In previous years, Josh would tack up silly illustrations of himself in various costumes – cowboy, pirate, clown, robot, bear. My heart tugs at yet another reminder of his current state of unhappiness at our school.
I smooth the front of my dress. It’s been an hour since breakfast, because I needed to take a shower. I also needed to apply some serious bruise-covering make-up. I take a deep breath and copy his signature knock.
Josh opens the door with a knowing smile.
I return it shyly.
He steps aside, and I enter. I expect him to close the door behind me, because, well, he’s Josh, but he props it open with a book about Parisian architecture. I’m touched by this gesture of respect…even though I wouldn’t mind the privacy right now.
“Sorry, it’s such a mess.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I cleared off the bed, though, and the sheets are clean.”
My eyebrows practically hit my hairline.
“To sit on.” His accusation is made jokingly, but his skin turns melon pink. “Nice shoes, by the way.”
I’m wearing flats. “Nice deflection, by the way.”
“Nice to see you, by the way.”
“Nice save, by the way.”
Josh grins as I drop my homework-stuffed bag to the floor. In theory, I’m going to study, and he’s going to draw. In reality? I hope we make out.
His bedroom is spectacular. The small space feels extra small, because of the sheer volume of artwork, which is everywhere. But the room doesn’t feel cramped. It feels like a cocoon. His drawings are on his desk – which isn’t even our standard-issue desk, it’s some kind of drafting desk – on his dresser, on the floor, on top of his fridge. And they cover nearly every inch of his ceiling and walls.
“I feel like I’m inside of your head.” And then I regret saying it. Because, creepy.
But Josh seems to relax. “My friends used to say that, too.”
I examine his work closer. The illustrations are in black ink, and I recognize locations from all across the city: the rose window and spires of la Sainte-Chapelle, the hedge maze inside le Jardin des Plantes, a wall of human skulls and femurs inside les Catacombes, a caged bird in le Marché aux Fleurs, the opulent exterior of le Palais Garnier – the phantom’s famous opera house.
And the faces. So many faces.
St. Clair; his girlfriend, Anna; his ex-girlfriend Ellie; St. Clair and Josh’s mutual friend Meredith; and of course…Rashmi. My eyes fall on a drawing beside Josh’s window. Rashmi is lounging across a lobby sofa – her head on one armrest, her feet on the other – reading a novel. Her long hair is draped over the back of the armrest in rich, black waves.
“Wow,” I say quietly. “Rashmi looks really pretty.”
Josh swallows. “I did that one a long time ago. Did you see this?” He points to a funny picture of St. Clair poking Anna’s back with someone else’s arm, but now I’m distracted and disoriented. I’m surrounded. Rashmi alone. Rashmi with friends.
Rashmi with Josh.
“She’s my friend, Isla. Or she was. I haven’t even talked to her in months.”
“No, I know.” And I shake my head, because I do know. I’m not sure why this caught me by surprise. I sit on his bed and smile to show him that I’m fine. She’s his friend, and he clearly misses his friends, so it’s good that these drawings are here. Sure. If I can convince him, maybe I can convince myself.
Josh stares at me for a long time. I keep my eyes on his bedspread – blue-and-white plaid, very male – and try to remember how Isla-of-the-past would have fainted if she could see Isla-of-the-present. “If I show you something,” he finally says, “you have to promise me that you’ll take it as a compliment. No judging.”
I tilt my head in question.
“I’m serious. You have to promise.”
“Why? Is it bad?”
“No, I just…wasn’t planning on showing it to you. At least not yet.”
“And now you’re worrying me.” I’m only half joking. “Is this the part where you confess that you’ve been taking pictures of my discarded yogurt cups?”
“I lied,” Josh says.
My worry becomes whole as he slides open a drawer, removes a battered sketchbook, and places it in my hands. I turn it over. WELCOME, the blue sticker says. “That’s the one I was using last June,” he says. “I didn’t leave it in New York. Obviously.”
“This is it?” My relief is profound. “Yeah, I know. I’ve seen it in your bag.”
He blanches. “You have?”
“It’s okay. I understand. I mean, the drawing isn’t flattering, right? I was so out of it. I understand why you wouldn’t want to show me.”