I Wish You All the Best

by Mason Deaver

  I think for a moment. “I like that I could make it up, the space around it, I mean.” Sure, I got the bird accurate, but the rest of the void was my playground. A blend of blues and purples with the small red bird providing the contrast.

  “And the Pollock thing?”

  “Drip painting,” I correct.

  “The drip painting,” he says with a grin on his face. “What’s one thing you like about it?”

  “I like how the purples still come through, even under all the blue.”

  “And this one.” Nathan points back to his portrait.

  “I like that it’s about you,” I say quietly, and he doesn’t seem to hear me at first, or I think he doesn’t.

  Then he says, “That’s a pretty good feature.” He lets out a long sigh. “You always point out the problems with the paintings or the drawings. But what about the things you got right?”

  “What about them?”

  “Don’t they mean something?”

  His words make my stomach drop. I don’t know, maybe he’s right. But I don’t think he realizes how difficult it can be to forget all the mistakes when I know they’re my fault. When I know I should’ve caught them. “It’s hard to be proud of something you messed up, even if everything around it is perfect.”

  “Don’t ignore the problems,” he says. “Learn from them. But also, don’t knock what you get right. Every success deserves a celebration.”

  I feel sort of speechless, before I can manage to spit out a “Thank you.”

  “It’s what I’m here for. Emotional support. Being a model just narrowly comes in second.”

  “I think Sophie’s right. This hasn’t done much for that ego.”

  “Whatever. So, we need to discuss modeling opportunities. I’m thinking I go full nude next?”

  “Not on your life,” I say, laughing him off, and trying really hard not to think about Nathan being naked. “What about you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What do you like about my work?”

  Nathan glances toward me, but he doesn’t answer.

  “That day we got the paint from the art room, you acted like you were going to say something. What was it?”

  “You remember that?” He chuckles.

  “I think it was the only time I’ve seen you speechless.” I nudge him. “Come on.” I make my voice deeper, sounding as serious as I can. “What do you feel when you see them?”

  “That’s a terrible accent.”

  “I sound scholarly,” I argue. “Now stop avoiding the question.”

  “Your paintings seem … complicated.”

  I freeze; okay, not really expecting that. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s … nothing,” he says, and then he starts to laugh for no reason. “Nothing, I swear.”

  “No,” I say. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t know, I feel like I can see you in them. That probably doesn’t make any sense.”

  Not really. But I want to hear him out on this. “Keep talking.”

  “Like the Pollock one, I don’t know, it seems bright and active. But, like, really dark at the same time. If that even makes sense.” He takes a slow breath. “I think it’s the painting that feels most like you.”

  “That one was just some assignment. Mrs. Liu wanted me to show her freshman class how Pollock painted.”

  “Still, it feels like you.” He laughs again. “Like a very ‘Ben-ish’ painting.”

  “‘Ben-ish’?” I say. “Huh.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, no, no.” I glance toward him, and then back to the painting. “I get it.” At least, I think I do.

  “The one of the bird feels lonely,” Nathan keeps going. “Like you’ve got all this empty space, even though it’s this huge canvas.”

  “You should critique art,” I say.

  “Or maybe I’ll just critique you.” He winks.

  “That might be your worst line yet.” But I can still feel my face getting a little hot, and I can’t hold his gaze for more than a few seconds.

  I wait for him to keep going, to say something about his portrait, but I guess he’s already told me everything he needs to say about it. The bright colors, the angle. “Do you want to walk around?” I ask him.

  “Yeah, why not?”

  But the second we round the corner, my eyes find the front doors of the school. And the two people walking right through them.

  “Fuck,” I whisper under my breath.

  Mom and Dad are here.

  “No. No, no, no, no.”

  Nathan freezes. “What are they …”

  I have to think fast. “Listen, please find Hannah and Thomas,” I say just low enough so that only Nathan will hear me. “Distract them, keep them away from my section, okay?”

  “Got it.” Nathan nods and runs off, glancing down the aisles.

