Summer Love

by Annie Harper

  Noam takes a deep breath and presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. “I just… I can’t find the right way to get this pose,” she admits, wincing at the way her voice breaks at the end of her sentence.

  It’s not that she’s ashamed to admit failure—okay, maybe it is—she’s more embarrassed by what is actually throwing her off of the “mojo” she has been building since the class started.

  When she worked on Gordon’s poses, she would get flustered, sure, but she was still able to find a way to objectify him, translate him into shapes and lines that made sense on paper.

  With Amber, this proves to be a lot more complicated. She can’t seem to get over the rumba of her heart and the sweat of her palms.

  Each look she gives to analyze Amber’s body is a second-best option to reaching to touch. Each pass of the graphite on her sheet should be a caress from Noam’s fingers on Amber’s soft skin.

  Mr. Siski’s silence stretches for what seems like a century. His bushy eyebrows are drawn together as he looks at the large drawing of Amber’s back, at her lifted arms. “I don’t see any problem,” he says. “Sure, it doesn’t have that sense of proportion your drawings showed earlier this week, but it is more vibrant, more um—oh,” Siski cuts himself short, his eyes darting from the easel to Amber, who is giving them a pointed look over her shoulder, and back at Noam, who is suddenly very interested in the imprint of her teeth on her pencil. “All right,” he says, perhaps a bit louder than he had intended; he clears his throat and lowers his voice. “Maybe you need to change your angle. Go sit on the side; work on the profile.”

  “You think it will help?” Noam asks, as she gathers her pens and erasers.

  “I think you need to change your perspective,” he replies with a gentle smile.

  Noam nods an apology to the students she’s interrupting and takes a seat. She settles down and arranges her materials.

  From Noam’s new point of view, Amber appears very dif­ferent: Somehow, her profile is less expressive than her back, and, though Noam can’t explain why, she now can stop wax­ing phil­osophical about the many ways a human body and face can awake emotions. Noam sends a thankful look in Mr. Sis­ki’s direction and starts tracing the rough shape of Amber’s profile.

  The lines are basic at first, but now, Noam can focus on theo­ries of anatomy: the oval of the face, a polygon for the torso, the two triangles of the legs. She can add circles for the breasts later; they don’t play a part in her understanding of the pose itself.

  From this side, without the sass of Amber’s back, she can concentrate and find the geometry in the body, just as she did with Gordon.

  A wave of relief goes through her and she sighs and smiles, tucks one pen behind her ear and picks another, thicker one to start building the actual shapes.

  * * *

  The class is empty save for the two of them. Amber stands on the platform as usual, but Noam is not sitting at her easel at a safe distance from Amber’s body.

  Instead she stands with her toes against the edge of the plat­form, clad only in the old, soft denim shirt she usually wears to bed.

  Her hands are on Amber’s hips, tracing random patterns that make Amber twitch against her, but Amber remains standing, her fingers buried in Noam’s unruly locks, tangling them a bit more as she pulls and presses. Her caresses feel divine.

  Noam slowly pulls Amber toward her and brushes her nose against Amber’s soft belly, then tilts her head to brush her fore­head against Amber’s breasts as she moves her hands on the small of Amber’s back.

  Noam wakes up with a start, shocked but somehow still not sur­prised to find her shorts wet and sticky. This has never happened to her before.

  When she arrives at school, it is to an almost empty class­room—just Amber, wearing only a sports bra and tiny shorts, talk­ing with Mr. Siski. Her eyes find Noam’s before Noam can look away; and she smiles so brightly at Noam that, for a moment, Noam is convinced that Amber can read her mind.

  Noam sits next to Charlie, who is doodling a ribbon on the side of her paper. Avoiding eye contact with Amber, Noam adds her own shapes and shades to the ribbon. By the time the other students have settled down, the ribbon has become the tail of a fantastic creature, half dragon and half phoenix; flames from its head and tail frame the paper completely.

  Mr. Siski calls for attention, and Noam rolls her stool to her own easel.

  “All right, class,” Mr. Siski says, “today we’re going to work on something that will be helpful for those of you who intend to study art in the future.”

