The hopeful trajectory of Noah's first chapter means the world to me.
It began with this burning shame clouding his art. Violent panic obscuring his incredible fondness of self-portraits and charcoal and the whites he uses to color his sister's eyes. His pride meant nothing in the face of survival, and he lost himself in black page after black page after black page, scribbling in a little cove no one else could find.
"I sit down and open my sketchbook. I black out a whole blank page, and then another, and another. I press so hard, I break stick after stick, using each one down to the very nub, so it's like the blackness is coming out of my finger, out of me, and onto the page."
Noah stresses over the parts of himself he keeps tucked away from the world, worried they'd be forced into the light—bare to the judgmental eyes of his father, of Zephyr, of Jude.
"I put all my effort in trying not to cry. A sickly ferret feeling is burrowing itself into every corner of my body as I pant my last breaths. And even if they don't kill me hear and now, by tonight everyone on the hill will know what just happened."
So he crawls into himself, time and time again. Pulls down the shutter between his secrets and the people around him. Unzipping the air and disappearing inside it.
“A Series: Boy Inside a Box of Darkness.”
... And then it ends with a sparkle of pride lighting up his mother's eyes. His shutters raised, his pride beaming, and he describes the warmth radiating from her as a pool of light, shining on all the hidden parts of himself and loving them indiscriminately.
“Self Portrait: Boy Dives Into a Lake of Light”
The chapter details how often Noah felt unseen, or purposely went out of his way to seem smaller, to disappear—but in a little café sat at the top of an art museum, he basks in the freedom of being known. He preens under a gaze he previously would've hoped no one caught—he volunteers to showcase his hard work.
“He winked at me. Like he knows. But it doesn’t feel bad. Not at all.”
I can't help but root for him.