“Are you?”
“What?”
“Gay,” she said quietly, suddenly aware of how rude a question that was. It was personal, and even though he’d been exceedingly kind and welcoming to her the past week, she didn’t know if they were actual friends yet.
He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Are you one of those people who’s bothered by it?”
“No, I . . . My dad is gay. I live with him and his husband.”
Soon she’d be able to say she lived with her dads—plural. Sunday wondered how long it would take to get used to that, but she liked the sound of it.
Micah nodded, back at ease. “That’s cool. And no, I’m not. But I’m probably going to spend the rest of my life answering that question because people can’t wrap their head around the fact that dancing has nothing to do with sexuality.”
At the store Micah told her to stay in the car while he got the beer. “They always take my fake here, but you look young,” he said. “No point in pushing my luck.” He came back with three twelve-packs and a bag of chips and beef jerky.
They were quiet on the ride back to the house. Micah pulled into the drive, stopped the car, and turned to her.
“You’re the first person I’ve seen him talking to in a long time,” Micah said. “Eli. He doesn’t get along with a lot of people.”
“Okay.” Did he want her to be nice to his brother as a favor? She appreciated how kind Micah had been since her first day at Brinkley, but she didn’t owe him.
Micah didn’t say anything else. Just nodded and opened his door. So Sunday did the same.
*
The next week, Sunday saw Eli walking toward her in the hallway after the last bell. He was loping along with his head bowed and his thumbs looped through the straps of his backpack, elbows pointed down. She wasn’t sure if he was still mad at her, but she didn’t want to make things any weirder.
“Hey, stranger,” she said to get his attention before he passed.
Eli looked up, his face cycling through a range of emotions as he stopped and looked at Sunday: surprise, scorn, and then a resigned sort of happiness that she knew meant he was pleased to see her, even if he was doing his best not to show it. “What’s up?”
“Just heading to the studio,” she said, nodding toward the room across the hall.
“You have to make up an assignment?” He looked skeptically toward the door as if he thought the room might turn into a pumpkin after the last bell.
“No, some of us just go in there to work after school sometimes.” She paused. “Have you never been in there?”
“I don’t have art until next semester,” he said, and by the tone of his voice, he clearly wasn’t looking forward to it.
She smiled, shaking her head. “I mean, I know it’s not a chalkboard full of theorems or whatever, but you should come check it out sometime. It’s peaceful. All good vibes.”
He brushed a hand over his head and looked across the hall again. “Maybe some other time.”
Some other time turned out to be the next day and the next day and then the day after that. Sunday went to the studio immediately after her last class, and within five minutes, Eli had joined her. He didn’t talk much. When other people were there, he’d wander the studio, looking at the works in progress from other students—oil paintings propped up on abandoned easels, incomplete sculptures sitting on tables, and a whole mess in the corner that Sunday explained wasn’t actually debris but the components of collages.
When they were alone he sat beside her at the table, watching her work on her drawing. “You don’t get bored?” he asked as he took in the deliberate, detailed strokes she made with a stick of charcoal.
“Bored?”
“You have to do so much to get it right. It looks so tedious.”
“And math isn’t?”
“Math is fun,” he said with a grin.
Later, she walked with him to the performing arts building to wait for Micah, who was wrapping up a practice session in the dance studio. He also stayed after a few times a week, and since Micah was his ride, Sunday wondered what Eli had done to pass the time before he started hanging out with her.
Long horizontal windows ran down one wall of the studio. Sometimes the blinds were drawn across them, but today they were open, so Sunday and Eli could see right in. Micah was alone, and it looked like he was talking to himself as he worked on a routine.
He wore tear-away track pants and a white T-shirt drenched in sweat. His feet were bare. Sunday felt a little guilty watching him. She didn’t mind when Eli sat in the studio with her as she worked, but Micah’s choreography seemed too private. It didn’t feel like the sort of work that would be appreciated if someone saw all the moving parts, but rather something that should only be viewed once it was absolutely perfect.
“Why did you stop dancing?” Sunday turned toward Eli.
His shoulders went stiff. “What do you mean?”
“Micah said you used to dance. And now you don’t. Why?” She didn’t exactly think he’d admit to what Micah had said, that he’d quit because he was worried about how people would view him, but she wanted to hear it from him. Maybe it would help her understand him a little more.
“Because it’s stupid.” Eli shrugged. “He’s always bragging about winning contests or whatever, but it’s a waste of time. There are, like, a million people better than him who want to be choreographers.”
Sunday looked back in the room. What Micah was doing seemed to be anything but a waste of time. And if Micah knew he had an audience, he didn’t let on. After a couple of minutes, he crossed the room, turned on the stereo, and unleashed the choreography that was in his head. And it was gorgeous. Not just the steps, but the way Micah executed them. Sunday had noticed how he always seemed to be aware of the way he held his body, even when they were just walking across campus, but she never could have imagined he moved like this. It was as if his limbs turned into air, as if the music was woven into his muscles. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, wondering each time how high he would leap and how gracefully he would land.
“He’s a drug dealer.”
Sunday was so entranced with the performance that for a moment, Eli’s words didn’t register. She slowly looked away from the dance studio, turning toward him.
“What?”
Eli’s face and neck were ruddy, and she thought he was flushed from embarrassment, but later, she would wonder if it was from exhilaration instead.
“My brother.” He lowered his voice, even though no one else was around. “He’s, like, the school drug dealer.”
Sunday rolled her eyes. “I’m new, not gullible.”
“I’m not kidding, Sunday. He’s who everyone goes to for anything they need.”
“Anything?” She admittedly wasn’t the most well-versed in what people were smoking or swallowing, but her mind instantly went to the antidrug posters of severe addicts with boils on their faces and track marks along their emaciated arms.