Drawing Amanda (17 page)

Inky watched Amanda’s face scrunch up as she fought back tears. Inky wanted to hug her to make her feel better, wanted to smooth the lines around her cheeks, wanted to help her stop the sob that was forming in her throat.

He reached out for Amanda’s hand. It felt like slow motion as he let his pinky touch her. A tremor of good feeling went through him, yellow and vibrant. A bold color. She did not move her hand away. He placed his fingers over her hand and gently squeezed it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. In a moment the sob passed.

“I only wanted to belong. There’s no place I fit in. Hawk seemed so sure of herself, I thought . . . I thought she was my friend.”

Inky thought about Hawk’s presentation, and her description of doing her homework on the cancer ward, and how she waited for her mother to drift into consciousness.

“It’s complicated with her. She’s been through a lot,” he said.

“Funny, she said the same about you. It’s awful about your father.”

Inky looked down at his feet, then out the window. He knew he was silent for too long. “Can I sit down? Or can we go to your room or something?”

Inky saw Amanda look over to the housekeeper. The flash in her eyes suggested she was asking for permission. Inky wondered if she’d ever had a boy in her room before.

“There wasn’t really any homework. I wanted to talk to you.”

“My dad’s having a dinner party tonight. Fundraising stuff. My mother’s out getting her hair done.”

“I won’t stay long.”

Amanda led him down the short hallway. He was expecting her room to be decorated in soft colors and small patterns—calico, and maybe an old quilt, just like you’d see on TV. The bright white walls and furniture and bold geometric print bedspread surprised him, for their design, but also just because he was seeing them. He didn’t have much experience in girls’ rooms, but he’d guessed the decorating choices were not Amanda’s.

He picked up a carved wooden monkey from her dresser. Inky moved its little arms up and down. Amanda bristled.

“Cool,” Inky said as he put it down, sensing she was uncomfortable with him touching her things.

“Thanks,” she said, softening a bit.

“Listen,” Inky said.

“I,” Amanda started, speaking at the same time as Inky.

They laughed awkwardly.

Inky noticed that her eyes were red and her face was swollen like she’d been crying for a long time. He wanted to say something to make her feel better. He had so much to say; he felt ready to explode, but he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. He couldn’t believe that he was actually alone with Amanda in her room. He forgot the reason he was there for a moment and smiled.

He noticed her hair was no longer parted in the clean lightning bolt pattern of his drawing. The soft part made her hair fall over her face so that he wanted to reach up and brush the hair away.

“I like your new haircut.”

“Thanks.”

Inky reached for his sketchbook. “Let me show you something.”

He sat down on the bed next to her, keeping a polite distance. For him it was close enough to be aware of her body heat. It was thrilling, exquisite, and it made him aware of his own body in a way he never had been before.

He turned to the first drawings he’d done for Megaland and stopped on the page that inspired her haircut. Inky winced as he thought back to the excitement and anticipation he felt when he was drawing it. Innocent and straightforward, he was seizing an opportunity to maybe make something of himself. It was just a couple of weeks or so ago, but now it was all a mess.

He watched Amanda as she looked at the drawing. He compared the curves of her face to the drawing and saw a spot where his lines were off, drawing from memory as he had, and where he had captured her look most accurately.

“I like it better on paper than on the screen,” Amanda said.

He could see she was blushing.

“No one’s ever drawn me before. It makes me feel special. It’s like you really see who I am. I like that the eyes are a little sad.”

“That’s because we’re all a little sad,” Inky said softly.

“Well, you should be proud. You’re really good. And I’m looking forward to seeing what you do with a camera.”

Inky felt himself blush. This was going to be hard. He hadn’t really thought out how he’d tell her about Woody and Megaland. About how he knew—and why he cared.

“About that. Yeah. Um, Amanda, it’s not what you think. They are my drawings, but it’s not me behind the game.”

“What?” Amanda draped her arm over her knee and hugged it in and rocked softly.

Inky sat forward. “It’s not me you’re talking to.”

She bit her bottom lip. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“How can I explain this?” Inky asked. “Tell me this. How’d you get involved in Megaland?”

“Same way as you.”

Inky was not surprised, but he needed the affirmation of his hunch.

