Drawing Amanda (10 page)

Amanda nodded. She could imagine the Sacred Circle girls talking about that haircut.

“Print out that picture, Manda. Let’s get you a keratin and a new haircut. I’ll have daddy’s secretary set it up for you and me. It’s time for a New York look.”

* * *

At first the mirrors in the hair salon made Amanda cringe. The hairstylist, whom Amanda dubbed Edwina Scissorhands for her spider black hair and leather pants, took one look at the printout of the Megaland haircut and said awesome so many times, Amanda lost count.

She liked being fussed over this way, and sometime between the shampoo and color and the blow dry, Amanda began to believe that with this haircut she was, as Edwina said, “Not just some ordinary girl. Somebody. You walk down the street with this cut and your long legs, and people’ll think, ‘There goes somebody.’”

Then while her mother was getting her hair cut, Amanda walked around Madison Avenue. She felt a little like she was in a costume and kept looking at strangers to see their reaction. She stopped in a store that had greeting cards, notebooks and desk supplies. She thought she might pick up something for her brothers—she wanted to give them something special this Christmas. Each time she turned an item over and saw the price tag, she put it back. Even if she saved every penny of her allowance, she wouldn’t be able to afford much more than a paperweight in this store.

She caught her reflection in a window, fluffed her hair and twisted the little plum curl around her index finger and saw a girl who was no longer plain and spindly. She smiled and waved; it was like she was meeting someone new.

Chapter 18

Compare and Contrast

I
T FELT LIKE THE SCHOOL HALLWAY
contracted when the bell between classes rang. Inky tucked his chin to his chest and headed towards his science classroom. It was like swimming against the tide, a tide of soccer players led by Sven and his wingmen.

Just behind the Soccer Boys, Hawk, in a voice that sounded like wheels scraping on pavement, called out, “Halloween’s coming, Artboy. Get on your inner spook.”

The Soccer Boys from both classes laughed, saying, “Good one, Hawk” and “Truth.”

Inky saw Amanda walking behind Hawk. She lowered her head and looked away. He thought she was embarrassed, but was it because of what Hawk had said or was she embarrassed to see him? Rungs, who was jammed in the center, shot Inky a sympathetic glance.

Inky wanted to say something to Hawk, but nothing came to mind. He glared at her, trying to pierce her with his gaze. It worked like a camera, and seared the moment into his memory.

“Look with intention and attention,” his father would say when Inky was younger. Inky hadn’t quite understood the words at the time, but he had still developed the technique. His inner spook.

Inky entered the class with the image of Hawk in the hallway emblazoned on his brain. Mr. Wallingford, the science teacher, touched the ends of his moustache and introduced the day’s lesson.

“The scientific method,” the teacher said with that reverence Inky’s mother also used for the names of the miracle drugs her company manufactured. What was it about science anyway?

“For our purposes today, the scientific method is the process used to answer questions and explain phenomena outside the realm of coincidence.”

Inky wrote this down as the teacher paused to allow the class to finish. He had the intention of taking notes on the four steps of the scientific method, which Mr. Wallingford promised they “would learn to abide and respect.” Inky wrote
four steps
right under the definition in his boxy precise handwriting

“Step One: Observation and Description.” Mr. Wallingford talked about the importance of noting all the details, even if they don’t immediately seem important to you. “Think of something you’ve seen recently and describe it.”

Hawk in the hallway was fresh in Inky’s mind. As the class noted features of their chosen objects, Inky started drawing. He began with a strong, sharp line that arched into a birdlike body.

“The next step is the formulation of a hypothesis to explain the phenomena. This can be expressed as a simple statement, like ‘objects fall down’; or a more complex equation, like ‘when baking soda and vinegar are mixed, they erupt,’” the teacher said.

“Hawk is a dangerous creature.”
Inky wrote below his doodle. He continued drawing, adding talons and feathers to the chest.

