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Is it possible he doesn’t trust me to help him?
With the crowd of college students around the table, it seems to draw even more interest from random passersby. I keep finding myself stepping further back to make more room until soon, I’m on the sidewalk with my back against a lamppost, aloof and disconnected from it all.
I wonder if anyone would notice if I disappeared.
I decide to test that theory and walk away.
I only make it five steps. “Hey, Seany! Where are you going?” calls out Toby. “To get some food?”
I turn, surprised. “Uh …”
“Oh, look!” Toby snatches one of the illustrations off the table and presses it to my chest, startling me. “Doesn’t this look like my friend Seany here?”
I can’t even see the artwork, but suddenly I’m the one who’s now bombarded by their collegiate groupies, all of them staring at the picture, then me, then the picture. “Yes! He totally does!” shouts a girl. “Wow, totally!” “Is he the actual inspiration?” “He’s totally the muse!” “Oh, I want a demon portrait of me done, too!”
I’ve gone from being invisible to being the only thing visible.
“Are you a model?” someone asks me.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Is that a joke?”
“Dude, what are your rates?” asks someone else, a guy with glasses and hot pink hair. “You’ve got a unique look.”
“But also totally a classical look, right?” throws in a girl by his side, squinting at me like I’m the new piece of art she’s analyzing. “His jawline is impeccable.”
“Sweet, soulful eyes that tell so many stories.”
“Yeah, and what a great frame!”
“Have you posed for an art class on campus before? I swear I’ve seen you.”
“My roommate’s in need of a model just like you …”
The comments and questions fire at me nonstop. I keep shifting my focus, alarmed by all of the attention. “I don’t know,” I mutter to one person. “Rates? What the hell do you mean by that? Commission, huh? I’m not a model. I’m just—No, I’ve never been there before. No, I have no idea who that is. Uh, sorry, what was that about an agent?”
Clearly noticing that I’m drowning, Toby comes to my rescue by fielding the questions, taking over the crowd and redirecting them. I’m mercifully no longer the center of attention and feel instantly schooled for ever wanting to be noticed in the first place.
It’s an hour later when the crowds have dissipated and the boys are packing up their stuff for the night. I take hold of the illustration, for the first time getting to see it myself. It looks like a guy our age, naked, crouched on top of a dresser with his knees hugged to his chest. Each drawer is partly open with different kinds of clothing spilling out—from jeans and tank tops to ballerina leotards to soccer socks to a fancy tuxedo jacket. From the little guy’s back sprouts two giant bat wings, which are barely noticed upon first glance, looking as if they’re just shadows spread over the wall. His face does admittedly bear a resemblance to mine, with his lost eyes, messy hair, and guardedness.
I wonder for a moment if this demon portrait is exactly me: A lost boy, wondering who he is, trying on a thousand different outfits, none of which seem to fit. So he’s given up and wears nothing at all, letting his scary, beautiful bat wings spread. He has no idea where he fits in. Who to dress as. What to be.
“It’s yours,” says Toby.
I look up, startled. “What?”
“Vann already said it’s okay. It’s all yours. Consider it a gift from us to a new friend.” Toby smiles.
I stare back at him, overcome. “Really? But you could sell this sometime this week and make … however much this was selling for.”
“You can’t put a price on that look in your eyes.”
I blink, unsure what to say.
Toby smiles. “Hey, do you mind helping us carry some of this stuff back to our place before we hit up the bonfire? We live just around the corner, a little five or ten minute walk from here.”
And to think that just a while ago, I was sure Toby had changed his mind about me and wanted nothing to do with a kid who steals money and sleeps in parks.
On the way to their house, Toby and Vann banter back and forth about their day and how it began so dismally, but ended on a high note. I mostly keep to myself, but I find myself smiling with them, feeling strangely purposeful. Their house is a colorful and quirky one just up the road from the beach. Inside, the furniture is as surprising and unpredictable as they are, bursting with art and color and personality. We spend a mere handful of minutes inside (to essentially dump everything by the door) before heading off as a happy trio down to the beach.
