by Annie Harper
Noam blinks a couple of times. “Right,” she replies and smiles at Gordon. He stares at her with a sparkle in his green eyes.
“Sorry to burst your bubbles, ladies,” Siski replies, “but Gordon won’t be the only model you’ll have to work on.”
“Charlie, don’t you dare,” Noam whispers just as her best friend opens her mouth, no doubt to make a lewd comment about the multiple ways she wants to “work” on the man.
“Oh?” Charlie breathes after a moment of hesitation, managing to save face without too much trouble.
“Do you think so little of me?” Mr. Siski replies with a smirk. “Of course I managed to give you more material to unleash your creativity.”
“Carnitas and breakfast!” the vendor calls. Charlie skips off to get their tacos.
“What do you mean?” Noam asks.
“Only that you’ll have opportunities to discover different kinds of anatomies,” Mr. Siski replies.
“Lucky you,” Gordy adds. His eyes don’t leave Noam until Charlie returns. “Well, ladies, we’ll leave you to your lunch—see you later!”
Noam takes her taco from Charlie’s hand in a dazed state. Why is Gordy, who looks as if he just stepped out of one of Dana’s magazines, paying her such pronounced attention?
“God,” Charlie groans, as they find a relatively clean bench, “Sisk really knows how to pick them.”
“And you will need a roll of paper towels for your drool,” Noam says. She takes a picture of her taco to send to her mother as proof that she got a lunch.
“Probably, yeah,” Charlie admits with a laugh. “Have you seen him?”
Noam takes a bite of her taco and munches while she considers her answer. “I have, yeah—I can’t deny that he’s aesthetically pleasant,” she finally says after sipping some of her drink.
Noam’s next bite is more cautious to keep the egg from falling into her lap, which is why she doesn’t see Charlie getting ready to slap her on the forehead.
“‘Aesthetically pleasant’? Are you insane?” she says, lowering her voice to a whisper. “There are several ways to describe that man, including ‘panty-ruiner’ and ‘drool-worthy.’ Aesthetically pleasant doesn’t quite cover it, Noam!”
“Well, it does!” Noam replies, batting Charlie’s hand away. “Excuse me for not automatically needing a change of underwear at the sight of a pretty face!”
Charlie bats Noam’s hand away. “What are you?” she asks. Noam raises an eyebrow in question. For a second, Charlie seems embarrassed. She tears her paper taco wrapper into shreds. Then she scoots closer.
“Nom—you know you can tell me anything, right?”
“Of course.” Noam replies. Charlie’s behavior is confusing.
“And that there is literally nothing you could do that would make me love you less?” Charlie insists. Noam is more confused.
“Right back atcha, sistah from another mothah,” she drawls in an affected accent. “Where are you going with this?”
Charlie clears her throat. “You… you’d tell me if you were—if you loved girls, wouldn’t you?”
Noam has to blink more than a couple of times to give herself time and make sense of what Charlie has just asked. And then she has to focus on her breath to keep her anger in check.
“Are you seriously asking me if I’m a lesbian just because I don’t show interest in the man who is going to model for us?” she asks slowly, with as much calm as she can muster. “Because I don’t flirt with the Neanderthals in our class?”
Her cold tone and lack of expression convey her anger more clearly than a shout or a scream, and Charlie recoils. “It’s not just that,” she replies just as coolly. “You never show any interest in any boy—it’s a legitimate question!”
“First of all,” Noam replies, putting the taco on the bench, “it should be my concern, and mine alone, where I stand on the sexuality scale. Second of all, I’ve never shown any interest in any girl either, as far as I know—that should make you think ‘ace’ more than anything else!”
Noam says the last sentence louder than the rest, and some heads turn in their direction. She takes a calming breath. “I don’t know, all right?” she finally says. “I’ve never been in a situation where I had to wonder, because I’ve never been attracted to anybody.”
“Not even a crush?” Charlie asks.
Noam shrugs. “Not enough to make me wonder. Maybe it’ll come later, but just—let me take it at my own pace, okay?” she asks, voice nearly pleading.
