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“Okay,” Ms. Gates says. “You should be working. It should be quiet for the next fifty minutes. If you need guidance, you can come to me. Otherwise, you know what to do.”
I turn back to my sketchbook and continue working on the people without faces. I can’t look at or think about their faces. But it does feel good to get them out, like I said.
They never go away completely.
Devon slides his chair to my table and sets his things down next to mine. I look over at him, confused.
“What?” he asks. “We’re allowed to do this.”
“I don’t remember inviting you into my space,” I tell him.
He shoots me a crooked smile and runs his hand through his hair. “Can I be in your space, Ally?”
I shrug. “Why?”
“Because I like being in your orbit. And I want to know where you go.”
“Where I go? What do you mean?”
“You always look like you’re somewhere else in your head, and I want to know where that is.”
“I think you’d live to regret that,” I tell him.
“Hargrove, I hear too much talking coming from over there. If you’re going to work together, you need to work quietly,” Ms. Gates says.
I narrow my eyes at Devon, who shrugs innocently. “I can work quietly,” he says.
His shaggy hair falls in front of his face when he leans over his paper and goes back to work without another word. I watch him for a few minutes, studying the strokes of his pencil, the way he furrows his brow and chews on his lip while he works. I think hemust feel it because he smiles just a little. Embarrassed, I turn back to my own page but only stare at it.
I’m not sure how much time goes by like this before he speaks.
“Are you stuck?” he whispers.
“No. I’m just tired of drawing them,” I tell them. “I’m not…enjoying it.”
He takes the book from me and starts flipping through the pages. I feel like I’m choking—like he’s seeing me naked—but I don’t stop him.
“Which onesdoyou enjoy drawing?” he asks.
That’s a difficult question to answer. Like the faceless people, much of my art comes from feelings or things I need to get out, and while I enjoy the process, the finished product doesn’t necessarily bring me joy.
When I don’t answer, he stops on a page and sets it down in front of me. “What about this one?”
It’s a drawing of me standing in front of the door of our old apartment, trying to decide if I should open it for the police. It was right after my mom was arrested, but I didn’t know that. I didn’t know why they were there, but I had a bad feeling, and I was afraid. When they told me what happened through the door, I thought they were lying—my mom wasn’t a drug dealer; she cleaned hotel rooms.
But it turned out I was wrong. My mom cleaned hotel rooms, but when everything got more expensive, and she thought we would lose the apartment, a coworker let her in on her side hustle.
“No. That one doesn’t bring me joy, either.” I nervously tap the desk with my pencil. I don’t even notice I’m doing it until he does. He takes my hand in his and steadies it.
“I’m making it my mission to find out what does,” he says.
“How do you plan on doing that?” I ask.
“I can read palms,” he says.
I narrow my eyes at him, then feel his thumb tracing a line inside my palm and realize that his own has been resting on mine this entire time. Holding my breath, I slowly bring my hand back toward my body.
“I’m kidding,” he says, smiling. “I just thought it would go with the whole satanic/warlock persona. But Iwasn’tkidding about the other part.”
