Page 1 of Missing Linc
CHAPTER1
Linc
“Think.Go deep, deep down. I tell you you are never,cannever, become the artists you dream of being. I forbid you. Society forbids you,” I say, trying to add as much accent behind every word.
I look at my classroom full of aspiring actors. It’s time to weed out the ones who will become something and the ones who won’t.
“Now, how do you feel? Is your whole life destroyed? Have you lost all meaning? Are your only thoughts despair and hopelessness?”
I attempt to look at everyone in the classroom, but there are many that seem to have gotten lost in the thoughts I’m encouraging.
“Well, then congratulations, my friends, you are an artist. You will always be an artist. The rest of you, those who are “practical”, or “down-to-earth”, or just dismissive, well, let me tell you. Quit now. You’re wasting your time. There are a hundred things that are better than art that you can do that won’t involve selling your soul, your body, your health. If you think you can do anything other than art, you’re not an artist. Escape now before you ruin your life. It takes balls and perseverance to be an artist. If you ain’t got it, get out while you can. Because I’m telling you, this shit will consume you.”
A few students laugh, but one of them raises her hand.
“What if we don’t have balls, sir?” she asks, and the laughter gets louder.
“You got tits?” I ask her, and her jaw drops. “That shit is stronger than balls, anyway, so you’re good.”
There’s laughter again and then…
“What about if you don’t have either,” someone says, and the whole class turns to look at the door.
So do I.
I don’t know what it is, but the moment I set my eyes on him the wind gets knocked off my chest, and I have to catch my breath.
There’s a short, young guy, with blond hair—short on the side, longer and a bit curly on the top—a baggy sweater with one side off shoulder, a messenger bag with all kinds of pins along the strap—a few rainbow flags, a few trans flags, and a few emoji ones—skinny blue jeans, pink, white and baby blue sneakers, and an Espresso Blues cobalt cup in his hand.
He’s quite the sight, and he’s staring at me.
I clear my throat and turn my whole body in his direction and excuse myself.
“I said, what if you don’t have ballsortits?” he asks again.
Shit.
I didn’t mean anyone to take offense at my words. Maybe I should update my first day speech with something more inclusive.
“Have you got guts and heart?” I ask him.
He watches me for a few more moments and then he lifts his cup-hand, points at me with one finger, and winks.
“Those, I do,” he says and starts heading for the first empty desk in the classroom.
Some students laugh, some stare at me, some stare at him.
I can’t say I blame them. He’s quite the looker.
But what’s wrong with me? I’m not gay. I don’t fawn over guys. I don’t look at their ass as they walk away from me even when they have a nice, perky butt that’s so very… cuppable.
Shit, Linc. Get a grip. What’s wrong with you?
The guy sits down and I’m still staring when he raises his voice and hands and says:
“You may continue.”
There’s amusement in his voice and a lot of confidence, and I’ll be damned if that’s not… admirable.