“Your friend. My notebook. The first day of school,” she said. “When your friend Rungs wrote down the URL for you, the ink leaked through the page, and one night when I was bored, I signed on.”

“So you know that I started just the way you did,” Inky said.

Amanda looked away. “I, er, I didn’t think of that . . .” She looked down at the floor, then the wall. She looked upset, then brightened. “But your drawings?”

“Those are my drawings, but it’s not me you’re chatting with.” Inky saw another flash of concern on her face. “I’m not so into games, that’s Rungs’s thing. But I wanted to show my work, make up for not going to Art & Design. Do something big.”

“And?”

“And instead of testing the game, I asked to draw stuff for it. He liked my work. It was cool to feel like I was part of something—and he was good to chat with. He understood.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Amanda said.

“It was nice to hear good things about my art, especially with all the crap at school.” He paused. “It was like the game let me be another person.”

“I totally understand.”

There was something in her tone of voice and her exaggerated nod that made Inky think she heard something he wasn’t saying. “Not really that, exactly,” he said.

“I used to hate this school. I thought everyone was stuck up and mean. And all the groups. I thought no one would be nice to me,” Amanda said, moving closer to him. “Now I don’t hate it so much.”

Inky wanted to stay in that moment. He wanted to hug her for real. Maybe he could tell her the rest about Woody and Megaland another time.

“Chatting with you made it easier,” Amanda said softly. Inky realized that she still didn’t accept that he wasn’t Woody. Inky shuddered. He had to get her to believe the truth.

“It’s not me. You’re chatting with a guy named Woody Turner. I know he’s gonna take your picture. But you have the wrong idea about him. He’s not a nice guy.”

Amanda got up and walked over to her dresser. She wound up the little mouse and let it dance across the surface.

“I think he’s very nice,” Amanda said with a laugh. “It’ll be the perfect present. Especially with my new haircut—thanks to what you saw in me.”

Inky was so flustered he sputtered his words. “It was you that I based my drawings on, the drawings you saw on Megaland. But I’m not Woody,” Inky said. “Woody is an older guy and he likes young girls. Likes them to dress up—cheerleaders’ outfits and stuff—and do pervy things. He’s been arrested because of it, and he’s using this game to get to you.”

Amanda turned towards him sharply. As she braced herself on the dresser, she knocked the little mouse to the floor. “Why are you saying this? Why won’t you admit you liked chatting with me, too?”

Inky got up and walked towards her. She crossed over to the other side of the room. “I get it. It’s because of my presentation. I crossed Ellen Monahan and now no one wants to have anything to do with me. This is just your way of getting out of it.”

“Amanda, that’s not it at all. I don’t care about Ellen frickin’ Monahan. She had it coming anyway. I care about . . .” Inky realized he was shouting and lowered his voice. “I care about you knowing the truth about Megaland. What I’m telling you is true.”

He was acutely aware that he’d almost told her that he liked her, which made little sweat beads form around his forehead and over his lip. He wiped his finger across his lip and hoped she didn’t notice.

“You’re lying.” She glared at him and sat down at her desk. “It has to be you I’m chatting with. How else would you know about the photo session?”

Inky wished the floor would swallow him up. His emotions were sharp-edged rays of molten orange slicing through him. The room spun. He had to tell her the truth.

“Rungs and I saw you. He hacked your computer and saw your chat with Woody.”

“What?” Amanda bolted out of the chair. “How?”

“Rungs is kind of a genius at that stuff. That revised rubric document he sent you—that was a key to get into your computer.”

“I don’t believe it. This can’t be true. Are you telling me that he spied on me? That you spied on me?”

Inky nodded and opened his mouth to explain.

“That’s illegal and creepy. It’s none of your business who I meet or what I do on my computer.” Amanda jumped up. “What’s it to you?”

“Look, the guy suggested you come to his studio so he could take pictures of you,” Inky said. “Does that sound like a part of beta testing a computer game or more like you’re part of his game?”

“That’s disgusting. You’re just jealous that it’s not you. I don’t want to have anything to do with you or your Thai spy friend.”

“Amanda . . .” Inky stood up and walked over to her.

“This whole school is messed up, and the two of you most of all.”

“But Amanda . . .”