The teacher circled the room. Inky felt Mr. Wallingford approaching and looked up from his paper, straight into his teacher’s eyes as if in rapt attention. Then Inky went back to work. He drew an arrow through the breast of the bird, poking through an oversized heart, broken and bleeding.

“Step Three is to use your hypothesis to predict the results of new observations or other phenomena.”

He wrote down the words “
Other phenomena. New observations
.” There was something nagging at him, just below his consciousness.

Inky’s brain panned to Amanda, standing beside Hawk. He noted her little diamond stud and the length of her face, so familiar to him from drawing it. He mentally traced the line to the top of the forehead under the thick mane of hair.

“Step Four: properly performed experiments that can be duplicated by independent sources,” the teacher said.

Inky went over the details. What was different? He only caught a glimpse of Amanda and he’d been focused on her eyes to read her expression. He tried to isolate the image, forget the hallway and the Soccer Boys and Hawk and her talons laced into Amanda. He focused on his mental image of Amanda: her face was tilted, her head was down, her hair was . . . smoother and definitely not in a ponytail.

“That’s it,” Inky said out loud as he realized that Amanda had cut her hair. His classmates tittered.

“That’s right, Mr. Kahn. That’s it. Four steps. Four elegant steps.” Mr. Wallingford walked towards Inky’s seat, his lanky frame casting a shadow on Inky’s notebook.

“Would you like to share your hypothesis with the class?”

“I, er, I didn’t think they were for sharing.”

“I see. Yes,” Mr. Wallingford said, glancing at Inky’s notebook. “I see. This is not art class, and as much as I think there is an idea there, you must be able to clearly articulate your hypothesis. That is the scientific method. It must be clear for others to duplicate.”

Mr. Wallingford returned to the front of the classroom. “I’ll remind you all that along with the ability to compare and contrast, the scientific method is a core skill that you are required to master. I suggest you spend some time learning the steps.”

Inky knew that shorthand. His head filled with a deep indigo. He was failing science.

With that the teacher handed them the results of their pop quizzes. On the right corner of his classmates’ papers, Inky could see checkmarks. On his there was a big red “F.”

On the way out the door, Mr. Wallingford called out to Inky, “You’re welcome to see me for extra help, Mr. Kahn.”

“Thanks,” Inky called out, “but I gotta run today.” Inky rushed down the hallway to the lockers. He wanted to get another look at Amanda.

Inky grabbed his books and headed toward Rungs’s locker, which was near Amanda’s. He looked over in their direction and saw Hawk take her skateboard out of her locker. He quickly looked away. A moment later, standing by Rungs’s locker, he caught a glimpse of Amanda reaching into her locker. He had a full view of the back of her head. Inky could see her hair taper to reveal the back of her neck. As Amanda stood up, he saw a plum-colored strand of hair on her face.

He looked away, but not soon enough. He felt his checks burn. She’d seen him looking at her. He tried to change his expression from shock to a smile, but it was too late. She’d already turned to listen to whatever Hawk had to say.

Rungs caught him looking in the direction of Amanda and Hawk.

“Let it go, dude. Hawk’s a case. Damaged goods,” Rungs said.

“It’s not that.”

“Total malware.”

Inky shook his head. “Right. Get me virus protection.”

Inky looked back at Amanda one more time and caught a glimpse of the sharp edge of one side of her hair. It was like a current went through him. The part in her hair was jagged like a lightning bolt, just like he’d drawn.

* * *

At the Broken Cup coffee house, Inky weaved through the after-school crowd and grabbed a table while Rungs got a sweet tea for him and a double espresso for himself. He thumbed through his sketchbook and looked at his drawings for Megaland. The drawings definitely resembled Amanda—just more grown up and sophisticated. And with a slammin’ haircut.

Rungs put Inky’s change on the table along with their drinks. They took off the lids of their drinks. While Rungs opened his third sugar, Inky asked, “Did you notice that Amanda’s hair is different?”

“Huh?”

“Amanda. The new girl. In your classes.”

“Yeah,” Rungs said.

