We live in a judgmental world. One meets many people when taking their travels on the road of life, wherever their destination is, many more people than one has the capacity to store in their heads. In my own short lifetime, I have seen so many places and faces that they all fade into one another, blended colors and vague shapes of minimal significance - for the most part, that is. Obviously, there are individuals that have made lasting impressions that stick with me, and without a doubt, I can swear I've done that to them. Whether or not the impression I made was one I am in favor of or not isn't always decided by me. A great percentage of what others think of you can be derived from the moment you first met; what they were wearing, their attitude, et cetera. I was never good with first impressions.
The few people who really know me would laugh at that, the idea that such an optimistic and outgoing personwould fear what others make of me, but it's true. Past experiences have made me wary of crowds, so much so that without an acquaintance to talk to and draw attention away from me, I feel like a specimen trapped under a microscope when on the streets. I cringe when I hear syllables that sound like my name in public, and I slouch to avoid wandering eyes that may see something they disapprove of.
It's not that my whole demeanor is an act - it isn't. I know who I am. Sometimes, though, I wonder if I was supposed to turn out the way I did.
I think about this as I stare into the full-length mirror mounted to the bathroom wall and try not to be ashamed. If I wasn't me, I bet I would like the way I look. Newly combed after a shower, every blond hair on my head is in place. My eyes are hazel, a nothing-special color, but I've gotten complements and that's enough. I'm not skinny, but I'm not fat, either, and my abdomen is toned enough so that I can kind of see the muscle; too much definition is gross.
If I wasn't me, I bet I would like the way I look, but since I am me, I have trouble convincing myself that it's normal for a man to want to admire themselves like this, or rather, to have to try to admire themselves like this. I have even more trouble believing that it's normal for a man to not be able to look at themselves below the waist without flushing in embarrassment. I do both eventually and cover myself so my reflection won't betray how horrified I am.
The clothing I'm going to wear hangs on the doorknob, and I turn around so I can start to put it on before I can think more about how I'm not like other men. My body won't fill it in right alone, but I've made some adjustments since last time I tried this outfit on. When I'm ready to face the mirror - and it's quite some time before I am - I end up peeking between my fingers even though the outcome can't be that awful.
I decide then that if by some miracle I get to trade my manhood for a woman's curves, I'd do it. I like this dress that much. It's modest (as it should seem, in comparison to being naked, I guess), the neckline dipping down until just before where the cleavage would be if I had any; I'd gone and bought a brassiere with fake breasts built in, the kind that are actually made for breast cancer survivors who don't want their now flat chests to be noticed. Just now, I realize how sick that was for me to do, and I know I should feel ashamed at the sob-story I told the store manager about how my sister couldn't bear to bring herself into the public eye to do this herself, but it doesn't bother me now. It didn't bother me then, either as my voice broke and I squeezed out a tear for my nonexistent sibling. It's true, what they say about only children being spoiled and doing anything to satisfy their desires; I can admit that, now that I'm older. I just didn't expect for it to stick with me into adulthood and come back like this.
The dress goes down until it grazes my ankles, light and silky, just as I'd pictured the perfect sundress to feel. I feel weightless under the billowing fabric as I twirl and create a soft breeze on my bare legs, hairless as of a few moments ago, and it's all such a freeing experience that I start to laugh. It's like putting on new skin, skin that fits just right on me instead of uncomfortable in all the wrong places, and I want to flaunt it to the world.
***
I think it's funny that a simple wardrobe change is altering my thinking this way. I know that I don't need to take the subway, but it's so incredibly hot for an April day that I gave in to myself, knowing that it would be cooler underground. I thought of my unhealthy drive-through breakfast as I descended down the steps, and I pressed my hands over my stomach wondering if it would all drop to my thighs.
I'll lose my girlish figure at this rate.
Apparently, everyone else thinks the subway is the way to travel today. I picked a seat next to the door while one was vacant because there's so many people here, so many strangers that might look me up and down and notice that something isn't right about my outfit...no, about me. I'm trying so hard not to slouch, to sit prim and proper with my ankles crossed, but I can't stop fidgeting. Everyone else is buried in a newspaper, and one mother has her child's hand in a vice grip as if the little girl could venture beyond the walls of the train. She's trying to; I see it in the venomous glances she sends her mother out the corner of her eye as she applies her makeup. I wonder if her mother holds her just as close at home as she does in public. I wonder if her daughter will grow up to be the complete opposite of what she pictured because she was so close-minded and tried to smother her. Maybe she'll become something her mother is ashamed of, and they will grow apart because they can't accept what they've done to one another.
