Page 17 of Quiet
No, the coffee was for Alex. On the rare occasion Briar got his housemate breakfast, he tried to make it perfect. It was his nod to how much his friend actually did for him. Alex didn’t have to take care of him. Briar had told his friend many times that he could manage himself fine, but Alex kept doing it anyway.
It took a good portion of forever to get to the front of the line. The guy in front of him was adamant that the larger, caffeinated coffee he ordered be hidden in a bag, but not the tiny cup of decaf.
“What did Eli do this time?” The barista asked the man as she searched the shelves for a paper bag with handles. “Hide his vegetables in a potted plant when you weren’t looking?”
“Don’t give him ideas.” The man pointed at the largest cup of fruit. “I’ll take that, too. He only gets this,”—he took the bag holding the large coffee from the barista —“after he eats all the fruit.”
Briar’s skin prickled when the man walked past him with his food, nearly brushing against him. He rubbed his arm before handing a piece of paper to the barista with his order. She was used to Briar, so she didn’t try engaging him in small talk like she had with her previous customer. He left her a large tip for the consideration.
He put the food on Alex’s nightstand and a post-it on his friend’s sleeping face telling him where to find his breakfast before heading to the studio. He had the whole day free. Usually, this meant he’d happily spend every precious second in the studio, but today he’d had to stop himself from swinging by Isa’s room.
What would he look like right after waking up?
Briar’s day had barely begun, and another question had already barged into his head to pile on top of the ones from yesterday. Or maybe it wasn’t really a new day since he’d gotten no sleep between now and the day before.
He stomped up all three flights of stairs to the studio, imagining each one to be a buzzing, annoying question.
When he unlocked the studio, he prowled around inside, going from station to station, poking at brushes and oil pastels, straightening crooked easels, and opening blinds, but nothing allowed him to settle.
He dropped himself in front of a blank sheet of newsprint. Maybe he could lose himself in a different, non-Isa related project to escape his thoughts. On the rare occasion he was at a loss for something to draw, Briar liked to make random patterns on a sheet of disposable paper until he found a shape that captured his attention.
After an hour, he was still scribbling and had nothing to show for it other than a dozen sets of starlight eyes that didn’t look quite right. The massive notepad took a trip across the room when Briar flung it in disgust.
Right at the door. Which opened at the worst possible time.
“Ack!” Isa squeaked and twisted his body to protect the duck cage he was carrying. The note pad made a solidthunkwhen it impacted his back.
“Shit!” Briar ran across the room, took the cage from Isa, set it on the floor, and pulled Isa’s shirt up so he could see his back.
“It’s okay, I’m okay! Hey, that tickles!” Isa said, laughing as Briar ran his hands over the boy’s skin searching for damage. If he’d hit him with the corner, it could have broken skin—he’d really put effort into that throw. Isa waved a hand in front of Briar’s face to get his attention. “It only hit my backpack. Really, it’s okay. See?” He pointed at his backpack and did a little shimmy for emphasis.
Briar’s hands dropped to his side. Isa had a tiny mole on his lower back, and it seared its way into his mind like a snapshot. As the boy shook his backpack, his shirt fell back into place and the mole disappeared.
“Oh.”
Briar bent down and took the duck cage. Then he straightened up, turned, and walked into a stool, banging his upper thigh.
Ow.
“Oh no! Are you okay?” It was Isa’s turn to take the cage and set it down, then he kneeled in front of Briar and touched the offended area lightly. “Does this hurt?” He tilted his head up, displaying a worried set of eyes that had begun to haunt Briar’s every waking and non-waking moment.
Briar took in the boy at his feet. Things inside his head went . . . weird.
Hurt? Did something hurt? There was static in Briar’s head, and it was a little difficult to think through it. He bit his lip to try and break through the static and patted Isa’s head so he wouldn’t worry.
To his surprise, Isa’s face went straight to cerise, skipping other, lighter, shades of pink. Briar’s hand left the boy’s hair, and he stroked his thumb over a cheek quickly going deep crimson. His fingers slid down to trail over Isa’s jaw. What other colors could he turn? And how could Briar find out?
Isa scrambled to his feet and a rush of barely comprehensible words poured out of him. “I’m sorry, I don’t have time for you to draw me right now!” Isa snatched up the duck and ran for the door, turned around, darted forward, and set the duck at Briar’s feet, stumbling in his haste. “This is yours. I mean…not yours, but ours—not ours, he’s his own duck. I have to go. Bye, duck!” Then Isa was out the door, leaving Briar grasping for empty air.
His fingertips pulsed. Isa’s cheek had been incredibly warm.
Chapter8
Isa
“Line!”
Isa played with the script in his hands, worrying at the corners with a fingernail. He’d gone into the wrong classroom this morning. And for the next class, he’d spent the entire time staring off into space.
