Boy Meets Boy by David Levithan Read Free Book Online Page B

you."

    "But what about instructions?"

    "There are no other instructions."

    He walks over to the speakers and plugs them into the wall. The music begins, drifting into the room like a perfumed scent. A piano tinkles in jazz cadences. A trumpet chimes in. And then the voice-- this wonderful voice--begins to croon.

    "There's a somebody I'm longing to see. . . ."

    "Who is this?" I ask.

    "Chet Baker."

    He's marvelous.

    "Don't get lost in the words," Noah says, ready to paint. "Follow the sounds."

    At first I don't know what this means. I dip my brush into a velvety purple. I raise it to the canvas and listen to the music. Chet Baker's voice is sinuous, floaty. I touch the brush to the paper and try to make it soar in time with the song. I swoop it down, then up again. I am not painting a shape. I am painting the tune.

    The song continues. I wash my brush and try different colors. The sunflower yellow settles in patches, while the tomato red flirts over the lines of purple. Another song begins. I reach for a blue the color of oceans.

    ". . . I'm so lucky to be the one you run to see. .. ."

    I close my eyes and add the blue to my painting. When I open my eyes, I look over to Noah and see he's been glancing at me. I think he knows I understand.

    Another song. I am now able to see things in my painting--the hint of a wing, the undertow of a tide.

    Noah surprises me by speaking.

    "Have you always known?" he asks. I know immediately what he's talking about.

    "Pretty much so, yeah," I answer. "You?"

    He nods, eyes still on the canvas, his brush a mark of blue.

    "Has it been easy for you?"

    "Yes," I tell him, because it's the truth.

    "It hasn't always been easy for me," he says, then says no more.

    I stop painting and watch him for a moment. He is concentrating on the music now, moving his brush in an arc. He is completely in tune with the trumpet that solos above the beat. His mood reflects indigo. Is it heartbreak that makes him sad (I remember his sister's comment in the kitchen), or is it something else?

    He senses my stillness and turns to me. There is something in his expression the moment before he speaks -- I cannot tell whether H s vulnerability or doubt. Is he unsure about himself or unsure about me?

    "Let me see what you've done," he says.

    I shake my head. "Not 'til the song is over."

    But when the song is over, I'm still not satisfied.

    "It doesn't look right," I tell him as the next song begins.

    "Let's see," he says. Part of me wants to block his view, blot out what I've created. But I let him see anyway.

    He stands next to me, looking at the music I've painted. When he speaks, Chet Baker's horn highlights his words.

    "This is splendid," he says.

    He is so close to me. All I can feel is his presence. It is in the air surrounding us, the music surrounding us, and all my thoughts.

    I am still holding the paintbrush. He reaches for my hand and lifts it gently.

    "Here," he whispers, guiding me across the paper, leaving an auburn trail.

    "It's only twilight, I watch 'til the star breaks through. . . ."

    The brush covers its distance. We both know when it ends. Our hands lower together, still holding on.

    We do not let go.

    We stand there looking. His hand over mine. Our breathing.

    We leave everything unsaid.

    The song ends. Another begins. This one is a blast of upbeat.

    "Let's get lost. . . ."

    Our hands separate. I turn to him. He smiles and walks back to his easel, taking up his brush.
    I follow him to peek over his shoulder.

    I am floored.

    His painting is not an abstraction. He has only used one color, a near-black green. The woman in the painting is dancing with her eyes closed. She is all that he's drawn, but all you need is her figure to know what is going on. She is on a dance floor, and she is dancing alone.

    "Wow," I murmur.

    He bashfully turns away. "Let's finish," he says.

    So I head back to my own easel, stepping on the marks of paint I have already left on the floor. We