Isla and the Happily Ever After(35)

I finally crack a smile. He’s teasing, but it’s still nice to know that he wouldn’t mind me living nearby. Or, at least, that he likes me enough to joke about it. I nod at his drafting table. “So show me your real work. Show me what you do in here all day.”

Josh is surprised and happy to give me a tour through his workspace: dozens upon dozens of brushes, pens and pencils, India ink, oil paints, watercolours, nibs, erasers, reference photographs, a hair dryer for speeding up ink-drying time, several different-size pads of what he calls his semi-precious paper, and an elephantine box where he keeps his best. Like me, he’s crammed a skinny bookcase into his room, but his shelves are packed with bound sketchbooks, art books, reference books, and what appears to be every graphic memoir ever written – Jeffrey Brown, Craig Thompson, Alison Bechdel, James Kochalka, Lucy Knisley, and tons of others I’ve never seen before.

There is a distinct absence of school-related work. The strap of his bag pokes out from underneath his bed, so I assume the rest has been shoved down there, as well. And below his dresser – where I’ve placed a second dresser for more clothing – he’s placed a large metal flat-file. His own graphic memoir has been divided between its drawers. They’re labelled: BSB FRESHMAN, BSB SOPHOMORE, and BSB JUNIOR.

“Do you have a senior drawer?” I ask.

“Not yet.” Josh taps his temple with a finger. “I’m still storyboarding last summer.” He shows me what he’s been working on – blue-pencilled thumbnails of his annoyed self in DC, attempting to block out the sound of his father recording an attack ad about Terry Robb. Terry is his opponent in the upcoming election. “It’s easier to start like this. It keeps me from making bigger mistakes later.”

“What do your parents think about you writing about this? About your private lives?”

He shrugs. “They don’t know I write about our private lives.”

I wonder if that’s actually true. “What does ‘BSB’ stand for?”

“Boarding School Boy. That’s the title.”

I glance at the top drawer, his junior year, and then at him. He nods. I slide it open and find a stack of thick paper with fully inked illustrations. The top sheet is a drawing of his friends in graduation caps, smiling, arms around one another. Josh stands apart from them, small and distant. I lift it up, delicately, to peer at what’s below. It’s a multi-panelled page of Josh wandering around a city that is unmistakably Venice, Italy.

Cartoon Josh is familiar. It’s the same Josh that I used to see wearing silly costumes on his door. It’s an accurate – though exaggerated – portrait of who he really is. His nose is more prominent, his frame skinnier. But he’s still beautiful. He looks sad and angry and tender and lonely. I lower the top illustration and slide the drawer shut. His work is so personal. I don’t feel as if I’ve earned the right to look at it. Not yet.

“I hope I get to read this someday.”

I know he’d let me, right here and right now, but he looks relieved that I’ve chosen not to. “You will,” he says.



The rest of our day is spent in companionable silence – Josh with his sketches, myself with my textbooks. When the sun begins to set, he turns on his desk lamp and scrounges for food. His fridge is packed tight with ready-made items.

“Aha!” Josh yanks out something from behind the orange juice.

I cap my highlighter. “You do remember where the cafeteria is located, yes?”

“And you remember that I saw your electric kettle? The one against school rules?”

“As if you don’t have one.”

“I have two.” He grins. “And a hotplate.”

“The cafeteria serves food. Fresh food. Made by actual chefs! If it wasn’t closed for dinner on Sundays, I’d prove it to you right now.”

Josh holds up a plastic cup. “Crème brûlée?”

I smile. “Please don’t ruin my favourite dessert.”

“Really?” He pauses, mid-foil removal. “It’s mine, too.”

My heartbeat picks up, pleased by this tiny discovery, as if it’s more evidence for the case of us. But I don’t speak of it. I only release a sigh. “Lavender crème brûlée. Ginger crème brûlée. Espresso crème brûlée.”

“I had rosemary once. Unbelievable.”

I grip his comforter with both hands. “No.”

Josh consumes his dessert in two bites. He tosses the empty cup into his trash can and hops once. “I’ll take you there right now. Come on, come on!”