Like Real People Do [🗸]

01. freshmen

I hand it over to him. In the moment, it is simply weathered paper and skin and dried ink. He flips through the pages. "I like it."

"Yeah?" I ask. He nods, like it's the most obvious statement in the world. I take a good look at him; a dainty, stocky boy. A dainty, stocky boy who likes my sketches. 

Hours of surfing the internet prior to my move suggests that there's a tattoo place nearby. If I ever want to retain any of my sanity through computer engineering this year, I could snag a job; finally put my sketches to good use.

"I want to be a tattoo artist," I tell him. Ma says that dreams ought to be declared. Say it right now, so someone can hold you up to it. He meets my eyes. "Part-time," I add, "Majoring in computer science. Thought I could do some art on the side."

"I bet," he says. "I'd hang these in my room for sure." He's looking up at me again. He's steady; a steady, stocky, dainty boy. 

"So, you from here?" I ask. It sounds flirty, I think. It's not my intention. I suppose everything that comes out of my mouth sounds flirty when a boy with pretty eyes is talking to me.  

"Nah," he says, then grins. "Greenport! New York."

"Sacramento," I reply. "California." My grin appears. "Now how the fuck did the two of us end up in Massachusetts?"

He smiles. He has smile lines that make faint indentations on his chin. Whoever's up there took their time. The boy rolls up the sleeves of his t-shirt. "Could you draw one for me? Since you're planning on doing the tattoo thing."

The hairs on my arm stand up in alert, fierce soldiers. He stretches out his arm. I twirl a fine-point marker that I've slid out of my arsenal.

"On you?" I ask, and he nods. 

"You need practice, right?" His voice is soft, low. I like the way he takes time with words. I certainly don't. Some folks are better at easy communication, let everything they're about to say marinate for a bit. 

I uncap the pen. "What do you want?"

"Some sort of bird, maybe," he says. 

"I can do a bird," I say, holding his arm up, left thumb pressing into his forearm. "I can add a little mythological twist if you want." He nods, eyes on his arm. I hold his eyes for a moment and he nods again. Seconds later, the ink is on his skin.

For no reason at all, halfway through he asks, "do you think I'm going to get skin cancer from this?" I nearly fuck up the drawing. 

"Why the fuck would you ask me that halfway through the drawing?" My lips are parted. One thing about me is that I'd rather not get sued. It registers to me only now that being sued is indeed a thing that could happen to me. 

"It just occurred to me! Like literally just occurred to me." He says, arms spread out like he's in a production. 

I drag my hand along my face, make a big show of looking annoyed. Then the corner of my lips curve upward. "It's Crayola. Their products are non-toxic."

The boy exhales. "Good. Didn't really want to get skin cancer." There's a smile in his voice. He's definitely one of those people who walk with a skip in their step. He shifts closer to me, nods for me to continue making art on his skin.

"Or at least," I say, lips curving upward, "at least, that's what the corporation would have you believe."

He turns toward me so fast I'm shocked he doesn't get whiplash. He gapes, registers my face, and pushes at me with his free hand. 

Nonetheless, I manage to maneuver in such a way that he doesn't fuck up the entire bird. 

"I'm kidding," I say once he settles down. I work for a few more seconds as he side-eyes me. "Or am I? Guess we'll never know." I laugh. 

The boy doesn't, even though I can see the faint amusement on his lips, warring with concern. I know that look. Almost every person I know has looked at me in that way. 

It's familiar but new, so I channel all my focus into getting this bird just right. His bird.

"What's your name?" he asks. I can hear my heartbeat. The night makes everything more clear.  I love his  voice, charred at the corners but vivid and smoky at the center. 

"Kieran," I say. He repeats my name carefully, like he's comprehending it in his own head first. "Yours?" I ask. 

"Elliot," he says. I lean back, assess his robin's egg blue t-shirt, his silver necklace, the mess to his hair. 

"Yeah," I say as I get back to work on his arm. "Yeah. Elliot makes sense." I finish the drawing, every line carefully done. It's a sparrow, flying down his forearm. I cap my pen. The bird is fitting. 

People yell from behind us, laughing into the night. Limbs flail, laughs rise. Everything is in motion. 

Elliot assesses the makeshift tattoo. I watch his lips turn upward, his teeth shine, his eyes blink, his eyelashes flutter. 

"What are you majoring in?" I ask him. I'm intrigued by him; a mess of black hair, broad shoulders,  a gentle demeanor. 

"Visual and performing arts," he replies. He tugs at a few stalks of grass on the ground. "I want to be a choreographer."

"So you dance?" I ask.

He shrugs, pushes his hands into his denim pockets. "I dabble."

One side of my lips curve upward. "You dabble."

"Don't want to sound cocky," he says.

"Ah, so you're a dancer dancer."

He fails at preventing a smile from appearing on his face. "You could say that." I examine him. 

We stand in silence for a bit. A breeze passes by. Stocky Elliot looks down at his arm. "Thanks for the tattoo."

"Yeah," I keep my eyes on him. I want to ask him if he can teach me a few moves. But I've trained myself not to blurt out, keep some shit to myself. 

After all, I am my own biggest censor, and anyway, we're definitely not there yet. 

However, a good thing that came out of me talking to Stocky Elliot is that the freshmen feel less like beasts, and alienation doesn't tug me under the surface.

Which, you know, is worth something.

***

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