“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.”
I’m not sure how to respond.
The head looks down at me through her glasses, which are perched on the tip of her nose. “You’re a bright girl. Be careful there.” And then she strides away.
I don’t appreciate her tone. Or her presumption that hormones might be getting in the way of my intelligence. Is she afraid that Josh’s attitude will rub off on me? That I’ll stop caring about my education? Well, she can take her concern and shove it up her ass. But when I open my bedroom door a few hours later, Josh is also unusually cross.
“It backfired,” he says. “You know that whole detention-on-the-Sabbath idea? I asked the head about it, and she went straight to my parents.”
I wince.
“Yeah. And even though this time the excuse is – in theory – legitimate, my parents agreed that I’m being impudent, and now I have two additional weeks of detention.”
I’m shocked. “Two weeks? But that means—”
“Detention through the end of October.”
“That’s insane! What the hell is the head’s problem?”
He kicks off his shoes and flops onto my bed. “Welcome to the latest attempt at trying to get me to take this school more seriously.”
“I’m sorry. The Sabbath thing was my idea. My stupid, stupid—”
“Hey.” Josh sits up on his elbows. “Only because I didn’t think of it first.”
There’s a commotion in the hallway. “Look who’s on Izla’s bed,” Mike says. “Give us a show, girlie girl! Give us a sneak peek.”
Emily hoots. “Is Kurt jealous?”
Dave pushes his shaggy hair away from his eyes. “Nah. They’re getting ready for a threesome.”
I want to punch them all in the throat. But Josh is staring down Mike. “Her name is Eye-la. It must be difficult to remember when your brain is smaller than your penis. Which, rumour has it, isn’t that big in the first place.”
“Fuck you, Wasserstein.”
“Good one.”
The stairwell door clangs open, and Sanjita appears behind them. Her gaze is fixed on something ahead in the lobby. It’s an unnatural position that tells me she already knows this is my room. “Come on, Mike.” She tugs on his arm. “I’m hungry.”
He’s still puffed up like an angry baby owl. He points a finger at Josh. “I’ll get you.”
They swagger away, and Josh scowls at the doorway with supreme irritation. “Has there ever been an emptier threat?”
“What is with people today?”
“I don’t know. But I hate them. I hate everyone in the world but you.”
“And Kurt.”
“And Kurt,” he agrees. “Where is Kurt?”
“It’s sushi night. Remember?”
He sinks into my pillows. “Oh. Right.”
We discussed it earlier and decided that Kurt and I should keep Friday nights, and then Saturday nights will be ours. But I’m disappointed, too. The schedules, the rules, the people.
As soon as his Sabbath detention is over, he’s back at my door.
“I want to draw you again,” he says. “Before dinner. While there’s still light.”
My bloodstream courses with euphoria as he hurries me towards the Arènes de Lutèce, an amphitheatre long abandoned by the Romans. Once, it was immense and crowded and used for gladiatorial combat. Now, it’s smallish and empty and park-like. It’s only a few blocks away from our school, but it’s wholly concealed behind its surrounding apartments. No matter how many times I visit, I’m always still surprised to find an entire ancient arena hidden back here.
The park tends to stay quiet. Today, a father is teaching his young son how to dribble a football in its large and dusty centre. Josh and I climb the stairs to the original stone niches above the field. Each niche contains a modern bench, and we pick the one with the best view. Against his knees, Josh props up a sketch pad (one with thick, removable pages) and immediately commences drawing with his favourite brush pen (a capped pen with a brush tip). He works as he always does, with his thumb tucked underneath his index finger. I love watching his hand.
“What should I do?” I ask. “How should I sit?”
“Sit however you want. But try not to move too much,” he adds with a smile.
There’s nothing like being openly stared at by an attractive member of the opposite sex to make me feel as if all of my limbs were in the wrong place. I search for a distraction. “So…what’s the story behind your sticker?”
Josh flips over the pad, expecting something to have appeared.
“The one on your sketchbook. The American WELCOME one.”
“Oh.” He snorts. “There’s no story. My dad had a huge stack of them in his office, and I just took one. There were a lot of ass**les on Capitol Hill ragging on Mexican immigration that week, so I drew the word I wished they were talking about instead. But it wasn’t an original idea. I saw an Australian sticker like it once.”
“You know what I like about you?” I ask, after a few minutes.
“My dy***ite moves on the dance floor.”
“You’ve crafted this bored veneer, but you’re always giving yourself away in moments like that. In the moments that really matter.”
“I don’t care about anything,” he says. “But I care about you.”
“Nope. You have a mushy heart, Joshua Wasserstein. I can see it.”
He smiles to himself and keeps drawing. There’s a fragrant gust of wind, and the first leaves of the season rain down upon us. A nip pierces the air. I watch the tiny boy in the arena dart between his father’s legs and listen to the faint crunch of gravel as an elderly couple walks the footpath behind us. The sun grows lower on the horizon. There’s a new stillness, and I realize that Josh has stopped working.