Charlie throws her arms around her. “Of course, Nomnom,” she whispers in her ear. “Remember that I’ll be here no matter what.”
Noam forces herself to smile and pats one of Charlie’s forearms. Then she smirks. “Even if my sexual awakening comes because I realize that I’ve been in love with you all this time?”
Charlie looks up at Noam and bats her eyelashes. “Particularly if that is so,” she replies, giggling into Noam’s shoulder.
Her laughter ends in a loud snort, and Noam says. “All right, any crush I might have on you in the future just crashed and burned, piggie.”
“Jackass.”
“Asshole.”
After their unplanned heart-to-heart, Noam and Charlie have just enough time to finish their tacos and rice and beans before they rush back into the classroom.
As they return to their easels, they see Gordon sitting on the platform; a silky gray kimono with a black, geometrical pattern is wrapped around his frame. He wiggles his fingers at them, even throws a wink at Noam. Then he returns his attention to their teacher, who is standing next to him.
As Mr. Siski waits for the students to settle down, Noam grabs a pencil, turns to a blank page and rushes to sketch the two men. Mr. Siski stands with his hands on his hips, all long shapes and soft curves at his shoulders and midriff, and Gordon sits in front of him with his profile to Noam. Mr. Siski’s dark shirt provides a background that strengthens the contours of Gordon’s body and creates shadows in the material draped over him. Noam’s drawing is just lines—but it’s a base, enough for her to work on later and create a new piece for her portfolio.
“All right, people,” Mr. Siski calls, “as you may have gathered, this afternoon we’ll discover the joy of drawing models.”
The class has already shaken whatever digestive slumber had threatened, and all eyes dart from the teacher to Gordon, who preens and basks, presenting himself in the best light.
“I want you to start with simple pencils—like HB and up to 2B, tops,” Mr. Siski instructs, and a cacophony fills the room as the students pull out the proper tools. “But no eraser,” he adds. “I want you to consider every stroke of graphite carefully. We’ll start with two forty-five-minute poses, so you’ll have plenty of time. Don’t rush anything, and feel free to ask for help. Gordon, whenever you’re ready.”
Gordon nods, picks up a stool and situates it on the platform. When he’s finally satisfied with its placement, his kimono is gone in a flash. Noam has to blink at the sight of his body.
The man looked good dressed, but with nothing to cover his body he is stunning, more regal than she thought at first glance.
Some of the students giggle, more out of embarrassment than anything else, but the sound shakes Noam out of her shock. She picks up her pencil to start measuring the model. Gordon has chosen a simple pose, and is sitting with one leg bent at the knee. She makes a little outline, writing down the proportions. Picking up her HB pen, she focuses on a bigger version of the outline, this time including the stool.
Next to her, Charlie has already drawn an outline that covers her whole page; Noam is just a little envious of her friend’s confidence in her own judgment. Noam needs to check and check again before launching herself into a project, but Charlie—Charlie just goes for it, all-in every single time. And if she has to start again, she just picks herself up and does so with the same energy as before.
The first period goes quickly, and, for once, Noam is happy w
ith herself and her work. Gordon’s shape fills the sheet of paper, and she has just started outlining the shadows with quick strokes when it is time for a break.
She stands and cracks her neck to get the kinks out—staying hunched over the easel, even for only forty-five minutes, makes her feel as if she’s been stuck in a little box—and when she raises her arms, she can sense a drift of air on her skin where her shirt scrunches up just a little bit. She hurries to pull it down, and her eyes find Charlie’s.
“You do know that you have nothing to be ashamed about?” Charlie says, trying to play it down as she brushes at the graphite stuck to her fingers.
“Shush, I had one of my rash episodes last night,” Noam says. Then she walks away to look at what her classmates have come up with.
Nothing really catches her eye until she reaches the other side of the room and sees a cubist-inspired portrait. Its lines are assertive, wide strokes of pencil that show no doubt and overflow with an energy Noam didn’t expect from one of her classmates.
