5

"So you have been working!" I drop my backpack on my bed and stare at the program he's handed me. The second performance is String Quartet in G Minor by Adrian Lawson.

"I worked on it last summer, actually," he admits, blushing. "I've just been polishing it up this semester."

"And rehearsing it," I point out. I look up, delighted for him and amazed at the risk he's taking by letting everyone listen to his music. Isn't he afraid that people will hear what he can do and resent him for it? Or does he expect people to resent him anyway, because he's gay and doesn't hide it? Or does he simply think it's good enough for the teachers, but not exceptional enough to disturb anyone? Somehow, none of these feels like the real explanation. "I can't wait to hear it."

"You really want to come?" Adrian sounds surprised. "It's not all that great," he warns, flapping his hands awkwardly as if he doesn't know where to put them. "Well, it is kind of neat—with lots of string plucking instead of bowing—but it's pretty derivative, too..."

Maybe he really doesn't think it's very good. I won't know until I hear it, so I just joke, "Quit criticizing yourself before Tyler does it for you." Then I add, not certain why, "It's got to be good, or they wouldn't be performing it, right?"

"Well..." He hunches one shoulder and looks unconvinced.

"I really want to come," I assure him.

"We're having kind of a party after," he says slowly, "to celebrate. I don't suppose you'd want to go to that..." He lets the words trail off.

I almost groan. Trapped. But I am curious about his music. "Yeah, sure. As your roommate, not your date," I add quickly.

He smiles. "Of course."

***

Adrian was wrong—his music is terrific. And I like the odd voice of the plucked strings—like a harp, instead of the whining bows that usually give me a headache in string music. Adrian manages to make the strings sing and purr and hum. I could paint shafts of silver light in a blue-gray wash that would shimmer like those strings.

I glance behind me in the school concert hall. Adrian stands at the back of the rows of seats, a stiff shadow dimly illuminated by the glow of the exit lights. He holds his arms folded tightly across his chest, one fist pressed against his mouth as if he's gnawing his knuckles. Is that what it's like to have a crowd of people studying your work? It was bad enough with one. Why does he do it?

Turning back to the four musicians on the stage, I see Tyler slumped in an aisle seat a few rows in front of me, probably imagining himself a critic for the New York Times, ready to jump from his seat at the curtain and race to his office to dash off his latest poison-pen review. He'll probably burn Adrian to a crisp to get even for my sketch. I ignore the pang of regret and let the music wash over me.

After the final movement, I grab my pack and slip out of my seat during the applause. I corner Adrian in the lobby as he's heading out to circle around to the stage entrance. "It was great," I tell him honestly.

The awkward tension has drained out of him, and he looks radiant, almost luminous, like that dazzling music. Is that why you risk it? To become part of that radiance? "Go—" I give him a slight push toward the stage. "Enjoy. I'll be back for the party."

I let myself into the dark, away from the lighted building, away from the people. The party will be here, in the concert-hall lobby, but I want some time alone first I walk through the night listening to the strains of music in my memory. A fresh wind blows into my face, not hot for once. We'll have rain later on, the drops echoing the sound of the plucked strings. The wind in the leaves hums like the violins singing; the clouds scud across a quarter moon like the mellow drone of the cello. I lean into the wind, into the sounds, and the world feels new-made and full of promise.

I see a single tree illuminated by a street lamp. It stands out starkly against the swirling grays of the sky, bent sideways by years of wind. The trunk and branches have allowed the wind to cripple them rather than break under its onslaught I stare, transfixed by the sharp, dear image of the tree against the sky, painting it in my mind as color and texture on a waiting canvas.

Why couldn't I have someone to share this moment with? Someone who understands tormented trees fighting ceaseless winds in a canvas world? There has to be someone, somewhere, to whom I could describe this tree and the things it makes me feel—even someone who could see the tree and know how I feel without my saying a word. Someone who could look at the painting I'll make of this twisted trunk and gnarled branches—hunched even on a still day against the winds that have tried to beat it down in the past and will come back, again and again—and understand the feelings mixed with the oils. Other people have friends who share their dreams.... For a slow moment, the longing is piercingly sweet.

