Chapter one

"Forehead" the name, Mohr the surname; no one ever calls him John.

He killed his own cat once, and then he shaved his legs, then his hair, then his eyebrows.

Now he is sixteen, he smokes in public bathrooms, eats only rice and kisses ugly boys when they ask for it.

He doesn't have friends but somehow has straight As. Teachers always tell him what a great future he will have. But he doesn't care; he just smiles and walks off.

His father works in a bank, he is never home; his mother cheats on him with his father's best friend, she is never home either. They bought him a secondhand vintage crap of a camera for his birthday. He likes it, takes pictures of this dark hair, but sickly pale blue-eyed boy who is always surrounded by a lot of annoying people. He likes to think he is in love with him, writes his name with a pen in his arm, leaves him photographs of dead birds in his locker, memorizes the way he walks.

One day he was behind the gym, avoiding P.E., drinking coke and making an out loud list of all the curses he knew, when Calvin found him. 'Hello' he said and sat just a few centimeters away. They shared the coke and stared into space for an hour. Then, they went to change clothes and went home their separate ways.

Another day a note was passed during class. 'Would you like to be my model? There's this art project I have to do and it's half the final grade, I need someone to model for me. Please'. He wrote.

I know where he lives. He makes me go around five and I am, of course, late.

'Would you like something to drink?' he asks.

He has a studio in the backyard. All the paintings are covered. While he gets the brushes he asks me to take my shirt off and sit in a chair near the window. I do. My white hair mingles with the bright focal lights. He approaches with some black paint in his finger. 'May i?' he paints a cross in my forehead. 'There.'

For almost two hours we are there, the music sounds like whales noise. My back aches, but then he is done and tells me to come and see.

I look queer.

I pick up my stuff and go home. He's a good painter.