“See something you like?”
Noam turns her head quickly, and then smiles shyly at the young man who snuck up on her. How did she miss the fact that the other bookworm in her core classes is also in this workshop? Peter Zenkov is a quiet boy who always dresses the same way: black shirt, dark jeans, leather boots. He tries hard to stay under everyone’s radar—except that he can’t hide his talent, and Noam has to tell him so.
“Definitely,” she rushes to say. “Peter, it’s fantastic. I didn’t know—I didn’t know you had it in you.” Her face heats up, though her embarrassment ebbs when she notices the two spots of pink high on Peter’s cheeks. He looks like a porcelain doll, as if someone has applied a paintbrush to his face.
“Thanks,” Peter replies. His voice is barely above a whisper, but he has a happy smile. “I’ve seen yours—it’s… very professional.”
The generic comment piques Noam’s temper. “Gee, control your enthusiasm, Zenkov,” she says with a humorless laugh.
Peter’s brown eyes widen. “No, no, I didn’t—I meant, it’s a good drawing, I can’t wait to see it finished!”
Before Noam can think of a reply, Gordon comes back. He uses the marks he made on the stool to return to his pose. Mr. Siski claps his hands to tell the students to return to their seats.
“Talk to you later,” Noam hurries to tell the blushing boy, before returning to her place beside Charlie.
“What was that about?” Charlie whispers as she snatches an oily pen from Noam’s table.
Noam focuses on the shadows Gordon’s muscles cast over his tanned skin. “What was what?”
“The blushing, Victorian conversation with the bookworm,” Charlie says, poking Noam’s cheek and no doubt leaving traces of graphite on her skin.
“First of all, if Zenkov is a bookworm, what exactly am I?” Noam replies then throws a pointed look in Charlie’s direction and wipes her cheek.
“I’m not going to contradict you on that point,” Charlie says with a subdued giggle.
Noam rolls her eyes. “And second of all,” she continues, “it was nothing, just an artistic conversation about our sketches.”
“And the blushing?”
“An inability to accept a compliment properly on his part, I assume,” Noam replies. She leans forward to rub away a smudge of graphite. “And on mine, a propensity for random blushing.”
Charlie makes a noncommittal humming sound. “You do have a tendency to blush for the smallest reason.”
“I know!” Noam whisper-shouts, instantly feeling her face heat up. “God, why am I friends with you?”
“’Cause I’m awesome, and my awesomeness radiates upon you. Now focus on your drawing.”
“Yes, Mom.”
That evening, Noam excitedly talks about the day she’s had, about the potential this summer class might have for her portfolio and for her college application. True to her word, her mother is not home; but her father is all ears, and asks about the teacher’s plan. Noam’s sister, meanwhile, looks as if she’s about to die of boredom.
Dana sighs loudly in the middle of Noam’s recollection of the day and then gives Noam a judgmental look when Noam stops talking to look at her.
“God, you’re exhausting,” Dana says, prickly as only she knows how to be. “Do you ever temper your enthusiasm?”
“Do you ever show any?” Noam retorts, her voice rising. Alan reaches for Noam’s hand.
“At least I know not to let my dreams take over reality.” Dana throws her words in Noam’s face before she pushes away her plate and storms out, shouting that she’s leaving anyway.
Noam sighs and snatches her hand away from her father’s, then scratches her wrist and elbow as her nerves light her skin on fire. “Why is it always me who has to keep quiet when she uses me as a punching bag, like a bitch?”
“Language,” Alan scolds. “She’s in a weird place, right now, Nomchka, you know that. Let’s just cut her some slack, all right?”
Noam wants to say that it isn’t fair, but she nods—when things get complicated for her, maybe they’ll remember it and cut her some slack, for a change.
* * *
Between the tense situation with her sister, the weird sensation she feels in her gut when she recalls her conversation with Peter and the very newness of being able to draw all day, Noam isn’t quite herself the next morning. Charlie is attuned to her conflicted emotions and thoughts and for the time being leaves her alone.