Then I turn away from the crippled tree. Other people open themselves up, the way Adrian opened himself tonight by having his music played. They've found a place to belong, a way to be accepted for themselves. Why is it so much easier for them than it is for me? Why am I the one who doesn't belong anywhere—isn't accepted anywhere? I can't risk opening myself up, not the way Graeme risked opening himself in his book. Or did he? Adrian's self was in his music tonight, just as my self is in my painting. I thought Graeme's self was in his book, but the pieces don't fit together. Is that really why Rachel wants me to sketch him? Because she wants someone to rearrange the pieces so they fit?

I head back toward the concert hall, drawn by the light of the party. The music crowd seems delighted with Adrian's quartet and excited about the opening concerto for oboe and violin composed by a senior, Kayla Swenson. She's not one of the ones Rachel suggested I sketch. I wonder why. Adrian is still glowing, but I don't go over to him. He reads my feelings too well—no point in letting my lonely ache sour his evening's high.

"So—who're you skewering tonight?"

The sharp voice cuts into my retreat and I look up, edgy. Tyler is glaring at me. "Enjoy the music?" I ask him.

He snorts. "That cheap copy of Debussy and Ravel?"

For a second I'm lost. Then I remember Adrian telling me apologetically that the quartet was pretty derivative, and I think of the Ravel CDs scattered around the room. Plenty of Stravinsky and Rachmaninoff, but I can't recall seeing Debussy. Not that I've listened to any of them. But I'll bet Tyler hasn't, either, and I decide to bluff. "I'm surprised you could recognize the influence of Ravel, Tyler. I thought your specialty was words. Not Debussy, though. He's not as high on Adrian's list. I hope you didn't put that in your review."

For an instant, panic flares in Tyler's eyes. Then he counters, "Ravel clearly based his quartet on Debussy's!"

I knew I was right to sketch him as a fencer. I offer a mock gasp. "What—Ravel a plagiarist? And Adrian, too?"

Somebody snickers and Tyler's expression darkens. "Someday we'll see if you play with colors as well as you play with words." He practically spits at me. "If you ever dare to show your paintings and let anyone critique them, that is."

I feel like I'm the one who just got skewered. It was a stupid idea to come, to let myself in for this.

"Anyone but you, dear. You wouldn't have a due." Adrian's voice is light and amused as he suddenly appears beside me. "Anyway, I thought dares were for grade school Aren't you a little old for that game? Now run along and stir up some other mischief. Try telling Kayla that she copied Bach and see how she likes it."

Without waiting for a response, Adrian heads to the concession stand and I follow. I shy away from the sweet caffeine and get a ginger ale. As we stand there together, I watch the carbonation fizz in the plastic glass.

"I'm afraid you've made an enemy," Adrian comments, not blaming me became Tyler's going to roast his music for my sake.

I shrug and smile faintly. "Yeah. I wonder how Tyler got in here. What did he do to audition? Drag Sondheim's latest over the coals to demonstrate his reviewing abilities?"

Adrian glances over his shoulder. "Actually," he says thoughtfully, "Tyler's a very good writer. He had a couple of essays in Ventures before he started writing reviews, and I believe he's working on a play. But I've also heard he's a terrible perfectionist—he agonizes over every syllable. I think he finds it easier to criticize other people's work because he's dissatisfied with his own."

I can't believe Adrian's actually excusing him. "Well, thanks for the rescue."

He turns bade to me and his face lights up. I almost regret my smile. But I can't help liking Adrian for his music, and maybe even just for himself. Anyway, he deserves something for stepping in and distracting Tyler from my painting. I don't like owing anybody, but I don't know how to pay him back without letting him expect too much. It's hard to like someone and hold them at arm's length, knowing their eyes will slide away uncomfortably and they won't like you if they get too close. Then I almost snap my fingers.

"What's that for?"

How did he see the thought hit me? I ignore the question and grin, and my tone matches the lightness in his, although I can hear that his is forced. "I was just thinking I hadn't done any sketching tonight—seems the perfect way to say thanks."

