The Brightest Star in a Constellation

30: Chronostasis

☽ Peter ☽

"How about this one?" Evan slides a drawing out from underneath his stack of papers and asks.

The layers of sketches and school homework covered in doodles form a dent on his bed when he moves it. The landscape at the forefront of the pile appears to be painted; dusty clouds hang above a rippling lake. The ice is cracked at the side of the scene, and draped around it are fishing supplies. A pair of boots lined with fur is perched at the edge, one of which is leaning into the clear water. "It's nice," I say.

Evan cycles between the icy landscape and the previous one he showed me; a half-shaded rendition of a view through a windowsill. Above the creased curtains, the outline of an exit sign. I've come to understand that his art has a slightly surreal touch to it—there's an object that has no place there—a shadow that lingers in the corner. Even the drawing of his room, which he showed to me first, is missing the bed. In its place are the two siblings—Evan and Elaine—huddled like they're on a camping trip, conducting the light to form the shape of a butterfly on the wall.

Some of it—a majority, I should be clear—feels a bit like intruding on a conversation I shouldn't have overheard. And as much as my throat burns to ask him what it means, it wouldn't be my place.

"Peter"—Evan turns to me—"eventually, you know, you're going to run out of adjectives to use." He buries his hand in the mess of curls he's pushed away from his face, and which has gotten progressively more tangled the longer he sits on his bed. My weight shifts between feet as I set my hand against his dresser. "I know they're not Maud Lewis paintings or anything, but we need to figure out what the best ones are. Okay, forget that. The least terrible ones."

My hand strays to locate the first drawing, and I pick it back up. "It's—"

"Please don't say 'nice' or, god forbid, 'great,'" he interrupts. "Seriously. I'll kill you."

My finger traces the edges of the drawing. "I think..." I just want to make my appreciation of what he's shown me known, but I don't know where to begin. "I think it's a metaphor."

"Okay." He sounds too uncertain. "That's... I can work with that. What do you mean?"

"Well, for starters, there's no bed."

He glances at the paper in my hands. In a small tone, he says, "I couldn't draw it right."

"So, it's not a metaphor."

Placing an anchoring hand to his temple, he sighs. "A metaphor for what?"

"You're asking me?" Now I'm questioning it myself. At another glance, maybe he's right, and it doesn't mean anything. It's the equivalent of trying to peek at the answer before I attempt the question itself. When I get to the end, and my conclusion is correct, I wonder if it would've turned out the same way if I hadn't looked. I don't know if I'm heading in the right direction because I've told myself it's correct that Evan's paintings have a deeper meaning, or if they actually do. And Evan nods, prompting me to tell him. "I don't know, Éric. If I had to guess, it's a bit lonely, isn't it?"

Evan rips the paper from my hands, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. For a moment, I think he's about to crumple it up, but instead, he shoves it under the landscape painting and out of his sight. "This is bullshit. I need a drink. Do you want some water?"