  “Hi, honey, where is your friend going?” Mom asks.

  “To get something to drink,” I murmur. “What are you two doing here?”

  “Well, we were looking at your school’s website,” Mom says with a smile. “And we saw that there was an art show, and that your name was on the list of students!”

  “So, we thought we’d stop by.” Dad folds up a flyer he was given at the door.

  “Don’t y’all think you should’ve messaged me first? To see if I was okay with this?” I ask.

  “Oh, honey, don’t be silly. We wanted to support you.” Mom bats at me with her hand.

  “Now, where is your stuff? I’d love to see it.”

  “I think you two should go.”

  Dad scoffs. “So now we aren’t allowed to view our own child’s work? You used to talk about your art all the time, I thought you’d be excited!”

  I catch the word use, no “sons” yet. Maybe they’re trying now? “Hannah’s here, and I didn’t invite you. I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Oh, stop, Ben.” Dad brushes past me. “We’ll take one quick look and then leave, okay? Maybe we’ll go out to dinner to celebrate.”

  “Yeah, sure. Maybe.” I’ll say whatever I need to, as long as they leave as quickly as possible. I duck in front of Mom and lead them both toward my little section. “Here you go.”

  “Oh goodness, these sure are something, Ben.”

  I keep myself from asking exactly what kind of “something” they are. “Thank you.”

  “You really painted these?” Dad asks, leaning in for a closer look. “I’m surprised; you’re more talented than I thought.”

  Maybe if he’d actually bothered to look at any of the things I showed him back home he’d be less surprised. “Yep.” I glance around, hoping that Nathan’s found Hannah and Thomas.

  “Oh, get in close, sweetie.” Mom pulls out her phone. “I want to take a picture!”

  “Fine, then you guys really need to leave,” I say, standing beside the drip painting.

  I hear Mom whisper, “I do wish you were wearing a different shirt.” But I choose to ignore her. No point in getting them riled up.

  “Is that your friend?” Dad asks. “Nate?”

  “Nathan,” I say. “And yes.”

  “Looks just like him.” But it doesn’t sound like a compliment. I’m sure the pieces are coming together in his head. I painted a portrait of a boy, a boy I seem very close with. In his head it’s simple addition.

  “Thank you,” I say, maybe just to spite him.

  “Are you getting paid for these?” Dad asks.

  “No, Dad.”

  “Well, we should talk to someone about that.” He starts to look around, but I have to stop him.

  “No, Dad, it’s okay. This is a student show. No one’s getting paid.”

  Mom snaps a few photos with her phone. “Well, this was just fantastic. These really are amazing, Ben.”

  “Okay, now please, leave.”

  “Benjamin, there’s no need to be rude, we came all this way.” Dad wraps an arm around Mom’s waist.

  “Guys, I’m begging you
. Listen—”

  “Ah-ah.” Dad lets out a low chuckle and eyes Mom, but she isn’t laughing. “Now who’s misgendering someone?”

  Un-fucking-believable.

  And he’s just going to keep laughing in my face.

  “That was one of the things we found, when you use the wrong words for someone,” Mom explains.

  “Well, then maybe you understand how it isn’t a fucking joke?” I say just loud enough so they can still hear me.

  Neither of them acknowledges it though. In fact, they start looking around at all the other students like they’re purposely ignoring me.

  “You know, this really is a nice school,” Mom says. “Very modern.”

  “Yeah, it’s perfect.” God, why won’t they just leave? “Now, please—”

  “Oh, great,” Dad whispers under his breath.

  Oh no.

  Fuck me.

  Hannah’s coming right for us, Thomas on her heels, and Nathan’s behind Thomas. A fucking conga line of disaster.

  “Ben, I’m sorry, I—” Nathan tries to say, but he’s blocked out by Hannah.

  “What are you two doing here?” Hannah doesn’t waste any time, getting right in Mom’s face.

  “Hannah, listen—” I try to beg her to calm down. “Please don’t do this here.”