I pity her. No one deserves that.
It's my stop now - our stop, as it turns out. We all stand, and mother and daughter brush past me on the way to the door. The little girl looks up at me and says, "Your dress is really pretty," in a soft voice, like she means it and isn't putting on a polite act dictated by her adult figures.
I say, "Thank you," and smile a genuine smile. Her eyes are big and confused. She can't be more than four years old, and she doesn't understand why I look like a girl but have the voice of a man. Her mother is shooting daggers at me with her eyes, making no effort to hide the utter despise that she has for me now, a total stranger that offered only kind words. I notice that she had stopped holding her daughter's hand until then, and I almost kick myself. Suddenly, they're in a hurry, and the girl has to almost run to keep up with her mother's long strides.
I bet that tonight that child will get a misguided talking to about how men like me are dirty and disgusting for not sticking to the ways God intended. I bet that child will spend tonight in her bedroom, forced to pray rosary after rosary to cleanse her of sin, though neither one of us committed one.
I bet I could have saved her from such wrong and corruption, had I kept my mouth shut.
But then I see the girl twist in her mother's grip, and with a cell phone glued to her ear, she doesn't notice the way she glances over her shoulder to grin at me, dimples prominent on her chubby cheeks. Perhaps it will take more than her mother bargained for if she wants to raise her by her ways. I'd like to think so.
***
The university building looms over me, and even though I've completed my own studies (barely), I still feel like a student treading on unfamiliar territory. I tug the sun hat over my head to block out the glaring sun and start inside.
***
I don't know where I'm going. I stopped in the room I was told to stop in, and a bored receptionist gave me a visitors' pass and a slip of paper with my destination scribbled on it, but I don't know where that is. I don't know where I'm going, but I make it look like I do.
The slapping of my white sandals against my heels is so uncomfortably loud in the empty hallways. The linoleum would probably feel good against my sticky feet, but walking barefoot and carrying my shoes would make me look like a fool, and I don't want to attract looks. I concentrate on the room numbers posted above the doors, and every so often I check the paper in my clammy fingers as if the number would change at the last second.
Room 24-A is on my right, having come up too fast and too slow all at once. I am not dressed like I usually dress, and that is somehow a comfort because right now, I'm not the usual me. I'm better because I wasn't afraid to show myself like this in public. I can do this. My confidence escalates, and I knock on the door.
The face that greets me strikes me as the kind that is always radiant with optimism and warmth, and though he doesn't smile, his eyes are warm and welcoming. "Ah - I assume you are..." He searches his memory. "Kio-san?"
I swallow and nod. "I am."
"Your sensei has said much about you. Do come in." I do as he says, and assume that what Sensei told him has been good, or else I wouldn't be here. The room smells or art supplies - pencils and paint and pastels blended into an intoxicating combination that I want to stand there and breathe forever. It's keeping me calm.
"Students, this is Kaidou Kio..." The teacher, whose name escapes me, makes the necessary introductions just as I requested. Because putting up a facade may have led me to trouble later, I told him to introduce me as I was, a male model who would act as their female subject today. He had obliged to my desires over the telephone, thankfully open-minded about the ordeal after warning me of what I might be subjecting myself to...ridicule, mostly. That was to be expected. I had braced myself.
Their faces are so unreadable. It's a small class with only about ten students, but ten pairs of eyes is a lot of eyes, especially if they're all fixated on you. I hope my face is as neutral as theirs. I bow to them, and someone laughs. Others join in, and I realize that I have bowed at the waist, like a female would do. They are silenced by Sensei's icy stare; I want to thank him, but at the same time I see the humor in this. Fortunately, he is quick to save me from having to make a recovery, gesturing to the center of the room.
"I didn't know what sort of poses you were comfortable with," he begins. "I apologize for the lack of props, but you were called in on short notice, and we didn't have time to meet up and organize..." Something about such a kind man being so apologetic kills me inside, and it makes me feel sorry for not calling about the job opportunity sooner. I point to the bench. "This is fine. I'll just situate myself." I start to abandon my hat, but he says that it'll create shadows on my face and allow everyone to focus on shading. I nod and decide to cross my feet like I did on the subway, fold my hands in my lap, and close my eyes to shut out visible distractions. I'm not superb on staying still and focused yet, and I bite my tongue when it occurs to me that I haven't mentioned that. For once, I'm glad the fact that I'm new has been addressed.
