Chapter 4:

I Become a Commissioned Artist

Thou Shalt Not Flirt


For the first time since Patrick started making us go to church, I'm actually looking forward to it. I have decided that I am going to yell at Jaron. Or just mildly scold him and threaten to tattle to the teacher because yelling is probably not allowed in the house of God. If it is not clear, I am excited about scolding Jaron in a place where he can't claim his coach needs him and run away from me. I am not excited about anything else.

Mom looks me over before we head inside to sit in the pews. She takes my pen from my shirt pocket. "I'll give this back later. At least pretend to enjoy yourself, sweetheart."

"I will not have my artistic inclinations silenced and then obey a nonsensical order."

She looks tired, as people often do in my presence. "Er...alright. Come inside."

I follow her and Patrick inside. I will not be silenced, but I will also not create a scene. I daydream about escaping through most of the service, but try to pay attention when the pastor tells a story during the sermon. But after the story, he starts dissecting the moral lessons and whatnot, and I zone out again.

After an hour of sitting on the pews and trying to pay attention (I fail), the crowd is let out. Adults talk to each other in the chapel, children are funneled into a playroom, and teens are crowded into another room. I look for Jaron, and when I find him doing his rounds with each cluster of friends—necessary, I suppos,e since he's the pastor's kid—I go up to him immediately.

He takes a step back. "Hey, Indra," he says. "I gotta use the wash." He gestures to all 7 people in the group. "I'll be back." Then hurries away..

That had to be a lie. He's avoiding me. I'm sure of it now, but I won't follow him to the wash. Who even calls it the wash anyway? Was he an old lady masquerading as a teenager?

"Indra?" a girl from the group says. "Is that your name? Do you want to join us?"

"No—I..." I only have to look at that girl's face for a moment to know that this was love. The kind of 'love at first sight' nonsense fairytales talk about. I'd previously thought it was all bullshit, but clearly not.

Her dark skin is framed by long, slender black braids dotted with gold charms. Her eyes are ink-black and glitter like deep pools under a moonlit sky. I try to collect myself. This is not the time to gawk. This is the time to woo. "Yeah, that's my name," I say. I wish I had better material to woo with.

"That's cool. What does it mean?" she asks.

"Thanks," I say brilliantly. "Some god in Hindu mythology. What's your name?"

She favors me with a smile. "Thyra. It must be hard to make friends in a place where you're new. She comes over to my side and makes me face everyone by touching my arm, making my skin heat. "Introduce yourselves, guys."

Everyone else, 6 people, introduces themselves. I immediately forget all their names, but I smile politely anyway. "So what do you guys do?" I ask. "Talk about...the Bible?"

Thyra snorts. "I mean, sometimes, I guess."

One of the other kids who has red hair looks around for any adults and then pulls his Switch out of his jacket. Everyone crowds around him as he and another kid start to play.

Huh, so Church kids weren't boring after all.

After an hour of this, it's time to go. I get to play on the Switch once—it was fun enough, though I don't get many chances to talk to Thyra since she drifts between different people. I can't interrupt conversations without being rude. I don't want Thyra to think I'm rude.

Once she leaves with her parents, I go back to the side of the room. There's a whiteboard that I erase and use the dry-erase markers to doodle nonsense until Patrick comes to fetch me.

"Hey!" says a voice behind me, "You can't erase the schedule."

"I do what I want." I turn to look at him, and of course it's Jaron, because it's always Jaron doing annoying things. It's just us in the room now, with most everyone having left. "Aha," I say, "I've caught you now." I hurry to the door and block it.

"Are you a pirate?" he snaps. "Who says 'aha?'"

"I am a man in a group project with a bum partner. Relatable, I assume, to many. But not to you. You're the bum."

He touches his own arm. "Uh...yeah. Sorry."

"What will you do to fix it?" I demand. "We've got to do a 20-minute presentation, you know. That's a lot of material to come up with. I'm going to tattle on you to Mrs. Bergen. I'm a snitch with nothing to lose."

"You're so weird." He shakes his head. "Did you start already? I'm free now."

"Of course I started. The poster's at home."

"I'll come with you to your place today," he offers, "If you don't have any plans. We can work on it."

I had no friends, so I had no plans. I do not tell him this. "You can come for a bit."

"Okay," he says.

I finish my doodle on the whiteboard (it's a car) while he sits on the couch. We wait in silence for Patrick, whom I text that Jaron will be coming with us.

When Patrick comes, I can tell he's clearly thrilled that I am now 'friends' with Jaron. Well that's how my stepdad has built it up in his head. I guess being close to the pastor's family counts as clout for middle-aged people. To his credit, Patrick does his best to tone it down and act normal, though he still talks too much at Jaron. Mom is politely detached as usual. I ignore them all and look out the window.

When Jaron and I finally get to my room where the poster is, he lets out a loud breath and falls onto my bed like he owns the place. He makes himself comfortable, even though I don't want him to be comfortable here. "Your dad talks a lot," he mutters.

"Stepdad. And yeah. You must be used to it, though. I'll bet everyone glazes you and your family."

"Hmm." He smiles faintly. "Yeah." Then he closes his eyes.

I pick up brushes and paints from the floor and dump them in my closet, push a basket of laundry under my bed, and move the easel with our poster closed to the desk. "Jar...oh." I frown. He's asleep, mouth parted slightly, breathing softly. I guess he was tired. He must have been up extra early to get to church before everyone else and set up, and he probably slept late because he had a game the night before.