The second day seems a lot like the first; Gordon is still their model, but instead of an hour-and-a-half pose broken into two parts, they switch to shorter time frames. The morning is divided into four different poses of thirty minutes each, which prove to be a much different challenge.
After lunch, Gordon wears a pair of boxers and Mr. Siski has moved the easels. Now, instead of forming a circle around the platform, the easels form two lines, with a path between the two rows.
“Move along, people, you’re going to like this,” Mr. Siski says loudly, “at least if you like a challenge.”
Charlie rubs her hands gleefully, and Noam bites her lower lip to contain her excitement.
Looking across the aisle, she shares a look with Peter, who opens his wide eyes and smiles at her.
“A challenge,” Mr. Siski repeats, “because if you thought that this morning’s poses were short, well, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
Siski’s attempt at slang makes the whole class snicker—including Gordon, who remains silent but can’t hide his shaking shoulders—and he gives a little bow in reply.
“Enough joking—as I was saying, shorter poses. First hour, five minutes each.” At that, the class stops laughing and gasps. “Second hour, two minutes, third hour, one minute, and last hour, thirty seconds.”
By the end of his list, the class is all atwitter—except Charlie and Noam, who remain silent, struck dumb at their easels.
Thirty seconds. That’s… yeah, their teacher is right, that is a challenge, for Noam in particular. With her need to think things through, letting herself create on impulse, letting the connection between her brain and her fingers run freely without overthinking every scratch of graphite on the paper, the afternoon will definitely be a trial of her adaptability. But it is a good test, one she’ll try to accept and get through.
“All right,” she says, louder than she had intended. She rolls her sleeves up to her elbows.
“Nom,” Charlie whispers, looking pointedly at the constellation of scars and fresh rashes marring the skin of her right forearm. Noam hurries to roll that sleeve down.
“It’s not like I’m going to get this arm dirty anyway, right?” she says with a tentative laugh. She mouths a “thank you” that earns her a shrug and a wink from her best friend. Which translates to a combination of “you’re welcome” and “anytime” in Charl-ese.
“Ready?” the teacher calls, with his eyes roaming over the class and Gordon. “Set, go!”
Truth be told
, the first pose of each time frame is a train wreck of half-assed drawings and nearly abstract lines, barely managing to catch Gordon as he moves from one stance to another. And don’t get Noam started on the first of the thirty-second poses; she is so confused to see Gordon walking around the platform, each movement of his legs and arms exaggerated to fit in the timeframe, that she doesn’t even pick up her pencil. The second is just a jumble of messy lines, barely more advanced than the drawings Noam’s mother dutifully stuck on the fridge when she was much, much younger.
And then—and then she gets inspired.
Giving up on the third pose, Noam quickly folds one large sheet of paper until she holds a small square of many layers of paper. When the fourth short pose starts, Noam is ready. The smaller format gives her a quicker understanding of the purpose of the pose and lets her fingers and the pen snap the strong lines down just in time for Gordon to move on to a new pose.
The hour flies by, and Noam finds herself feeling disappointed that it is over—even if the prospect of challenging, self-discovering days yet to come makes her smile. She carefully goes through the folded book to look at her quickly realized sketches, selects those she will work on again later and begins to add details from memory or from her imagination. She can already picture this profile in black ink with pastel auras. Or this drawing of Gordon twisting his body to the left, in white pen on black paper—that would help her focus on different aspects of Gordon’s body. Or this drawing she didn’t think she would be able to complete, because it represents Gordon sitting on the stool, facing her side of the room with his legs spread open. She had managed to keep her hands steady, and that alone is an accomplishment.
“May I have a look at that?”
Peter leans against her easel and nods toward the square of paper in her hand.
“Um…” Noam fiddles with the paper, and Peter pulls his own sketchbook from his bag.
“Show me yours and I show you mine?” he offers, the smile turning slightly crooked.
“Kinky,” Charlie comments, smiling at Peter over Noam’s shoulder. “Can I get in on that deal?”
