Page 1 of The Boy Next Door
This is my year.
People probably always say that and vow to turn the miserable shambles of their life around and take the world by storm. But it's true in my case. Nothing will stop me.
"This is my year," I say aloud.
I stroll out the doors of my honors art class after handing in my VIP project, a Very Important Painting. A giddy excitement fills me. After conquering this challenge and handing in a painting I love, it feels like I can do anything.
"I mean it," I say to Clay Brandt as we walk down the hall.
"Yeah, the world is your oyester," he agrees distractedly, grey eyes zeroing in on a soccer player's ass as we walk by. "I believe you, Samuel."
Nobody calls me Samuel. Except him sarcastically sometimes.
The first sign this year is different came when being selected for this art class.
It means I'm among the best artists at my high school, chosen by the notoriously eccentric Alessandria French herself.
She only accepts a dozen seniors or less every year, those whose potential 'speaks to her senses. '
My parents were so impressed they stopped telling me about the starting salaries for accountants. For a few weeks.
Part of me considers walking over to Dylan Cruse at the end of the hall. He's lovely in his blue workout shirt. Clay and I find our other friend first.
"Let's do something fun," I suggest.
"I'm heading to practice." Maggie Wilson holds up her flute case. "It went well?"
"It's done!" I cheer, jumping with the excitement of accomplishment.
Maggie humors me and jumps too, then eyes the flowers in my hands. "So that's why French started a garden in homeroom."
"Her little gift of the day." I roll my eyes, not wishing to contemplate my growing garden. "But a better gift is coming. My painting is gorgeous, she's gonna love it."
"Hope so," Clay mutters, staring at the ass of another soccer player walking by. "She's supposed to be a tough critic."
"Yeah, but she won't keep you in suspense long." Maggie clears her throat, mischief in her dark eyes.
"Don't act it out—" Clay begins to plead.
"Oh!" She slaps a dramatic palm against her forehead, falling into me as she imitates our teacher’s reactions. "Ask before you reach into my chest and touch my beating heart." Her eyes roll back as the life drains from her. "You weren't delicate either, you shot a hole right through my heart!"
Her hand reaches toward Clay, but he doesn't lift a finger to help, and she's too weak to complete the trip. " I'm not upset," she wheezes. "Thank you. My last sight on this earth is the very face of beauty itself." She stills until I push her dead weight off me and she giggles.
I can't say I'll inspire quite that level of histrionics, it seems braggy, but she's hopefully not far off. I worked so hard on our first big assignment for class.
Randomly selecting the expressionist style was a blessing in disguise. My finished artwork could hang on the wall with Munch and his scream, Van Gogh, or any of the greats.
Okay, that sounds braggy.
My painting is nice, that's all.
"How should we celebrate?" I ask Clay.
"By taking a nap?" His stringy brown hair looks especially limp and lifeless every time it slips free from its covering. "Stayed up 'til four finishing."
"Maybe you should have started before yesterday," I can't help saying.
"No, I started a week early," he corrects.
"Not sure that's better."
"We all have our processes," he says loftily, adjusting his grey beanie. There are usually a few drops of paint on his hands, but today there’s enough that they could be an abstract painting.
"Don't let us stop you," Maggie encourages me. "How are you celebrating?"
"Uh..." Inspiration strikes as I look across the hallway and see him again.
"Yeah, get a ride home with Cruse," she suggests. "You deserve some eye candy."
"No, that's not what I'm thinking."
"Ah, pining from a distance?" Clay guesses sagely. “Why deviate from the classics?”
"No," I say, shaking off a frown. "Not that either."
Riding this high, the time finally feels right.
"I'm going to tell Dylan Cruse I love him."
~
"I'm going to tell Dylan Cruse I love him," I repeat.
The words are met with virtually no fanfare, not even a little.
My closest friends stare back at me. I fidget, expecting some reaction. I never expressed this desire before, I never felt ready to confess. Not until now.
Yet they don't bat an eye.
"Well, go on," Maggie says, nudging me gently in the correct direction.
"No time like the present," Clay agrees.
"You don't believe me?" I usually come up with reasons I can't confess. This time, I can.
"We believe you, Sam," Maggie promises. "Go show us."
"Break a leg." Clay pulls his beanie over his eyes so he can doze off.
Okay. I turn away, squaring my shoulders and beginning my journey. I can do this.
Once, talking to strangers sent me diving under the covers of my parents’ bed and hiding for a week. I could barely look a cute boy in the eye. Even crossing the street alone once caused a monster stress headache and nearly fainting.
Granted, I was six then.
Now I just turned 18. Things are so different in my senior year of high school. I applied for and was accepted into the toughest art class at school. The cutest boy in the world isn’t just my next-door neighbor, he’s among my closest friends.
Now, when I walk down this hall and bump into a few people, I don't sputter apologies and turn around. I keep walking right to him.
Yeah. I'm fearless now.
"Hey, Dyl," I say and stop.
The school doors open, light from outside hitting him just right and making his blue eyes sparkle. And his hair color, a rich chestnut brown, is new and makes my knees weak.
"Hey, Bell!" he greets, calling me by my last name as usual. I ignore the popular people at his side who sometimes clearly wonder why we interact. "What's up?"
"Um, it's just. I was wondering..."
"Are those for me?" he asks, nodding at the flowers in my hand.
Frenzied whispers erupt from the cheerleaders and popular kids around him.
"No, no of course not!" Wait. "Not that somebody can't give you flowers!"
"Hey, it's alright," he says gently, afraid he hurt my feelings. "It's nice. Sweet?"
Oh my god. The heat rising to my face may start a literal fire. Mrs. French gave us flowers in class after choosing blooms to 'suit our souls.' Clay gave me his, so I have a blue violet and a dark red amaryllis.
Staring down at the cursed petals, I explain. "No, these are from French."
He blinks adorably. "You take French?"
"No, Mrs. French."
He nods as we fall silent. The bystanders don't. Always with their damn gossiping, whispering, laughing behind my back, I just know it...
Plus, I used charcoals during class, so my hands are stained black. And I'm holding dainty, girly flowers.
"Oh, you know what? I'm busy afterschool today," Dylan realizes, shooting me an apologetic smile. "I'd hate making you wait for a ride."
When the weather's nice, I walk. I claim fresh air and exercise stimulates the mind or that the blooming hydrangea inspires me. Really, it's because he gives me rides home sometimes when I don't drive.
"No, it's okay, we can talk later." I can't say anything else.
However, part of me wonders what he's busy with. He doesn't have football practice or photography club today.
"Are you sure?" he asks even as he starts moving.
"Yeah, totally."
"Cool, you're the best." He claps me on the shoulder and strolls away.
"So are you," I whisper.
Okay, our conversation didn't go as planned.
What a letdown. I’ve felt this way for so long, it’s like I've always carried this secret behind my ribs and to the left. Now that I’m ready to voice my desires, holding onto my confession another moment makes me feel like I’m going to burst.
Then again, maybe the time is right, but the moment isn't.
Oh god, did I really believe pouring my heart out in a public high school hallway was a good idea? If I spill my feelings onto this dirty floor, anyone could hear and not be as kind as him.
We should be alone, maybe with some music playing. And flowers? Do guys get other guys flowers? I glance at the flora in my hands, but they provide no answers.
Clay catches up to me.
"Did it go well?" he asks with a smirk.
"Shut up."