I decide that I'll let him sleep for about 10 minutes before waking him. I fiddle with a paintbrush for a little bit, dipping it in water and watching dried blue paint diffuse into the cup. Once the 10 minutes is up, i flick the brush at him. He wakes up instantly, looking dopey and sluggish, though he only slept for a little while. I decide not to make fun of him for this. He wipes the water off his face. "Sorry. Sorry, that was—I'm sorry."

I shrug. Before I can push the textbook at him, he sits up and twists around, looking at some of my sketches on the walls and paintings propped up against furniture. "You're an artist?"

"Obviously. I'm always drawing during the sermons instead of paying attention. You saw my zombie."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, but...where's our poster?"

I tap the paper pinned to a makeshift easel next to my desk.

"Oh, we're doing India?" he asks. When I glare at him, he adds, "Of course we're doing India. I knew that."

Liar. So he didn't even read my texts. He just reacted with his stupid thumbs up and moved on, the jerk.

He attempts to touch the paper. "This is beautiful. Is it watercolors?"

I smack his hand away and ignore his attempt at flattery—he's obviously trying to dodge my irritation. "It's still drying!" He's so annoying.

He wrings his hands and rolls his eyes again. "I can present since you made the poster."

"Fine. The textbook is there. Start reading. I'll make a doc with notes."

He opens the book and flips through it. We work in silence, but I do not miss how his eyes keep wandering to my art-covered walls. I don't get why he won't focus. He can gawk at the walls another time, when we are not working on a project worth 30% of our grade. We barely get anything done, and I can't help but think that I would be better off reciting facts from memory than waiting for him to catch up.

Mom calls us down for dinner, which I assume means Jaron will finally leave. I am sorely mistaken, presented with a horrifying sight at my dining table. Pastor Ashcomb and his wife are both there, looking comfortable with plates in front of them. Patrick is nearly sparkling with joy. "We insisted they stay for dinner," Patrick explains. Well, the man got his clout via my 'friendship' with Jaron. Now he'd get to say he hosted the pastor's family. Good for him, I guess.

"Nice to see you all," I say politely. "I am sick. Enjoy your dinner." I return upstairs before anyone can say anything. No one protests or comes to check on me for a long while, which is how I prefer it.

I do get a knock some time later. "What?" I snap. "I said I'm sick."

Someone opens the door. It's Jaron. It always is. "Are you really sick?" he asks. "They're all having tea now, so they let me come up here."

"I'm sick of you."

"I haven't done anything to you." He steps properly into my doorway holding a plate of food. Food he brought up for me, which now makes me feel bad for snapping at him. "Why are you so rude to me?" he asks.

I don't know. I was rude to everyone. It wasn't specific to him, though the fact that everyone knew and liked him so quickly after he moved here was aggravating. At church, I kind of understood since his dad was clergy, but even at school he was already surrounded by people. I was never surrounded by people like that, even when I tried. "Okay, sorry. I'll be nice," I lie. "You can go now."

"Your mom's food was great," he adds, nodding to the plate still in his hands. "Never had authentic Indian."

"I know."

He comes over to me and sets the plate on my desk, looming over me again with his impressive height and irritating presence. "Indra," he whispers, leaning close to my ear and putting his hand on the back of my chair.

I shiver, goosebumps shooting up my spine as his hot breath touches the side of my face. "Dude, you're—" I start.

"I'm sorry. You're right. I was avoiding you." He swallows. "I mean, you won't tell anyone what you saw, right? I was just afraid. And embarrassed."

My mind goes blank when his neatly brushed-back hair falls into his face, touching my forehead. "W-What—huh?" I lean away from him and try not to think about the fact that his hair smells good, or that he's close enough for me to smell it at all. "Oh, you mean your makeout session with Ansel in the art room?" That hadn't even crossed my mind. I should have figured that was the reason he was avoiding me. Anyone would be embarrassed to be caught like that, but I could only imagine the panic for a closeted gay dude in that situation.

Panic flickers across his face as he looks at my door. "Shh!"

I elbow him away. "Don't worry about it man. No one cares these days. Still, I promise I won't tell anyone." I cough loudly into my arm. "I think I'm contagious. You should really go. Could be strep. Or alien spores. You never know."

"Liar," he says, pulling back.

I shrug. Without his skin on mine, I feel cold.

"Thanks, Indra." He hesitates and looks around. He clears his throat. "Actually, my dad saw your art. The ones drying in the garage—"

"That's invasive."

"Uh...okay. We're trying to salvage a church painting that was ruined last month. It was gifted 60 years ago, basically an heirloom, so we don't want to have to throw it out unless we really have to. My dad thinks you could fix it."

"No," I say. "Get a professional."

"We'll pay you," he offers.

That makes me give in. "I'll start after the semester finals."

He smiles faintly. "Okay. Goodnight then." He steps out.

"Aren't you going to wish me good health?" I ask. "Because I'm sick."

He sighs, much in the same way everyone does after getting to know me, and closes the door as he leaves. Next time, I am not letting him invite himself over. I would tell him to just call me. Coming over to my house was completely unnecessary when there is Discord, FaceTime, and whatever else.

I turn away and hug myself tightly, only now realizing how fast and hard my heartbeat is pounding. I rub my chest to calm myself down. Next time he gets that close, I am going to hit him. That was a comforting thought. Hitting him. Right in his perfectly symmetrical face.

I don't get to daydream about it, though, because I get a message. I tilt my phone to my face. Thyra followed me on Instagram. I grin instantly, but her profile is private. Her bio says "💫 aspiring astronaut | she/her | Luke 6:35." I have no idea what Luke said in 6:35, but I'm pretty sure he wouldn't like me.

I'll follow her back tomorrow, so I won't look like the pathetic fool that I am. 

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Thou Shalt Not Flirt