Drawing relaxes me. It stresses some other artists out, what with all the minute details and the psychotic perfectionism that seems to be embedded into our brains at birth. But for me, it's kind of like getting a massage. Only better.

So right now, I'm holed up in my room, barricaded into a corner of my bed by pillows and blankets, drawing like it's going out of style. So far I've filled up three pages of my sketchbook, corner to corner (and my sketchbook is one of those giant pad-dealies), and there is no end in sight. I've mulled over my situation, and while I don't exactly see a solution anytime soon, I'm at least one more step towards actually being comfortable with it. I just hope Dutchy is, too.

I can't get his face out of my head. That look her gave me before he left. He looked so helpless and lost, like a little boy looking for his mommy. I can't help but wonder if I'm the one who put that look on his face, or if it was his own head.

I know those feelings he's having, that utter confusion, so well. I'd give anything to spare him from it, but at the same time, I know that he has to get through it on his own.

"Weinberg." Spot's thick Brooklyn accent snaps me suddenly back to reality. I raise my head from my sketchbook in surprise.

"Yes, Conlon."

"Uh, we're all headed down to dinner now. You, uh, wanna come with us?"

Huh. Maybe Spot Conlon isn't such an asshole after all.

I sit with the whole group at dinner, including Dutchy, who sits across from me silently and picks at his food. I try and make conversation.

"So, are you hoping to get any particular part in the play?"

He shrugs. I stare at him.

"Uh... I was kinda hoping for Albert. Or maybe Harry MacAfee." He shoves a forkful of salad into his mouth.

"You don't want to be Conrad Birdie himself?" I grin and drink some of my water.

He chews his salad carefully and takes forever to swallow. "I'm not exactly the rock-star type."

I nod, trying to will him to keep talking. After a good minute or so, it works.

"What about you?" He takes a sip of his water and looks at me, but I wonder if he's really looking at me. "What part to you want?"

"Chorus." I shrug. "Or maybe, I'll be so God-awful that Medda'll want nothing to do with me."

He laughs. Finally, he laughs.

"Are you done?" I look down at his half-eaten food.

Dutchy ponders his plate for a moment as well, then nods. "Yeah. I'm not all that hungry tonight."

"Come on," I say, standing up. "I'll walk you back to your room."

We end up sitting on his bed, the both of us staring blankly at the wall next to Crutchy's bed for quite some time.

"Why did you kiss me?" Dutchy asks at length.

"I guess it just felt right." I rest my elbow on my knee and prop my chin in my hand.

"Even though you knew – thought, heard, whatever – that I was straight?"

"I couldn't really help myself. I just... I wasn't thinking." I sigh. "I'm sorry, Dutchy."

He shakes his head, his blond hair shaking adorably with it. "Don't be sorry. I mean, everything was bound to come out sooner or later, anyway. I was just... I guess I was just hoping I'd be able to hide it, for just a bit longer... or forever."

"Why?" I can't help but ask. I'm kind of an idiot that way.

"I told you about my dad."

"So? I fail to see what your father has to do with any of this."

Dutchy sighs and falls back onto his pillows. So all the staff get back to him on every little thing I do. If word gets out that I'm... that I'm a fag, I'm in deep shit." My face falls at his use of the F-word, but he doesn't see it. "He'll pull me out of school. As much as he supports this place, with all the money and equipment he supplies, he still thinks everyone that goes here's a bunch of fairies. If he gets even the slightest notion that I'm one of them, he'll drag me out of here and ship me off to military school faster than I can blink."

I stare blankly at him for a moment. "So you've been hiding your feelings up until now, because of this."

He nods. "I was doing great, too, 'til you came along. Now here you are, and you're amazing and fun and smart and talented. You make me feel different than anybody else ever has in my whole life, male or female."

I look at him. What he's saying to me would normally make me grin and blush and giggle like some kind of schoolgirl or whatever. But right now, all it's doing is just confusing the hell out of me and upsetting me. "So follow it," I say, examining his face. I see no shortage of emotion there, and none of it seems to be particularly good.

He sighs again and shakes his head. "I'm fucking scared, Specs."

"Well, Dutchy, I'm sorry I scare you."

I stand up and am out the door before he has the opportunity to say anything else.