Knocking Him Straight

Chapter Three: Kiss the Girl

        Samantha looks at me and waits a heartbeat before stepping from the long corridor. The room opens up in front of me. Artists. Artists drawing, planning, painting, sketching, sculpting, and every other thing you might do with a pencil. A woman just reaching the end of her prime stands up to address us. "Welcome! Today we will draw models. Everyone set up a scene and your tools to draw," she pokes her head out into the hallway, "Here come the models." I rush back and forth getting props and pencils and erasers. My model sits down on a stool, draping her body across the velvet covering it. I sit back and inspect her before bringing my pencil to the paper.

        I haven't drawn a girl except Samantha in my life. I enjoy drawing boys more. Not for the reasons you may think either. I like how easily can bring a tough vibe from the paper. Getting a softer vibe is much more difficult. Looking at the model is such an odd feeling. I had never had a person exist in my life solely for me to draw them. Everything feels fake as my pencil slides down her neck and over her shoulders. Sketching out her torso and ending in her shins. The drawing feels staged as I try again and again to make it feel real. I glance over at Samantha as she stares out the window at the ground below. She looks real. She always looks real. I turn my body and flip to a new page, sketching out her hair and the way it glides into her back. Her arms appear on the paper, melting into her hands like candle wax.

        The model clears her throat as she notices I am no longer paying attention to her. I turn my body back towards her but watch Samantha out of the corner of my eye. I sketch the window and her eyes as they watch the people on the street. I draw her skirt and its flimsy material that swishes when she walks. I am through with my drawing of her when the woman from before addresses the room again. "Now I will collect your drawings so I might look at them and give feedback," she says. A nervous jolt passes through me as I turn back to the page with the model on it, barely halfway done. I consider Samantha for a moment before ripping her out of the sketch book, turning the paper over and signing my name where the title usually goes.

        The walk up to the front of the room is treacherous. A word I don't use often. Dread and guilt and pure anxiety pass through me all in one wave as I make that walk. But when I get there, the woman accepts it without a second glance. I turn and strut back to Samantha, feeling like a criminal who just got away with crime. I feel utterly guilty yet accomplished at the same time. Samantha looks up in bewilderment when I reach her and we walk arm in arm out of the room. "What was that?" she asks.

        "What was what?" I ask her.

        "You think I don't know when you're drawing me, Bradley? Come on," she says, laughing.

        "The model felt fake," I said.

        "And I don't feel fake?" she asks me, hope laced in her voice.

        I turn and look her dead in the eyes, "You never feel fake." She looks away then, her eyes casting downward to the tile floor beneath us, her cheeks staining red. "Oh come on now," I said, lifting her chin to meet my eyes. "Don't be embarrassed." Samantha blinks a few times, a small smile forming on her face. She clears her throat and tears her eyes from mine.

        "So, um, how do you think that went?" she says, eager to change the subject.

        "The instructor is bound to realize I wasn't drawing the model." Samantha is quiet after that as we continue our long walk down the hallway. "Our English teacher is, well, she's expecting me to get my grades up."

        "Yeah. You're not going to stop drawing are you?" she asks.

        "Never," I assure her, "I was just hoping you might, um, help me."

        "Uh, yeah. Sure. Do you want to meet in the library or something?" Samantha says.

        "Yes, the library would be perfect. Can you do Thursdays?" I ask.

        "Thursdays are fine. So after school Thursday in the library?" I am bouncing off little springs that seem to have been tailored to my shoes in those few moments. I could bring my grades up and spend more time with Samantha.

        "See you there," I say, smiling. We part ways when we reach the end of the seemingly unending hallway. Outside the school are standing three guys smoking cigarettes. My sketch book slips from my fingers as I pass them, one of them picks it up and flips through it.

        "Hey Twinkle Toes! You dropped your little drawings," he calls in a mocking tone. As I come to get my sketch book, the boy standing behind me grabs it away.

        "Looky here. All of this girl," he says as I try to take it from him. I watch, horrified as he flips through drawing after drawing of Samantha. He throws it back at me, making me stumble backward as I catch it. I shoot a dirty look and walk a few feet away. "Maybe your not as gay as everyone says." I halt in my step. My mind races. Gay guys aren't supposed to be bouncing off their hinges at the thought of spending time with a girl. But I am gay. There has never been a doubt in my mind. Until... now. Doubts cloud my mind. Maybe I have been living a lie. Maybe I don't know at all who I am attracted to. Maybe I'm in love with Samantha.

        That night, as I lay in bed reminiscing about the day, the boys keep coming back. I am gay. I have to be gay. What am I if I'm not? What am I if I don't know who I am? After a lot of careful thought, I decide that I will kiss her. That is the way to know for sure what she is to me. I've never kissed anyone before. I don't know what it is supposed to feel like or what I am supposed to do when it's over. Thinking about it makes my heart race. Every time I rethink it, I come up with no other options so I know what I must do. It is the only way.