  The students are on the edges of their seats when Mr. Siski continues. “Drapery studies on models—today we work with Amber, tomorrow Gordon will be back and the day after tomor­row, we’ll welcome a new model.”

  Amber comes out from behind the folded screen with a wide smile, making a show of turning on her heels on the plat­form before sitting down. Her body is covered in different fabrics: a stretch of heavily embroidered red silk around her breasts, tied at her back with long fringes; and an off-white sheet draped around her hips in such a way that her legs play with its length to create shad­ows and shapes. The drapery provides many sketching possibilities.

  Mr. Siski gives his instructions. They are to start with a series of short poses, and are expected to focus on details and leave the whole for later.

  Noam is preoccupied, in an almost trancelike state. Her body is warm, as if a long-forgotten volcano has suddenly decided to awaken and its lava is now pooling low in her guts.

  Every time Amber changes her pose—which is every two and a half minutes—Noam swears she can hear the blood rush from her brain to her breasts and between her legs.

  If this is what it’s like to have one’s hormones agitated, all because of one person, she is almost glad that she has never experienced it before—it is far too distracting. Then again, she’s almost eager to go through this—this trial by fire, now; it is beginning to allow her to reach a new level in her art. Now, she’s not just drawing what she sees: When she manages to harness her emotions, Noam draws what she feels.

  It’s not just the way the silk stretches, shimmers and flows down Amber’s back that Noam translates onto the paper: it’s the sensation of Amber’s back under Noam’s hand when they hug. It’s not just the folds draping over Amber’s knee and pooling on the floor that Noam brings to life; with quick strokes of her pencil and red chalks, she draws the butterflies which that same knee—brushing against her leg when they watched a movie together—awakened in her belly.

  That’s when it hits her: the vision of the roundness of the knee peeking out from under the beige sheet—on her pad, drawn by none other than herself—makes her feel warmth all over, just like the actual knee.

  During the break, Noam gently touches the drawings she has made, the different body parts that make Amber. Her fingertips are almost reverent, as hesitant against the paper as they were when she made herself brave enough to reach for Amber’s cheek in the moment before she leaned into their first kiss.

  Noam picked this particular movie for their second date because she has grown up with it and Amber mentioned never hav­ing seen it, which is a great mistake, but one that could eas­ily be corrected. Noam knows it by heart, and soon enough, comfortably seated on her bed with Amber next to her, Noam started singing along under her breath. Her fingers brushed Amber’s every now and then.

  From the corner of her eye, Noam saw that Amber was not giving the movie her full attention. Instead she turned her head at random times to look at Noam with a fond smile on her lips.

  During one of the less important scenes, Noam turned to look at Amber, and there it was, the butterfly swarm that had grown in her body since they met. For the life of her, Noam couldn’t look away from the dual curves of Amber’s mouth and the little strand of hair that had escaped the tight bun she coiled her hair into after class.

  Trying to control the shaking of her fingers, Noam reached to move the lock from Amber’s fac
e. The tip of her thumb brushed the soft angle of Amber’s cheekbone. Amber tilted her head ever so slightly, leaning into the touch with her eyes wide open and locked on Noam’s mouth, making a happy, throaty noise that spurred Noam forward.

  It was simultaneously the easiest and the hardest thing in the world to lean closer and brush her lips against Amber’s—they’re soft, and still carried the taste of the apple gum she had chewed earlier.

  Noam had made that first step, but it was Amber who deepened the kiss and sent the butterflies soaring. . .

  “Wow, dude, you are seriously hooked.”

  Noam looks away from the drawing on her easel; her fingers linger over the roundness of Amber’s drawn knee. Charlie is looking at her with a mischievous smile; her chin is cupped in her hand.

  “Uh?”

  “I would ask you if you want me to leave the two of you alone,” Charlie continues, sing-song elongating the last vowel as she gestures between Noam and her drawing, “but I don’t want to make you, you know, uncomfortable or something.”

  Noam slides her fingers away from the drawing and gives Charlie a look to convey how little convinced she is by her best friend’s “attempt” to keep things from awkwardness.