  “Stay out of this, Ben,” she pushes back.

  “Hannah, honey, come on.” Thomas takes Hannah by the shoulders and tries to lead her away, but it’s no use. “Let’s just go outside.”

  “I’m going to ask you again.” She points a finger right at Dad’s face. “What are you two doing here?”

  “We came to see Ben,” Mom says calmly.

  “We wanted to support him,” Dad says.

  This can’t be real, this can’t be happening. Not here, please God, not in the middle of the freaking school lobby.

  “Oh, so now you can support them? After you kicked Ben out of the goddamn house?”

  Not here, not here, not here.

  I feel Nathan step closer, his arm wrapping around my shoulder. All I want to do is pull away, run out the door away from the place. But I can’t. I’m frozen where I stand, my stomach churning as that nauseated feeling takes over.

  “Hannah Marie De Backer,” Dad tries to say, but Hannah isn’t having any of it.

  “Do you understand what you’ve put Ben through, the panic attacks, the anxiety? You kicked out your own child, for god sakes.”

  “This is none of your business,” Dad huffs. “We’ve realized our mistake, and we’re working to fix it. Ben’s even agreed to come back home after he graduates.”

  Oh no.

  Hannah turns on me. “What?”

  This isn’t happening, this cannot be happening. “No, no, no, that’s not what I said!” Where did he even pull that from?

  “We met up the other day and discussed him coming to stay with us once he’s done here. That way he can properly pursue a college education.” Dad keeps talking.

  Hannah starts to laugh. “You met with them? After what they did?”

  I have to wrestle my way out of Nathan’s grip, and it’s not until he’s let go that I realize he was basically the only reason I was still standing upright. “Hannah, please stop. I swear to you, I’m not going back there.” I stumble, nearly falling to the tile. “I never said I’d go back there.”

  “Ben.” Dad actually looks surprised. “You said you’d come home after graduation.”

  “They aren’t going anywhere,” Hannah says.

  “Listen here, you little bitch—” Dad almost raises his hand. I can see the twitch of his wrist, stopping himself when he remembers we’re in public. He never hit Hannah. Never.

  At least, as far as I knew …

  But maybe he’s at his limit with both of us. Maybe this is proof enough. He’ll never change, neither of them will.

  “I wasn’t serious.” I raise my voice without meaning to. “I said what I thought would get you off my back.”

  “We thought that you’d be a little more understanding.” Dad’s getting louder with every word.

  And suddenly, I’m hyperaware of everyone gathered around us. Like this is some kind of fucking fight in the hallway.

  Mrs. Liu’s just standing there, staring at me, her face full of pity. Meleika and Sophie found Nathan, and all three of them look like they’re ready to actually brawl or something. Hell, Sophie’s even got her heels in her hands, ready to go. Stephanie’s staring at the disaster in front of her, alongside every other North Wake student here. Their parents, and friends.

  Everyone.

  “I …” I feel myself start to shake, and I can’t stop it.

  I can’t stop it. Any of it. I can’t make them leave, I can’t make Hannah calm down, I can’t do anything.

  “Ben.” Nathan’s voice is so distant. His hands on my shoulders, they’re almost enough to tip me back over the edge.

  “I can’t do this.”

  “Ben?” Concern washes over Hannah’s face, the anger gone in an instant. “Ben, come on, let’s get you home.”

  “No. I’m not going anywhere with you.” I shake my head and turn to look at Nathan. “Can we leave?”

  “Yeah …” he says after a second. “Sure, come on.” Nathan’s grip tightens, and he leads me around the corner. Right to the door.

  “Ben!” someone shouts. I don’t know who, and really, I don’t care.

  I let Nathan lead me to his car. It’s in its normal spot in the student parking lot. Before I can crawl into the passenger seat, I hear the click of heels behind me on the pavement.

  “Benjamin!”

  Mom. And Dad’s right behind her.

  “Stop right now, young man!” Dad shouts.