"Oh, no," he says quickly. "You don't owe me anything."

And I suppose I don't But I suddenly think of the crippled tree and wonder—if Adrian can write that music, would he understand that tree? "Wait till you see the sketch," I tell him, leaning in toward him slightly so I can keep my voice low.

Across the room, I see Rachel talking to the cellist, smiling at the girl. Forgetting about Adrian, I smile, too, a wave of excited pleasure surging up inside of me. I think of the way Rachel looks inside people, trying to see how the pieces fit together. Would she understand the bent tree? Are there actually people here at Whitman that I might be able to share it with? She looks up and sees me. She's wearing a dress tonight a soft green that ripples in the light like leaves in the sun ( like leaves dappled with the shadows of fluttering birds). Her even brown gaze smiles into mine, and the party fades around us as I catch my breath.

Then Adrian pulls back slightly, and I see the scene in sharp focus—tense kids, already trapped in roles they've chosen for reasons they can't even understand. And, disembodied, I see myself, posing as the deliberately casual, almost—but not quite—too intimate friend of my gay roommate, while Adrian plays the companion role of flinching at our being caught together.

I recoil from the insight Still staring at Rachel's face, I see the reflection of my widening eyes in hers. Just before I can shove Adrian away, my mind grabs control and forces the scene back into perspective. My mentor would be pleased to see my growing grasp of perspective. It's just a party. Adrian's just my roommate. My friend? And Rachel is just my editor, nothing more. Not a seer whose cool eyes look too deep. Not someone I could care about Across the room, Rachel turns back to the cellist.

As she does, I touch Adrian's arm lightly. "Wait till you see it" I repeat and watch his uncertainty fade and be replaced with something like relief.

Then I straighten and turn away. Just a party. Just a lot of kids like me, trying to figure out how to make their own art or find their own voice. Or how to belong. Only, they're not just like me.... Still, it's only a party.

I go into the concert hall itself. A few students hang around in the aisles, on the stage even, talking to each other, maybe even listening to what the others say. But it's less crowded in here. I walk down an empty row to a seat against the right-hand wall, under a sconce light. I pull out my sketch pad and sit holding it, going over the sketch in my mind.

"Hiding out?" There is no accusation in Rachel's voice, and none in her cool eyes as I look up. Her dress rustles softly as she makes her way across the row of seats in front of me and stands there, her back to the stage.

"Maybe."

"Sketching?"

I'm glad I haven't started yet "Not for Ventures," I tell her. "This is just a gift. A thank-you."

She doesn't pursue it. Instead, she cocks her head to one side, and the light slides across her shining cap of hair. I imagine painting the strands, using the texture from a coarse brush to give each delicate hair life. She asks, "Are you with Adrian Lawson tonight, or someone else?"

I glance down at the sketch pad. Why should she assume I'm with anyone? "I'm on my own," I tell her. What would it be like to be with her?

"Care for company?"

It's as if she read my mind and offered what I've been wishing for. But I have a sudden glimpse of Cindy throwing herself at me to get that jock's attention. Is that the sort of invitation Rachel's making? I tell myself she's not like Cindy, and for a moment heat flares in my chest as if the air has caught on fire. Then I remind myself that I don't know what she's like, beyond a puzzle lover. I don't know if I'm just another puzzle she's picked up, or something more. I drop my eyes and shake my head, willing my heart to stop pounding.

"No." I know it sounds brusque, and I'm glad. I don't want her looking inside of me, calmly dissecting me. I can't let myself want that because it hurts too much when someone sees what I do (what I am) and pulls away.

"Why?"

She was expecting that, I realize. So I tell her a piece of the truth no one could understand without seeing my paintings. "You know too much about art."

But I see comprehension in her face before she turns away—she knows my art is who I am, and getting close to me would be the same thing as getting close to my paintings. Now she knows another piece of the puzzle that makes up me. I stare at the sketch pad and wonder how else I can screw up the evening. Maybe I should do this sketch another time. But I can see it in my mind so clearly—and I've never screwed up a drawing I could see like that.

