“What kind of art do you do? Landscapes? Portraits?”
“A whole lot,” I say. “Mostly people, though. A couple going grocery shopping, for example. Or someone walking a dog. Or people studying. It sounds mundane, but I like the everyday things that subtly tell a story.”
“I see,” he says. “What kind of style is your art? More on the realistic side, or…”
“When I first started, I did realistic. But since my style’s evolved to be more…Eastern.”
“Eastern?”
“Inspired by East Asian art styles. Like Korean and Chinese webtoons. And Japanese manga. And anime.”
“Ah, gotcha,” he says. “I know what you mean.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Everyone watched Pokemon when they were young, right?”
“I was more of a Sailor Moon kid,” I admit.
He nudges me. “Really? I can see it.”
He’s come closer and closer over the course of this conversation, and I like it. I like lying this close to him.
“Why haven’t you told your friends about this?” he asks.
“I just haven’t.”
“But why?” he persists. “No one will think liking art is weird.”
“It is if you’re as obsessed with it as I am,” I say. “And I think they’ll think the anime-inspired art style is weird.”
“Why?”
“Because anime is kind of weird.”
“I think it’s kind of popular. Granted, I haven’t seen any since I was little.”
“It’s not popular with my friends. They’d think I was weird.”
He’s quite a moment. “That sucks,” he says softly.
That’s not the response I was expecting from him. I thought he’d say something like, “Who cares what other people think” or “Are they really your friends if they judge you for something like that?”
“When I was in primary school, my classmates found my drawings,” I say. “It included some fan art of Sailor Moon characters and this other show called Cardcaptor Sakura. I didn’t think I’d drawn anything that cringey, just my favourite characters and their costumes, but everyone in my class teased me. For the rest of primary school, I was known as the weirdo who draws weird stuff. And so when I started high school, I kept it a secret.”
It sounds so anticlimactic and lame to put it like that: people thought I was weird, and I was sad about it. But my classmates passed around my sketchbook while I pleaded with them to give it back, and they disparaged the work I’d spent hours on, carefully copying the poses and colouring the costumes with markers and adding in tiny details. I stopped bringing my sketchbook to school, but they didn’t forget. I know kids act like kids, which means occasionally they’re cruel shits, and there would’ve been times I wasn’t the kindest either, but still. They didn’t have to taunt me. They didn’t have to say, “Do you actually think this is good? Do you actually think you’re talented?”
My body feels heavy, and I wish I hadn’t dredged up those memories. It’s silly and trivial, I know it is, but I don’t want people to treat me like I’m strange ever again. There was only one thing I wanted going into high school: to fit in.
F brings my hand to his mouth. “I’m sorry that happened,” he murmurs. “But if you do want to share one of your artworks with me, I’d love to see it.”
“I’ll think about it,” I whisper.
He kisses the back of my hand, and the weight on my shoulders melts away. I always thought I couldn’t show my entire self to someone because they’d reject me. That’s why I’ve never told my friends about my drawing, or my dream career, or liking anime and manga, or being gay.
But it’s different with F.
We lay in silence for a few minutes. “Winter holidays are coming up soon,” I say. The end of June marks the beginning of the winter holidays, which last for three weeks. Three weeks of no school. Three weeks away from Locker 99.
