Chris refuses to draw him, point-blank.

"C'mon, man! I'm just as pretty as JC," he says, brash and cocky, pouting and posing. Chris wants to suck on those lips, kiss and bite them.

"I already have enough sketches of young punks," he answers, the words bored. Justin snarls like a puppy, affronted, but with hurt eyes. He turns away to talk to Joey, and JC looks at Chris with reproach. Chris gets up for another beer. He refuses to do this, to assume responsibility for this kid. He's seventeen, for chrissakes, and Chris knows seventeen, knows how everything is magnified, everything happens at hyper speed and molasses slow at the same time. He isn't going to get involved with this kid, not even going to draw him, because if the kid was his model he'd have to get involved. It's how he operates. He can't just draw someone, he has to talk with them, get to know them, so he can try and show that personality through the page. That's why he made friends with JC. He knows most of the models the drawing classes use, and if he didn't his art would suffer. If he were to draw Justin he'd have to get further inside his head. And if Chris is going to stay aloof, stay sane, he has to keep a distance.


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