Page 74 of Boy Friends
‘Best friends, some would say.’
‘So that part is also true,’ I confirm, and nudge the scrambled eggs with my fork. When I look up, Luca pouts, and there might be smoke coming out of his ears. I can’t tease him any longer, so I drop the fork, take the seat of his chair, and slide him close.
‘The only thing that matters to me is that you trust me, and I trust you,’ I say. ‘That we tell each other the truth. That we care. And that we’re good.’ I wind my hands around the back of his knees and pull. He glides on to my lap, winds his fingers through my hair, makes my heart beat against my ribs. He gazes down at me, his eyes blue and earnest.
‘And if that’s what they call best friends,’ I continue, ‘so be it. But I also fancy you so damn much, and I think you maybe feel the same way. And if that’s what they call boyfriends . . .’
Luca leans in, almost touches his lips to mine, and stills, leaving a fraction of space. We hold out like that, and his breath dances across my skin, hits the tip of my tongue, mingles with mine.
‘So be it,’ I whisper, and he seals the kiss.
The exhibition is being held at the library. For the grand opening, Joni has stowed the movable bookshelves away, which creates an open space to mingle. I’ve saved myself a nook on the first-floor balcony, because I prefer observing to being observed. And Maz wasn’t completely off; we are pulling attention.
Jacob’s portraits of queer faces in Lombard are good, Imust admit. Not that I know anything about portraits or the technicalities that go into taking them. But from what I’ve seen, Jacob captured his subjects in a place of their choosing, like Maz in his cafe or Luca baking cookies, so they look at ease, despite the lens pointed at them. Which, to Jacob’s credit, is no mean feat.
‘I don’t want to say much, because I’m not good at speeches, and I believe that photographs say more than words ever could,’ he explained minutes ago, nervously pushing a strand of ginger hair out of his eyes. ‘Photographs capture queerness without complicated terms. They show our facets but don’t demand an explanation. I want to thank all of my subjects for letting me take your portraits. You shared your stories with me, and with the people of this town, and made us come together. It means a lot to me, especially as someone still new to this community. Thank you.’
To my surprise, Jacob’s words ring true. In Luca’s portrait, he’s chaotic and golden, a boy who bakes. He’s Luca the son, Luca the friend, Luca the boy who likes another boy. He’s everything I can’t explain. I believe poets do the same thing, using images to describe things that hold too much meaning to fit into everyday words.
From my vantage point, I watch people enter the library, timid at first, until Joni descends upon them with snacks and lemonade. Louise is down there, with her school reporter hat on, a camera around her neck and a notepad in her hands. Maz has his arm around Luca’s shoulders and they’re chatting with Daniel, while Olive chases Orlando around the room. In Daniel’s portrait, Olive is dressed in a yellowand purple bandana and snoozes in his arms.
My attention snags on Mairi, who appears on the other side of the balcony. In her heels and with her braids piled atop her head, she has to duck to avoid the ceiling.
‘Can I hide with you?’ she asks. ‘My mum just arrived, and as supportive as she is, I don’t need a live reaction when she sees my portrait.’
I shuffle over to make space for her. ‘It’s a good picture though,’ I say, thinking of Mairi in front of a wall graffiti that shows two figures locked in an embrace in a purple-tinted scene of paradise. ‘I had no idea you did street art.’
‘Lombard isn’t exactly big enough to follow that passion without finding yourself on Pickering’s naughty list. But it’s a good creative outlet,’ she explains. ‘And thanks, anyway. I wasn’t sure if I was ready, but I’m glad I chose to take part in the end. It’s an important project. Not sure I would’ve figured out that I’m pansexual without it.’ Her voice drops at those last words, as if she’s still testing out how it feels to say them.
‘I’m happy you did,’ I say slowly, understanding that it must’ve cost her to share this with me, and aware that I can’t return the compliment, not yet. Things with Luca are too new, and I don’t want to think about how people in Lombard would react after everything that’s happened since the summer.
My eyes find Luca again. He must have said something funny, because Maz is chortling away, until his gaze strays to the entrance and his laughter dies.
A couple steps into view, as always dressed head to toe in clothes that are completely out of place in a humble townlike Lombard. Maz pulls Luca to his chest, a human shield to ward off his parents. Luca looks just as unsure but drops his guard when first Anna and then Graham give him a hug. Maz remains on edge, never letting go of Luca. He doesn’t speak, only studies his parents as they study his portrait.
I know what’s going through his mind. I’m familiar with that chest-crushing fear that your parents are about to see you for who you are and will think less of you for it.
Several seconds pass. I hold my breath all the while, then watch as Graham lifts his arm and covers Maz’s hand with his, where Maz still grips Luca’s shoulder. Graham gives a small squeeze before removing his hand again, and though the gesture may be small, I know Maz will remember it forever.
‘You know, you played a part in why I agreed to do it,’ Mairi says next to me. For a second, I’d forgotten she was there, and I blink at her in confusion. ‘You and Luca kind of helped me open up to my mum,’ she clarifies.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, not sure I follow.
She plays with the beads in her hair while she chooses her words. ‘I know that you two aren’t really a thing, despite what the noticeboard said. But I still got caught up in the frenzy of it all, like most of Lombard. And it made me realise that maybe this town was more accepting than I gave it credit for.’
‘Because people were shipping us?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, everyone was rooting for you. I wanted to show my support, so I sprayed a few hearts on the bike shed.’ She smiles to herself, not realising that my mood is taking a tumble.
‘Did you create any other . . . signs of support?’ I ask. Something in my voice snags her attention, and when she sees my expression, the smile drops.
‘I didn’t, no. Though I know other students who did,’ she says hurriedly. ‘But I don’t think they meant any harm.’
‘Who else?’ I follow her gaze downstairs, and at first I think she means Jacob, but it’s the person he’s talking to. ‘Louise?’
‘She drew a few hearts and made a bauble for the Christmas tree in the square. I thought it was cute.’
‘It wasn’t,’ I say. ‘What is wrong with people? Don’t they have their own lives to worry about?’