"This is entirely open-ended as far as perspective goes. Mr. Kaidou has informed me that he doesn't mind if you get up to view him at certain angles. Work on the floor if it suits you, but don't crowd him. Or each other," he added as an afterthought. "But once you know where your picture is going - and you can add in any old background things you wish - work quietly. You've chosen your tools of the trade, and so you may begin."
It seems very strange that I should feel so self-conscious when as a model, I should be used to the attention. I chose to model for that reason; to accept scrutiny by the public eye as everyone else can. But I have not modeled anywhere beyond my own classes until now; this is my first modeling job, and I have no one coaching me. I may be motionless, but my mind is buzzing with questions. Am I too 'stiff'? Does my expression fit the 'mood' that I'm going for? Without props, I guess I have to set the mood. But what is the mood I'm setting? Peeking beneath my eyelashes, I see that the knuckles of my intertwined fingers are turning white with exasperation.
Prayer. The word comes to me easily. I'm bent in prayer - prayer that I don't screw up, that is. Now that I've found my mood, I relax the tiniest bit, knowing that focusing too hard on my role will lead to fidge-
No. I must not think of that. Instead, I listen to my surroundings and watch through my lashes. It's quiet, but not too quiet. There's a shuffling of paper here, a sigh there, the squeak of an eraser...the students are, for the most part, bent over their work, sneaking quick glances at me that hardly linger.
There's a few that have come close up, and those are the ones that make me tense. They aren't invading my personal space by any means, but because I can't see them clearly, I'm paranoid. I swear I can feel their breath on my skin, and I keep expecting someone to reach out and touch me, to make me jump and ruin my composure. Time passes, and no one does. I breathe the scent of the room, a hint of perfume and something bitter that I can't place wafts into my nostrils with it. The combination throws it all off, so I breathe slowly and inconspicuously out the corners of my lips.
Sensei makes his rounds, his shoes clicking on the floor, then ceasing as he peers over a shoulder and makes a whispered comment. Sometimes, he points to a detail on a canvas or a page, but if this is as open-ended as he says, he's probably just offering encouragement, like my sensei used to do. Does my being a graduate and up at the front of the room make me a sort of sensei, too? I almost laugh. Now, there's an idea.
***
I am almost asleep when Sensei announces that it's time to put the art utensils down, and my stiff body jerks. A girlish giggle sounds from the back of the room, but by the time I pinpoint the culprit she's gathering her things. I can't tell if she was looking at me or not. I stand and stretch, adjusting the back of the dress where it's been plastered to me by my own perspiration. My mind is foggy, my muscles lax as I cross the room. I wait by the door for Sensei, who is speaking to a student. The room is clear in the blink of an eye, and then it's just us, alone.
"Well."
"Well," I parrot because I don't know if his flat tone means good or bad.
"Don't be so frightened!" His chuckle makes me immediately embarrassed; I was afraid he'd caught be nodding off. "You did very well for a first-timer, Kio-san. No jitters or anything. I was in no way disappointed by you. Your sensei - who, as you know, is my good friend - was right to recommend you to me. And, just to let you in on a little secret...you weren't short notice. I had you pegged from the start."
The smirk on my face is so wide it threatens to wrap around my head. "Th-Thank you very much."
"I'll be sure to get your paycheck mailed to you as soon as I can."
I frown. "Paycheck?"
He glances up from organizing his already organized desk. "Well, yes! You didn't think you were doing this as some kind of charity work, did you?"
"...Actually, I was under the impression that this was some sort of practice."
"Practice?" The way he says it makes me want to shrink back, not because it's meant to be scary, but because it makes me feel very, very stupid. "That's what your schooling was for, my boy. This here is the real thing." His eyes are twinkling. "Now go out and celebrate. You just survived your first modeling job."
***
I do exactly as sensei-what's-his-name says: I celebrate. I bolt out onto the university grounds as best as I can in sandals, my chest swelling more and more with pride by the second, and when I reach the outdoors, the hysterics come. The wind blows my dress lazily around my legs as I spin and whoop and holler. "Yes! Yes, yes, yes!"