She cut him off. “You should go now.” She pushed him out of her room and walked him to the door. “You should go and never talk to me again. Goodbye.”

Chapter 28

Keep the Home Fires Burning

E
VERYTHING WAS WRONG
,
INKY THOUGHT
, as he sank into the beanbag chair in his father’s study. He’d blown it with Amanda. He had done nothing to keep her out of danger, and now she hated him on top of it. How creepy was it that Woody was using his drawings to lure her in? Who knew, maybe he was using them on other girls, too? Rungs would probably be pissed that Inky went to Amanda’s without him. And then there was his school project, which was due in just a couple of days. Even Amanda’s failure had been well prepared and well rehearsed.

If he flunked this project, he felt like he’d be disappointing his father. Ever since Rungs talked about the
pii
, the spirits, whatever it was, Inky thought he felt his father watching him. And without a good grade on this project, he’d likely be tossed out of school and could kiss any thoughts of a decent college goodbye. Ms. Harooni’s voice echoed in his head. He was expected to do something impressive.

The pressure literally made his right hand lock up. Art had always come to him easily, naturally. Why, with everything else in his life so hard, did he have to be stuck now?

Inky pulled out his oversized sketchpad. The white paper seemed to stare at him, accusatory in its blankness. He made a quick angry line across the top third of the page. “Be something, anything,” he said to the page.

His shoulders rolled back as he thought of the view from Amanda’s window, his sharp line the horizon at dusk. He thought of the ornate clock they’d seen from her window, and penciled in a line. Probably she’d be in her room now, shunted aside while her parents had their dinner party. He wished he’d asked her for her IM. But she wouldn’t have chatted with him anyway.

He stepped back from his page. The line was all wrong, soft where it should be bold. Rather than a cityscape, it suggested a shoulder. He drew in a torso, working swiftly and confidently, his lines ripe as fruit. He continued to work, breathing life into the page. He narrowed the line by the hipbone, and thought of Amanda’s long legs.

Inky wondered if she’d sign on to Megaland. For a second, he thought to ask Rungs to spy on her. Ugh. This had all gone too far.

He set aside his sketchpad and looked around the study. The wooden mask on the shelf looked down at him, swirls of orange paint accentuating the eyeholes. A witness to his uncertainty. He remembered how excited his father had been before that last trip. He said it was the chance of a lifetime to film a previously unknown tribe, his duty to bear witness.

When Inky was little, his father often took him to the lower level of Grand Central Station. They’d sit in the oversized maroon and green chairs and look at the intricate designs on the wall. Sometimes they’d grab a snack and sit at the wondrous tables with tops made of laminated tickets and mementos from train trips past. They’d make up stories about the people who passed by, then his dad would cover the tables with blank paper and say, “Draw what you see.” Or “What color does it feel like today?”

Behind the tables were enormous lightboxes of photographs. “There’s nothing better than a public display to get your message out. Someday, it could be your work up here for everyone to see.”

It might not be in lightboxes, but he could make a public display.

Inky lined up some bottles of drawing ink, lush green and woody brown—the colors of the jungle. He began to imagine the scenes his father must have seen. He thought of feathers, peacock blue and scarlet red, maybe a bright yellow. He filled his little tub with water; to get the tone of Indian skin right, he’d have to mix the color himself.

He took out the block of Arches paper his father had bought him a couple of years ago. He ran his finger over the calligraphic script on the cover, which said the paper was milled in France since 1492. The paper of serious artists. Suitable for framing. Inky switched on the radio and started to hum.

He rubbed his finger on the embossed corner, set down a sheet of paper, felt its thickness, its tooth, and let the soft white speak to him.

Chapter 29

The Fog Rolls In

A
MANDA STARED OUT THE WINDOW
, too overwhelmed to do anything else. Too much had happened that day. The weather was turning; a gray mist swallowed the building spires. Her report had started out fine. Why hadn’t she just basked in that feeling, like a lizard in the sun? Why didn’t she just go on with her report as she’d prepared it? If she’d just stuck to the script, maybe she wouldn’t be the hated mean girl; maybe Inky would still be her friend, or almost friend, or whatever he’d been. But then she wouldn’t have found out how sneaky he was—snooping on her with his spyboy friend.