  “But no joke, Nom,” Charlie continues, undeterred by Noam’s look, “are you two getting, you know… serious?”

  “What about you two?” Noam nods toward the other side of the room, where Peter is helping Mr. Siski hang crystal garlands from the ceiling.

  Charlie’s eyes follow Noam’s nod, and her whole face goes softer; her dimples show. Noam’s feels as if her heart is burst­ing with happiness, to see this much contentment on her best friend’s face.

  But then Charlie sighs heavily, looking back at Noam. “I’m not sure,” she says softly, fiddling with an eraser that she rolls into a ball only to smash it and stretch it again.

  Noam reaches for Charlie’s knee. “Is something wrong? Is he—is he pressuring you or something?”

  Charlie laughs. The sound is brief and bark-like. “If anything, I’m the one pressuring him.”

  The lilt of her voice at the end of her admittedly shocking sentence makes it sound like a question; Charlie rolls her stool closer to keep the discussion private. “I… seem to have found myself a hyper-romantic, asexual boyfriend.”

  Noam’s eyes widen and she pats Charlie’s leg.

  “And as weird as it may sound, I’m fine with it!” Charlie says, blowing her cheeks and letting out a loud puff of air, in annoy­ance at herself, if Noam knows her as well as she thinks she does. “That’s what’s bothering me!”

  Noam frowns at her. “It bothers you to be happy and fulfilled by a relationship with no… physical interaction?”

  “Oh, we kiss, and we cuddle—we’re cuddle monsters. But basically, yes.”

  Noam raises her eyebrows at Charlie, and Charlie rolls her eyes. “Oh, shut up,” she says, tension slowly leaving her body. “I know I sound cuckoo.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Your eyebrows said plenty, jerk,” Charlie says, but her smile softens the insult into comfortable, familiar banter. “And don’t think I didn’t see what you did there, missy,” she adds as the other students come into the room. “Or that I’m letting you off the hook.”

  The next pose, longer, definitely confirms Noam’s knowledge that what she has in her heart for Amber goes beyond a mere attraction.

  The silk scarf and the sheet are gone, replaced by what can only be described as a steampunk ballerina outfit. A metallic-looking corset is laced around Amber’s torso, enhancing her small waist and the curve of her hips; coppery ribbons crisscross at her sides. A dark tutu covers her hips and buttocks, but it only serves to make her lace-covered legs look endless.

  Using the middle bar of her high stool, Amber finds a com­fortable pose that she can hold for an hour as Mr. Siski explains the nature of the exercise. Amber rests her black ballet shoe on the bar and folds her arms over her lap in first position, or “bras bas,” if Noam remembers the few ballet lessons she attended with Dana years ago.

  Thinking about her sister is not comfortable, and Noam’s heart hurts as if it has been squeezed. Ever since the “confrontation,” the air around the two has been loaded with electricity and animosity: everything turns into a pretext for Dana to verbally attack Noam, and Noam has decided to act as if she doesn’t hear, doesn’t see Dana. For Noam, it’s the mature thing to do, but obviously her sister doesn’t share the feeling. Noam would give almost anything to clear the air, get rid of the tension in the house and erase that deepening line of worry on her father’s forehead. But she will not be the one to make apologies. Not this time.

  Noam gets her lightest pencil to sketch the general shape of Amber’s pose, figure and shades. Then she looks up to start developing the details.

  Her eyes meet Amber’s and she barely represses a giggle when Amber winks. A sobering thought crosses her mind.

  I could draw her my whole life and not get bored.

  Noam traces the lines of shiny embroidery on the corset and the reflections of the lights on the ribbons. The installation of crystals Mr. Siski and Peter put on the ceiling makes sense now, the fractal shimmer adding an almost supernatural ambiance to the pose, and some of the other students are already using pastels and colored crayons to capture it.

  As far as Noam is concerned, it’s too soon to think about backgrounds and lighting effects. For now, she observes the way her pen traces the round knot of Amber’s shoulder. Letting her fingers work the lines on muscle memory, her brain goes to the early lessons, and beyond that, to the way she used to draw, the way she used to handle her pen. Oh, she’s still a long way from Charlie’s confidence or Peter’s boundless energy, but Noam is more than what she is not, and now she can see it; she only has to let it show.