  “Leave me alone,” I try to say, but when Mom grabs my wrist, I can’t help but seize up.

  “Ben, we’re sorry. We just wanted to support you … to prove to you—” Mom’s stammering, and I realize she’s actually scared.

  Maybe because for the first time in a while, she isn’t getting what she wants from me. And for a second, I see the woman I loved. The woman who might still love me. “Just come home, okay? We can talk this through. We’ll go meet with that doctor, and maybe he can help you through some of these things.”

  Her nails quietly dig into my skin.

  “No,” I say; my voice sounds strange. Even to me. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Ben, you’ll come home with us right—” Dad starts to say, but I cut him off.

  “I’m not your son. If you ever come near me, or Hannah’s house again, I’ll call the police.” I open the door to Nathan’s car slowly. “I’m not joking. Don’t ever talk to me again.” I climb into the passenger seat, feeling the lurch of the car as Nathan backs out of his spot.

  I catch a glimpse of Mom and Dad in the rearview mirror, staring at the car, mouths open.

  And I honestly hope it’s the last time I see them.

  When we get to Nathan’s house, I walk up the stairs to his bedroom, like I own the place or something.

  “I’m going to talk to my parents real quick,” he says. “I’ll be right up.”

  I almost go with him, because the second his hands leave me, I miss his touch. But I can’t let his parents see me like this. I climb the stairs slowly, but when I finally make it to his room, I’m lost. I don’t know where to go, if I should lie on the bed or throw open the window and crawl out onto the roof.

  Before too long I hear the sounds of his footsteps coming up the stairs, the creak of the hardwood floors underneath his feet.

  “Want to lie down?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say, and I get that ache in my jaw. I know if I keep talking, I’ll just start crying.

  Nathan sits against the wall and grabs a pillow, laying it in his lap. “Come here,” he says, patting it.

  I’m not in the mood to argue or question it, so I crawl up the bed and lay my head down. He says, “My mom did this for me when I was younger. It always made
me feel better.” His hands move to my hair and begin threading through the curls. It’s a sort of relaxing I’ve never felt before.

  It’s taking everything in me not to fall apart right now. “I’m sorry you saw that.”

  “It’s not your fault,” he says. I listen to his breathing. “Is there anything you want me to do?”

  “Can I stay here? Just for a little bit?”

  “Of course, as long as you need to. Anything else?”

  I shrug. I’m not exactly partial to anything right now.

  “I know what we need.” His fingers don’t stop, even as he leans over to his nightstand to grab something.

  The press in my ear surprises me, but Nathan slides the earbud in smoothly. He hits play on his phone, and there’s this really haunting sound, almost like a horror movie. Then this acoustic guitar kicks in, and a guy starts singing with a voice that sounds just as sad.

  “Who is this?”

  “Troye Sivan.” Nathan chuckles.

  It’s nice, but not what I’d expect from Nathan. This seems too somber, but the closer I listen to the lyrics, the happier they seem.

  I close my eyes. I don’t want to, but my eyelids are getting too heavy to keep open. “Nathan?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I’m glad we met.”

  “Me too, Ben.”

  “You’ve made these last few months suck less.”

  “Same here.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Nathan’s fingers brush my neck. “It’s not your fault, Ben. None of it is.”

  My eyes finally close, and I let myself cry.

  I don’t get out of bed much over the next few days. I just lie there under the sheets, my fingers tracing the faded crescent shapes on my wrist Mom left behind. They still sting if I press hard enough.

  My phone keeps vibrating from its spot on the nightstand, the lock screen filled with unanswered messages. I stare at the way the screen lights up, Nathan’s name flashing again and again. I pick up the phone and stare at the texts. Every single one he’s sent over since Saturday morning.

  I stayed in his bed, stayed with him, as long as I could. And if I had my choice, I wouldn’t have left. But I knew if I didn’t go home, Hannah would probably have filed a missing person’s report or something. When I came back, she and Thomas were home. They both tried to talk to me, but the second I saw Hannah, I got angry all over again.