“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.