comedy.”
“I’m sor— Look, I didn’t mean it that way,” I said, suppressing the urge to apologize. “It’s just you kind of have dirt on everybody, don’t you?”
She laughed at the look on my face. “I’m joking! Grant’s straight as they come.” She closed her eyes and slid down onto her back like a serpent. “Parker, though? Biggest closet case I ever saw.”
“No way,” I said, shaking my head. “I told you what happened at that party! He’s like a giant homophobe!”
“That’s how you can tell,” Bee said. “You’re straight, right?”
I nodded.
“How often do you think about women having sex with each other?”
I thought about it for a moment.
“Never,” I said, shrugging.
“My point exactly! Homophobes think about gay sex all the time because they wanna have it. They insist being gay is a choice because every single day they have to choose not to have the kind of sex they want. Homophobes are super gay.”
“I guess that makes sense,” I said. “But wouldn’t that make the South—”
“The gayest place in the Western hemisphere?” Bee said. “Absolutely.”
We laughed at that idea for a moment, until the sound of footsteps drew our attention. We shared a quick horrified glance, and then I waved as much of our smoke away as I could while Bee stowed the joint. It was last period, but that was hardly an excuse for smoking on school grounds. We quietly sneaked around the side of the building and leaned past the corner, to see if we had heard correctly. My heart nearly stopped when I saw the front door to the art building standing open.
“Shit,” Bee hissed. “Shit, shit, shit. Let’s bail.”
We hurried back behind the building and froze when we saw a short, middle-aged man with a slate-gray crew cut standing next to our bags holding our sketchbooks, a thoughtful expression on his square face. He looked up at us silently and raised his eyebrows.
“Bee,” he said flatly. “Can’t say I’m surprised. How fares your senior year?”
“Uh, good,” Bee said.
“That’s good,” the man said, turning his attention back to our papers and sniffing conspicuously. Was he letting us know he knew we’d been smoking? “And might I know your friend’s name?”
“Amanda Hardy,” Bee said for me, when it was clear I wasn’t going to speak.
“A pleasure, Amanda,” the man said as he tucked our notebooks under his arm. “I’m Mr. Kurjak. Expect a call from me this weekend, both of you. Mind if I borrow your sketchbooks?”
“No,” Bee said. I just shook my head.
“I’ll get them back as soon as I can,” he said, giving us the vaguest hint of a nod as he turned and walked away.
Bee waited until she was sure Mr. Kurjak was out of earshot and said, “That could’ve gone worse.”