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no longer looked out of place, and his dark eyes
focused on me, the same way they had when we spoke in the hallway
the day before.
    “I like to sketch things sometimes,” I said,
shrugging and looking down at the drawing. “I’m not that good.”
    “Would you mind if I look?” he asked,
remaining in place as he waited for me to respond.
    “Sure,” I said without a second thought.
“It’s just for class though. Nothing too elaborate.”
    Instead of waiting for me to get up and hand
him the book, he moved to sit next to me on the beanbag, leaving
only a few inches between us. It was impossible to think straight
with him sitting so close, and I tried to stay calm, not wanting
him to know the effect his presence had on me. Reminding myself
that he’d asked to see my sketches, I pushed the book in his
direction.
    “It looks good,” he said, comparing it to
the scene outside. I didn’t know if I was imagining it or not, but
there seemed to be a trace of disappointment in his tone.
    Maybe he didn’t like scenery drawings.
    “I have some other stuff, too,” I said,
flipping through the pages to show him the sketch from the first
day of school—the one of the girl in the flowing dress.
    He was quiet as he pulled the book towards
him. My heart thumped in my chest as I watched him study it,
wondering if he was silent because he loved it, or if he didn’t
like it and was trying to figure out what to say so it sounded like
he did.
    He grazed the paper with his thumb, taking
in every line with his touch. “This is beautiful,” he finally said,
lifting his eyes to meet mine.
    My cheeks flushed, and I looked back down at
the drawing. “Thanks,” I said softly, taking the sketchbook back
and placing it on my lap. “Jeremy hated it. I’m glad to know it
isn’t completely awful.”
    “Jeremy’s wrong,” he said, his eyes becoming
darker than their normal shade of chocolate. “He must be completely
blind.”
    I shrugged. “He just likes my sketches of
scenery better. And when I draw him playing soccer.”
    He glanced at the sketch again. “This is
more interesting than Jeremy playing soccer.”
    “I have a few more like it,” I said,
surprised at my willingness to share the drawings.
    “Can I see?” he asked, waiting for my
response instead of grabbing it like Jeremy had on the first day of
school.
    He made an effort to not brush against my
hand again when I handed it back over, and I lowered my eyes,
trying not to show my disappointment.
    My palms became clammy as he examined each
drawing, surprised by how he appeared to appreciate each one of
them. I viewed each one along with him—the first being the girl who
resembled myself in what I’d discovered was a white morning dress
from the early nineteenth century. She ate breakfast on a wooden
porch overlooking a grassy yard that disappeared into a forest. In
the next she laid on a felt-cushioned sofa, reading a novel by a
lit fireplace while the setting sun cast shadows on her face
through the rectangular window in the back of the room. Many
sketches came after this, consisting of letter writing, playing
cards, and riding horses. Drew leafed through them wordlessly,
studying each page with the same intensity as the last. I was
afraid to breathe, scared that the slightest sound would break the
spell of silence.
    He reached the end and lifted his gaze from
the book for the first time in several minutes. “Where did you get
the ideas for these?” he asked.
    “We’re reading Pride and Prejudice in
my English class,” I explained. “I guess it inspired me.”
    He nodded in agreement. “It’s a good
book.”
    “Something about it seems so familiar,” I
said, trying to figure out how to explain. “I have such clear
images of what everything must have looked like back then, and I
can draw them so easily. It’s like the scenes are right in front of
me instead of only in my mind.”
    His gaze never wavered from mine as I spoke.
The room was silent except for