I flip open the pad and uncap my pen, lowering it to the blank page. The lines take shape and the noise from the other kids disappears around me. There are only black lines on a creamy background, growing into Adrian's face. Not the way I thought I'd sketch him, trapping his prey. Not the way other people see him at alL Perhaps the way Adrian sees himself. I reach for that radiance I saw earlier. I've seen guarded hints of expression before (love?), but never so true as it was tonight after his quartet was performed so magnificently.

I seat him before a piano in the practice room he must have, like I have a studio. His look, focused on the black and ivory keys, carries the viewer's eye to the oversized music score, half completed and spread across the top of the piano. And the unfinished line of music leads the eye back to Adrian's face, and the luminous delight that fills it.

Then I'm finished. I glance over the whole, and wish I could paint this one. I'd like to use color to bring out the radiance. And it's more than a sketch—I draw what's true, but I paint what could be (should be) true. This is Adrian as he should be.

He'd read too much into a painting, though. He'll probably read too much into this. But I owe him, and I sign the drawing quickly before I can think about it too carefully. He'll get more pleasure out of this than anything else I could give him.

I tear the sketch out of the pad and stand up, feeling stiff. The ginger ale has gone flat I realize that some of the kids have seen what I was drawing. I catch sight of a strange, sly sneer on some faces, but I turn away from them, the way I turned away from the kids who laughed at me for not playing Simon Says, the way I turned away from Cindy and Rob and the smirking middle school students. If I let other people's opinions tell me who I am, I'd have different paintings in me. And I'd never have drawn this sketch. Let them think what they like. All their opinions can do is remind me why I can't let anyone (Rachel) in.

Among the surrounding faces, I recognize Graeme Brandt—I hadn't seen him earlier. He's different tonight—more relaxed somehow, in an open-necked white shirt with long sleeves rolled up nearly to his elbows. There's a line of muscle in his forearm that I'd like to draw. Above the shirt collar, his expression is thoughtful, not sneering. I smile at him faintly before easing out of the row of seats and heading to the lobby in search of Adrian. I don't want to ask myself what Brandt thinks of the sketch.

Adrian looks up from an animated group conversation with a crowd (wolf pack) of kids I don't know (and don't want to know), and smiles at me even before I hand him the drawing.

"There—how do you like it?"

I see delight flare in his eyes before the color rises. It's easy to see that there's no flattery in the sketch. I can copy pompous stacks of books and spoiled fruit in my paintings, but I won't flatter someone untruthfully. What's the point of art if it's not true? And finding the right truth can show a greater kindness than playing games that only pretend to please.

A shadow crosses Adrian's face. "Is it for Ventures?"

I shake my head. "Just for you." At least, not for any more prying eyes than the ones here tonight who are busy drawing their own conclusions.

I turn away from his pleasure to get another ginger ale and see Graeme Brandt near the concession stand. He nods toward Adrian as I come up to him. "You drew him as he'd like to be seen, especially by you."

I shrug. "He did me a favor. I just wanted to repay it" He nods in silent agreement while I ask for the ginger ale. "You want a soda or anything?"

He shakes his head. "No, I'm fine." There's a relaxed quiet in his voice that wasn't there the other night Hemmed in by strangers, I search for something to say, some way to keep the conversation going so I can keep him beside me—keep him under observation for that Ventures sketch, I remind myself. But Graeme Brandt is as elusive as fleeting oil colors on water. I haven't even realized he's changed from peaceful to teasing before I hear the other guy's voice.

"All alone, Gray?"

Graeme grins. "Everyone I knew had other plans, it seems."

"So you've developed the artistic temperament," the student says to Graeme, and looks at me strangely. "I never noticed that side of you before."

"That's because you're a different type of artist."

This is the Graeme Brandt of the other night, not the one who looked into my sketch tonight, or the one who wrote that book.

An enormous clap of thunder heralds the rainstorm I felt blowing up earlier. A few kids jump, then laugh at themselves for their false fright. I wish suddenly that I could be far away from here, becoming part of the storm, but I can't begin to work out the vectors to plot an escape route through the shifting crowd. A burst of lightning flashes in overture to another explosion of thunder, and then the lights blink off.