Johnathon's Arc

Chapter 9 of 31

Three days stood between Johnathon and the national final. He had a dish to plan, one that had to show his whole life on a plate. But he could not focus. Lexi's notebook sat on his kitchen table. She had told him to wait until after the final to read it. He had promised. Now the promise felt like a stone in his pocket. He picked the notebook up, turned it over, and set it down again. His grey kitten watched from the counter, tail flicking. He made coffee he did not drink. He drew a rough plate on his sketch pad, then scratched it out. The notebook pulled at him from across the room. He kept thinking of Lexi's face when she handed it over. Scared, but sure. She wrote things in there she could not say out loud. He had known her since ninth grade, when she brought him soup while his mother was in the hospital. She trusted him with the notebook. She did not trust him to wait. A knock hit his door. He opened it and there she stood, pink purse on her hip, glasses catching the light. She did not smile. "I saw you through the window," she said. "You keep touching it." He stepped back to let her in. She looked at the notebook on the table, then at him. "I haven't read it," he said. "But I want to. I can't think. I keep looking at it." "I asked you to wait." "I know." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Then tell me why. Why after the final and not now." Lexi set her purse down. She was quiet a long moment. The kitten jumped off the counter and wound around her ankles. "Because if I say it now and you lose, you'll think I said it out of pity," she said. Her voice dropped, plain and low. "And if I say it and you win, you'll think it doesn't count because you were happy anyway. I need it to be clean. Just you and me, after." Johnathon looked at her. He understood. It was the same reason he cooked her pasta and told no one it was for her. "Okay," he said. He picked up the notebook and held it out to her. "Take it back. Keep it until then. I don't trust myself." She looked at his hand. Then she pushed the notebook gently back toward his chest. "No," she said. "You keep it. I trust you. Prove I'm right." She picked up her purse. "Cook your dish, Johnathon. Then read it. That's all I'm saying right now." She left. Johnathon set the notebook on a high shelf, out of reach. Then he sat with his sketch pad and, for the first time in three days, began to draw. His life on a plate. He had a reason to win now, and a page waiting to be earned.