I survived my first modeling job! I was confident! I didn't fidget! I'm getting paid! I-
"So Sensei is fond of you, I assume?" I cut off mid-spin and reality comes rushing back because there's someone behind me, someone seeing me act like a child, and I nearly crumple to my knees as I turn and find that he's right there. Right there as in too-close-to-be-overlooked right there. I meet his eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses, and I think of diamonds and jewels and sapphire because I realize they are exactly that shade. My mouth is dry. I'm detached from my senses momentarily, but not long enough for me to escape the sensation of a blush rising from my neck to my cheeks. In the bright sun, it is impossible for him not to notice, and he's half-smirking, but no more than he was initially. Maybe he's had practice keeping himself from laughing at things, or maybe he's thinking 'Maybe it's Maybelline,' like on the commercials. And all too soon I'm back in my body again, and my face is burning which makes me so very glad for my hat, and oh, he asked me a question, didn't he?
"Y-Yes - he said I did very well." It takes all I have not to stare down at the toe of my foot, which is dragging across the asphalt and probably making dirty marks on the side of my brand new white sandals. He makes an affirmative sound in the back of his throat, soft and deep. My overactive mind insists that it's a well-hidden chuckle, but I shrug it off because I don't imagine my complexion could become a deeper red at this point.
"I think you did," he compliments, and immediately I think that I'm wrong. I'll have to shove my face in ice water if I ever want it to resume its natural color. "All the female models I've ever seen try to seduce everyone with their eyes or pose in a way that's meant only for the bedroom." Here, he laughs, a satirical laugh that tells me he's one of the few men that wouldn't use that opportunity to goggle at a presumably young woman. I respect him for that. "But what you did was real and believable and had actual emotion behind it - without props to guide you." His lips curl into a smile and in a cliché to end all cliché's, my legs wobble. He himself has perfectly straight white teeth that could land him a spot in a toothpaste commercial, and I almost tell him that but bite it back at the last second. "Thanks. I was really trying to bring out emotion to make up for that." I don't tell him the emotion I was trying to bring out because praying for oneself seems conceited now, but he nods. "...Kio-sama, right?" he asks, after a pause. "Or do you prefer Kaidou-sama?"
"Kio is fine." My brain seems to not have separated the words because they come out my mouth with no spaces between them. "You can drop the 'sama' if you wish."
"Kio, then. I have a favor to ask of you, if you don't already have somewhere to be..?" I don't know how to respond, so I just nod and let him continue.
"The work we did in class today was just an exercise to stimulate creativity and take a break from other projects. They aren't really taken seriously - I myself don't keep very much of my artwork - but I like what I've done with this piece so far. The problem is, I wasn't able to put the finishing touches on within the allotted time. This might be a bother to you...but there is a bench off to the side of the university entrance..." I follow his index finger and am headed in that direction before he can finish his sentence. Even though it is sort of a bother to me to spend one more minute in the hot sunlight with a complete stranger who has somehow managed to make my insides reduce to liquid, I can't bring myself to say no, especially after I hear his laugh behind me.
There is shade by the bench, glorious shade, and I plop down in gratitude. The student pauses in front of me. "I like your enthusiasm." As he rummages through the satchel on his shoulder, I reply, "I admire your work ethic." And then, I try to recall how I had posed, and he seems to sense this. "It's okay if you aren't positioned exactly the same way you were. I only have to work a few minor details. It shouldn't be long."
That's good, because I can't seem to still myself. Whatever it was that kept me subdued is gone; I catch myself swinging my feet and wanting to glance around as a car comes by. But, mostly, I watch him work.
He stares at the page in his sketchbook long and hard, like he's summoning lines and shapes onto it, and the way his whole face scrunches with the effort of visualization keeps my gaze flickering back, though it's not as obvious in this light. His jaw is tight, his eyes unblinking, and his lower lip is puckered as he bites down on it. For some reason, I feel as though I'm catching him in a moment where he puts down walls to unveil something from the depths of his soul. It makes me jittery and subdued at the same time when he picks up his stick of charcoal and picks up where he left off, hand flowing up and down the page like all his energy is seeping out his fingertips. When a lock of silver hair falls into his line of vision, he doesn't even pause to push it away, just shakes his head and keeps his wrist moving.
***
"I'm finished." He says it with a conviction that leaves me somewhat deflated; I make a surprised noise. That hadn't taken long at all, but then again, I could have watched him all day and not have noticed until nightfall. There's silence between us, a silence that's not completely uncomfortable but still something I'd like to ease out of.
