After what feels like five whole minutes, he only asks, “Can I see some more?”
When I nod, he flips through the pages. He looks at every drawing with a serious look on his face, like he’s thinking very hard about it. For a while, I busy myself taking little nibbles of cookies and cake and don’t even notice when I’ve eaten so much of them that he laughs when he gets to the first page.
“I guess it’s a good thing I already ate my cake.”
Oh.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“It’s okay. I got it for you, anyway.”
My chest pricks with embarassment in the silence and I just ask the first thing I think of to make it not so awkward.
“Um, do you draw?”
“No.” The boy frowns. “I’m terrible at drawing. I don’t like being bad at things.”
“You wouldn’t be bad if you practiced.”
“No, I’m not an artist,” he tells me. “Not like you. I’m good at other stuff.”
“Like what?”
He thinks, getting that little line in between his eyebrows while his lips press into a straight line. I wonder where he goes to school or if he’s tutored like me.
Do the girls in his class think he’s handsome?
I think they would.
“Math,” he admits with a sheepish shrug. “I’m really good at math. And reading. Gym class, too.”
“Ihategym class,” I snap before I can stop myself. “It’s just…super boring.”
That’s not it, but I don’t want to tell him that they make me sit on the bleachers so I don’t get hurt.
“Hey,” I say, getting an idea. “Maybe you can go to gym class for me, and I’ll go to art class for you.”
“That would be awesome,” he snorts. “Too bad you don’t go to my school.”
He bumps his shoulder to mine and I squirm on the carpet.
I’m not used to boys saying nice stuff to me, and I realize suddenly that this boy is cute…reallycute. I want to tell him that I wish I went to his school, too, but I don’t want it to come out wrong, so I don’t say anything at all.
He hands me my notebook back. “Why haven’t I seen you here before? I’m usually the only middle schooler here. It would be more fun if you came to all of them.”
“I wish I could,” I say it before I think it through, but it’s funny because I mean it. I hate these parties but if he’s going to be here then I don’t think I’d mind coming all that much.
“Can I watch you draw?” he asks.
I shrug. “If you want. You might get bored.”
“I won’t.”
I ask him lots of questions while I draw, about his friends (he has one best friend, Nate), his house (he has his own bedroom with a rocketship bed), his school (he has to wear uniforms, but it’s not so bad.)
He asks me questions too, about my favorite animals and books and seasons. He seems to notice when I don’t want to answer a question and changes the topic before I have to.
That's good because I don't want him to know I'm sick. I don't want him to change the way he talks to me, or look at me with that sad face grown-ups get when they think I'm not paying attention.
