The bell for class ends, and my bag is still in the classroom. Opening the stall, I splash water on my face and cool the burning heat. As I head out, I hope to contain this overwhelming sickness.
Mr Brown asks if I’m okay as I hand him the hall pass once I enter the room. With a faint smile, I grab my bag and make my way to Creative Arts. I enter late, but Mr Rogers is too busy reading his book to care.
Andy is absent, but Conner is at the back with a playful smile. I sit beside him and open my art book.
“Hey, Noya. It’s your first time being late.”
“I had to go to the bathroom,” I reply. “How was ‘the talk’?”
“As expected,” Conner says with a shrug. “He told me he kissed you, and you didn’t tell him to stop or push him away.”
My hand tightens on my pencil, and I glare at the drawing of Conner. His hand moves over mine, and he takes the pencil from my grasp and places it into my pencil case. “I know it hurts to hear, but know that I sorted it out. Andy won’t touch you again.”
“You didn’t…”
“No,” he says, his hand moving away from mine and resting on my thigh as he leans in. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”
“Oi!” Mr Rogers snaps. “Dick in your pants, Conner.”
Conner sighs as he leans away. I bite my bottom lip and struggle to hold in the laugh that wants to escape.
We work in silence after that. I focus on the drawing and not his drawing of me. However, in the corner of my eye, he pays attention to my lips and around my eyes, and when I look back at mine, I notice it’s lacking in places, as I’m not used to realistically drawing people.
“Do you want me to help you?” Conner asks, which catches me by surprise.
I blink a few times, unsure of what he means.
“Look at me while you draw the features. It helps you get comfortable with realistic drawings until you’re confident in yourself.”
“Oh…”
“Also, this may sound weird, but imagine touching my face as if you’re examining every feature and measuring the length of my brows, jawline, lips, and around my eyes by touch. The length of my nose and the width. Imagine you’re a doctor and need to touch every aspect of my face.” He leans in with a smirk. “You’re good at imagining, my maladaptive daydreamer.”
I turn to him with my hands raised and ask, “Can I?”
He faces me and closes his eyes.
I’m hesitant at first, unsure if this is appropriate or not. Mr Rogers doesn’t think so, as he watches us from the corner of his eye.
I touch Conner’s cheek first, cupping it as my thumb moves up and then drags across his eyebrow as I count the seconds for the length. Then, I return to my art book to do the same, only to realise his eyebrows are slightly longer. I mark it with a one, reminding myself to go back and fix the error.
Then, I move my thumb down Conner’s nose. He smiles when my fingers drag across his lips. They’re soft and?—
I jerk my hand away when he opens his mouth and goes to bite down on my thumb.
“Conner,” I hiss. “You aren’t going to do that again, are you?”
He chuckles, but keeps his eyes closed. “Maybe.”
I smile at how indifferent and weird he’s being.
“Hey, Mr Rogers, look what I drew,” Mark announces.
I turn instinctively, my eyes suddenly widening at the drawing of my naked body. The lump in my throat grows, and as I rise, a wave of nausea sweeps over me. Conner is talking, but it sounds as if he is underwater.
My body convulses, and as I lean forward, vomit sprays all over Conner’s shirt, then everything goes black.
35