And then, he sits next to me.
"After all this - the time in the studio, plus unpaid overtime...and you're not even going to ask to see the picture?"
I'm taken aback. "No, I-I mean yes. But...I didn't know if it was like...private, or something. I don't like to intrude on people..."
His laugh is more like a purr. "Nonsense. You're the model. You deserve to see how others depict you once in a while."
I don't know how to explain to him how much I deeply fear being viewed out of the eyes of another - hence my disinterest in what he's done - so when he holds the drawing out to me, I look because I can't get around it without seeming rude.
The simplicity of it is what's daunting at first glance - the stark contrast between black and white is prominent - but upon further examination, there are fine points that seem intricate simply because they're not in color. He seems to know the shape of my face better than I do, the lines of the crevices not too sharp but not too light. I get the feeling he knew I was peeking because he's illustrated my eyelids partway open and peering through my lashes like I was. Instead of downward, however, my chin is tilted skyward, and it seems that there is something very bright above me.
I ask, "What is this?" my finger lingering at one spot.
"Oh, that." He answers in a way that makes it seem like it was a minor detail, and then goes on to inquire, "Mind if I smoke?" without actually answering the question. I give him the okay, and as he lights up, I wonder if I had really asked anything at all. But after a long drag on his cigarette, he points. "What do you think it is?"
I swallow. "It's whatever you drew it as."
"Is that all?"
"Is it?" The question confuses me. It's his picture, but he acts like I should know more about it than he does.
When he exhales, smoky tendrils swirl around his head, distorting his face just enough so that I can't tell if he's really frowning for a half-second. "Kio, the thing about art is, it doesn't have a set meaning. A person might look at an illustration of a tree and see it as just that, a flat representation of the real thing. But someone else might come along and look at how strong and tall and green that tree looks and think it's a symbol of life. Neither one of them is wrong, but neither one can be completely right. Beauty really is in the eyes of the beholder. It's what you want it to be, and nothing else."
"But...if it's what I want it to be...why can't I see the meaning?"
He tilts his head. "You're trying too hard to see it."
"If I don't try, how will I see it?"
"You won't."
I groan and bury my face in my hands. How can something so simple have all of these complications behind it? "I don't understand," I say into my palms, feeling like a child who tries to wrap their head around the fact that there is so much more than what goes on outside their bubble of simple thoughts and feelings. "I don't."
Warmth rests on my shoulder. "Maybe you don't have trouble seeing the picture at all. Maybe the real struggle is how you see yourself."
I lift my head. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'm not trying to make accusations or assumptions. I'm saying that it's possible that if you struggle with the way you see yourself, you won't be able to find anything worthwhile in something like this. You know that it's you that's on the page, but if you don't know what it means to be you - or if you don't necessarily like who you are - it's tough to get the result you want."
His eyes are somber, but there's a warmth inside them that elicits an unspoken confession. I find myself asking in a soft voice, "What do you suggest I do?"
***
I decide to tape the picture to the end of the mirror on my bureau, carefully so I don't wrinkle the edges. My eyes fall to the bottom corner where he scrawled his name. "Agatsuma Soubi." Soubi. I like the roundness of it on my lips in my reflection. I like the way it takes up all the space in my mouth when I say it because I don't have a lot of words otherwise.
In the dark, on the cusp of sleep, "Soubi," sounds like a whispered secret that I have yet to understand. I hold it on my tongue for safekeeping.
***
"Soubi-san."
"...Kio, it's four AM. Is there something wrong?"
"Yes - well, no, but...Soubi, I'm calling because I get it. I understand what the picture means. There's light falling across my face, isn't there?"
"As I recall."
"And that light...it's more than just the sun. It's realization, it's opportunity, it's a miracle...but it's mostly change."
"Change?"
"Yes. Change in me. I feel it, Soubi, I do. I feel different, like there are pieces falling away from me with all these new jobs I've done, and these roles I've taken on. But they're bad pieces that I'm losing, all the parts of me that have been scared and unhappy, all the insecurities that kept me from being who I am."
"...You're very talkative at ungodly hours, aren't you? But that's very good. I'm proud of you. But do you want to know what I can see in you even though I'm not right there?"
"Of course."
"Acceptance. And I think that's the most beautiful thing of all."
"You're right, Soubi. Thank you. Thank you for teaching me to see."