Page 6 of The Boy Next Door

It's a miracle I survive lunch without Hunter.

Mrs. Cruse, Hunter’s mother, believes there's zero chance he'll stay here until Dylan’s graduation and wanted to take him out to lunch today while he’s still here. Even the thought of him leaving doesn't cheer me up.

Which meant I ended up alone with Dylan and Renee.

We grabbed a burger and fries from a drive-thru, and I suffered through thirty agonizing minutes of kissy noises, them feeding each other, and sickening pet names. I tried not to compare myself to her... I failed.

Renee isn't a cheerleader or insanely popular. She's a photographer, an artist. Like me. Yet so unlike me. Peppy and upbeat, she probably has no trouble chatting with strangers. She probably never struggles for the correct thing to say.

When I get back to school, I'm frustrated and done with everything.

"This is my year," I vow, gritting my teeth and moving through the school halls with determination.

This is my freaking year. I'm done struggling. So, I won't take no for an answer with Mrs. French.

"No, I can't help you."

She doesn't even look away from her computer screen, browsing a clothing store website. She's shopping online for more obnoxious shawls to add to her collection.

"Um. I'm not taking that for an answer?" I try.

"Fill in the negative word of your choice then, it's a mad-lib of no, but the answer is still no."

"Please, I'm capable of more. Let me prove it to you."

She finally turns to face me. "You already handed in your project. There’s nothing more you can do, Mr. ... Sam. Mr. Sam."

"But my project clearly didn’t meet your expectations. Can I have another chance? Please?"

She considers me. "Honestly, I've made an exception or two over the years, when it's deserved."

There's the chance I need. "Let me prove myself, I can change the—"

"No, there's no point." She waves her hands in the air before I suggest anything. "We'll end up right back here. It's unfortunate when otherwise promising students need to learn what I can't teach."

Uh... what? "If you're saying I've advanced beyond your abilities…"

She snorts, returning to her computer once more. "Your work is too safe. It lacks passion or heart." Crap. "Once there's true feeling in your art, then I can help."

"What should I do?" Please don't say a moment of inspiration.

"Don't roll your eyes when I suggest moments of inspiration." Oops. "Though in your case, it's spontaneity."

She moves away from the desk shoved in the corner, examining some still life drawings from another class that uses this room.

"Take risks, Sam! That's what life and art are all about! Step out of your comfort zone and open yourself up to unexpected moments that move you ."

Pausing, she pats herself and searches—she finds a pen and marks the backs of... the drawings she has no right grading at all.

Are we done? "Should I go?"

She gives me her whole focus, which I instantly regret. The passion leaves her as she turns discerning. "You're stuck creatively and no longer advancing. The danger there is that the longer you become complacent, the harder it is to ever advance."

My expression is probably grim.

"Don't fret!" she instructs. "There's time to fix this. Do you understand what you need?"

Oh no. Oh god no...

"To be bold?" I wonder quietly.

"Exactly! You need to be bold."

~

Storming into my room, I throw my bag down and fume. I'm so freaking... pissed. I need an outlet.

The easel is right there in the corner, but I almost dread painting. Whatever I throw down will certainly be rushed and angry, but is that enough? Is that bold?

"Bold," I mutter. "What the hell does that even mean?"

Maybe my idea of bold is different from others, so how do I change? How do I show heart? And how the heck do I accomplish the impossible and learn what can't be taught?

Art, like feelings, are subjective. What's less subjective is how I must look.

"Like a crazy person," I say. "Great, I'm even talking to myself."

Unable to sit still, I pace and tug at my hair. I should close the curtains before anyone in the other house sees. Going to the window, my hand is poised near the fabric when my eyes see—I freeze.

My room looks into Dylan's room. And vice versa. It has caused some panic in the past about always remembering to close the curtains to avoid humiliation. Looks like someone forgot that very important step.

There's a bathroom attached to Dylan’s room, which includes a shower.

When he emerges from there, I see, I see...

Everything.

I see everything when he comes out with only a towel on. And when the towel slips...

"Look away," I order myself. "Shut the curtain."

Except with my emotions already at the surface, or because of the crappy day, an eyeful of hot guy is exactly what I need. It's, he's... he's the sexiest sight ever. My eyeballs are glued to him, threatening to sizzle and fry from the obscene view.

Stray droplets of water run down his skin, so much skin . The trail of hair leading down his midsection is lightly colored, but the water makes it darker. I'm struck by a sudden aching desperation to get a closer look.

Despite overwhelming lust, all the advice about being bold and finding passion swirls around in my brain. It's there even as I long to lick the beads of water off his stomach.

Passion. Heart. Taking risks. Bold. It all clicks.

In a rush, I gather the necessary materials to paint. I must throw this mind-melting image down on the canvas before I forget.

Never let it be said I'm not a true artist.

True artists suffer for their art. I understand now because I'm achingly hard in my pants, desperate to keep watching and find some release, but I paint what I see instead. I paint like I've never painted before.

~

When I finish painting, the fire and passion roaring in my veins hasn't dissipated yet. I know what comes next.

Be bold. How else will I get what I want?

I’ve always wanted the same thing, the boy next door. I need to do this now while I can. I can't stop and think. Or change my mind. I act on what my heart is telling me. I tear a page out of my chemistry notebook, scribbling down a confession, messy but pure.

I charge out of my room, frantically search for a prescription bottle, and race out to the pond.

The timing of this confession? So wrong. Dylan is happy with someone else. But the right moment? It has never arrived yet and never will.

There were countless moments alone with him. We cheered each other on when coming out. He drove me home from school, just the two of us. Being neighbors meant seeing him early in the morning and late at night. And if no instance ever provided the right opportunity, when would?

There is no right moment. There's only the truth and hoping it's enough. Now may be the wrong time, but it's all I have.

I toss the bottle into the fishpond and hope everything works out. I hope my dreams come true.