“‘Yeah,’ new haircut, or ‘yeah,’ you know who I mean?”

Rungs put his coffee down and stared at him. “I know who you mean. Yes, she looked different today.”

“Last week Amanda had long, wild hair. Now she has a jagged part and bangs with plum highlights.”

“Dude, you sound like a fashion magazine. You wanna talk about girls’ haircuts?” Rungs sipped his coffee. “You
like
her.”

“No.”

“It’s OK to like a girl.”

“I don’t know her really. She’s the new girl.” Inky looked down at his tea.

“There are advantages to new,” Rungs said.

Like she doesn’t know I’m the walking wounded. At least she didn’t until Hawk got hold of her, Inky thought. “Even if I liked her, that’s not the point.”

“Dude, that’s big.” Rungs clapped his hand on Inky’s shoulder.

“Will you listen to me? I don’t want to talk about who likes who.”

“No?”

Inky looked around the café and lowered his voice. “I drew her haircut, and then she got it cut.”

“Say what?”

“Her haircut. It’s a particular haircut.”

“So?” Rungs said. “That’s an American girl thing. They’re always getting haircuts.”

“But not
this
haircut. It’s my haircut. From my drawing. And she’s not American.”

“Ooh. You’ve got it bad, dude.”

“Negatory.” Inky shook his head vigorously.

Rungs raised his eyebrows. “I detect a case of full-blown like.”

Inky banged the table. He hated that he was so transparent, hated that he was such a ball of confusion. It was hard to know what you felt when you hadn’t let yourself feel for so long. “Cut it out. She got the haircut just like my drawing. Why did she get that haircut?”

Rungs shrugged. “She liked how it looked?”

Inky rolled his eyes.

“If the art thing fails, you can be a hairdresser.” Rungs held up his fingers like scissors.

Inky threw a sugar packet at Rungs and shook his head. “She had to have seen my sketchbook. But how? You know I never let it out of my sight.”

“What about gym?” Rungs said, now taking Inky seriously. “Did you leave it in your gym locker for Sven and the barbarians to get hold of?”

“Possible. But last year when they messed with me, they signed the inside of my locker. They’re not subtle.”

“True that.”

“She’s hanging out with Hawk.”

“There you go.”

“Yeah, right.” He flashed on the image of Hawk with talons from his drawing in science class. “I don’t know.”

Rungs finished off his coffee and put the cup down. “Dude, she got her hair cut, right? Probably saw it in a magazine. Didn’t you say your mom was reading all these girl stuff magazines? You probably drew a haircut you saw in one of them.”

“I dunno. Maybe. But I really thought it was unique.” Inky weighed the possibility that Rungs was right. He felt relieved that it might be a coincidence, but crestfallen that his drawing and ideas might not be as original as he’d thought.

“That’s gotta be it if no one saw your sketches,” Rungs said. “You didn’t upload them to the school server or anything?”

“After you hacked it last year? I totally know better.” But as Inky said that he had a flicker of memory. He thought of his father’s study and the green ink and scanning his drawings for Megaland. “I did upload it for Megaland—you know, that game developer you turned me on to.”

Rungs put down his coffee and focused on Inky. “How’d you send it?”

“It was too big for email. The guy had me upload it to one of those drop box sites.”

It was as if a computer had come out of hibernate mode; Inky could practically hear Rungs calculating possibilities. “They’re usually pretty secure. Did you title it? Any words or tags? Anything that’d be picked up in search?”

“Nah.”

Rungs waved his hand dismissively. “It’s a magazine. Ask her where she got the idea for her haircut. Girls like that kind of thing.” He winked at Inky.

“When did you become such an expert on girls?”

Rungs laughed. “I’ve found mine, so I’ve got plenty of time to observe.”

“I guess you’re right,” Inky said, but he really didn’t think so. He felt like something was amiss—had felt that way ever since he drew the Green Goddess picture. He felt an uncomfortable fullness in his chest and throat. A swirl of dark color filled his head.