“You can talk, after the hand job you gave me last week,” I grumble. I’m confused about why he’s walking away after we just got started. “I can do it to you, if you like. Been doing it to myself for fucking years.”
He laughs at that but it sounds soulless. “It's not that.” He starts getting dressed. “I'm going to see a girl.”
“What, now?”
“Yeah, why? You jealous?”
“No, fuck no, of course not. Why would I be jealous?” I snap my mouth shut when I remember the phrase ‘thou doth protest too much’.
Miles laughs at me again, making me feel even more foolish.
I remain motionless as he dresses fully and throws his bag over his shoulder.
“Don't be jealous. Raquelle’s not that important to me. She's just easy and her parents work late on Thursdays.”
My stomach lurches with nausea, and not the kind I am oh so familiar with. Sometimes Miles can be really fucking gross. A pig. A twat of the highest order. And yet I stay silent. I don't call him out or tell him to shut up. He has a power over me and not just because he looks annoyingly good in jeans. I like kissing him. I like having that missing puzzle piece safely in its rightful place.
“See ya, Smitho,” he says before walking out of the changing room, leaving me and my nausea alone.
Ten minutes later, I'm wandering down the school corridors towards the exit, in no particular rush. Maman works evenings on Thursdays so we'll be eating later. Later than usual, even. My mother may have left France twenty-five years ago but her eating habits and times are very French, with us sitting down for dinner typically at eight-thirty.
I'm not sure if it's got anything to do with my run-in with Miles but I don't really want to be alone for longer than I have to be tonight. I'm about to turn left towards the only exit I know will still be open at this time—5:45pm—but I hear the familiar pulse and synths of music I recognise. It's Air, a French band my mum used to play when I was a kid. I follow the sound further down the corridor and find it coming from the art room which is all lit up. Windows allow me to see inside and I spot D— Ravel moving around a large table with a paint brush in her hand. Her usual uniform of black is covered up with an off-white oversized man's shirt that boasts splotches and splats of paint, and I spend far toolong looking at the curve of her full breasts straining against the material. Pulling my eyes away, I look at what she's painting. It's an abstract blend of colour. Indecipherable shapes overlapping one another. Some in neon pink and some in bright blue and where they meet, various shades of purple. I can't determine exactly what it is but I do know that it's instantly eye-catching and beautiful.
“Can I help you?” Her voice pulls my eyes up. She has one hand on her hip and the other holds the paint brush aloft, a little bit like it's a cigarette between her fingers.
“Sorry, I was,” I pause.What was I doing?“I heard music.”
“I'm allowed to play it,” she snaps. “Mrs Kim lets me play it after school-hours.”
“Why are you here? After hours?”
“It's too big to carry and work on at home.” She nods at the painting.
“Can I?” I gesture to her work, asking if I can look at it closer. Her face is expressionless for a beat before a small scowl returns.
“If you want,” she says begrudgingly. I study the shapes, the swirls, the colours, the dance of strokes up close. It's even more detailed, more beguiling, more beautiful from less than a metre away.
“It's very cool,” I say. “What is it?”
She tuts, loudly. “Do you always say you like things even though you don’t fully understand what they are?” she asks accusingly.
Yes, I think,you.
It's a thought that materialises from nowhere. Why would I like this girl who has never been more than hostile to me? Who avoids pairing with me for partner work in ourclasses together? Who looks at me like I'm something she trod in and ruined her favourite combat boots?
“But it must mean something,” I say, hoping I'm not showing yet more ignorance about modern art. “I just can't believe something so...striking could be meaningless. The colours, the shapes, the way you make purple with the pinks and blues.”
D— looks momentarily stunned, but she's quick to wipe it off her face.
“Well, actually, yes, the colours do mean something. The blue is...” She stops and looks down at the painting, and I've never seen her look so unsure, so lacking in confidence, but again it lasts barely a couple of seconds. “It's the bisexual flag. The colours. I like how the pink and the blue of the flag make the purple in the middle. And I wanted to free paint whatever I wanted, whatever I desired in the moment, because that's exactly how my bisexuality works.”
Her voice seems to get louder in my head and easy word echoes through my mind. She's so comfortable talking about it. She's so unafraid of what I might think. She's so...like the painting. Bright and colourful and free and...beautiful.
“You're bisexual?” I ask
“Yeah,” she says, and her tone implies theduhthat is missing.
“That's...that's cool.” More words are on the tip of my tongue, words likeme too, andsame hereandguess what? I'm bisexual!as well. But I keep them locked in my closed mouth.