  The Most Handsome

  S.J. Martin

  I am probably the worst Cape Cod resident in the history of the world.

  I hate seafood. I also hate tourists and the beach. All year long, thousands of people flock to our beaches, fresh ocean bounty and quaint villages. I grew up in one of those quaint villages—Oceanside. Our town is tiny, the kind of place where everyone knows each other and they’ve all got their noses in your business. I’d love to say that I’m anonymous around there, but the truth is: I’m kind of famous.

  Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve felt like a boy instead of a girl. I came out of the closet as a gay transgender guy when I was a junior in high school, and it was big news. I came out because I couldn’t handle hiding it any more. I cut my hair, changed my name from Christina to Carter, and began wearing a binder, which flattens my breasts so I can have a more male-looking chest. Weekly injections of testosterone helped me develop more masculine traits such as facial hair and a deeper voice. What do you think of my fantastic attempt at a goatee, by the way? At the time, not many folks had any idea what the word “transgender” meant, and I had to do a hell of a lot of explaining. My parents were beyond confused—I had to work really hard to get them to understand. I’m sure some of you get that.

  It’s really simple actually: I was labeled a girl at birth and I don’t feel as though that title fits. I feel like a man. My four-year-old sister Hannah understood when I told her, “I was born in a girl’s body, but I have a boy’s brain.”

  If only everyone got it as well as she did. It’s been okay though; I was lucky and I wasn’t bullied very much—my school had a Zero Tolerance policy for bullying. Any kids dumb enough to start trouble with me soon found themselves in deep shit. Through all of the changes, my family and friends stood behind me one hundred percent. Sometimes, I felt kind of lonely though. There weren’t any other openly trans people in Oceanside. I wish I’d had another person who identified with me.

  I never went out with anyone in high school. All of my friends paired up and did all of the usual things: dances, dating, hooking up and stuff like that. I never did, because I was keeping a secret.

&nbs
p; I remember thinking that I should have been born a little boy when I was really young, but I never thought I could tell anyone—I thought I was crazy. How could I explain feeling the way I did? Growing up, I was more of a tomboy and looked pretty masculine naturally. When I was a young teenager, I thought that, because I looked more male, I must be a lesbian, even though I felt more like a boy who liked other boys. Yeah, that’s really not the most open-minded thinking—it’s more than a bit homophobic, but I was young and uninformed. So, I came out for the first time when I was thirteen—as a lesbian. Yeah, I know. Hard to imagine looking at me now, right?

  Surprisingly, I was not the only out kid around. My friend, J.P. Allen came out at around the same time. J.P. is a really handsome guy with lovely green eyes. He’s also tall and muscular with a fantastic swimmer’s build. I had a huge crush on him and no idea how to explain it. I’d have intense dreams where he and I fell in love and got married. I settled on having him as my best friend instead. And before you ask, yes he’s single. No, I won’t give you his number.

  Today, I can’t imagine anything romantic between us—he’s been such an amazing support all of these years. He’s more like a brother—one who sometimes drives me insane just the way a real brother would. He’s a sarcastic guy and loves to tease me.

  Back then, we bonded over feeling different from all the other kids. My mom and dad drove us to Provincetown often so we could be exposed to the diversity there. If you haven’t heard of it, Prov­incetown is a small, seaside town at the tip of Cape Cod, and is the gay capital of Massachusetts. I loved sitting on a bench downtown and watching the crowds pass by. Gays, lesbians, bisexuals and straight people—a true rainbow of humanity all mingling in colorful, loud, groups.

  Provincetown was where I first became aware that transgender people existed. Oliver’s Bookshop sat smack dab in the middle of Commercial Street, right on the main drag. I was always saving my money to buy new books, and one day a book with a shirtless man on the cover caught my eye. I stood on my tiptoes and pulled it down from the high shelf—Our Emerging Selves: Stories of Transformations and Truth. If you haven’t read it, I totally recommend it.