Drawing Amanda (6 page)

Megaland:
Want to tell me about it?

Picasso2B:
IDK. I still can’t believe it. He wasn’t old or anything. With the things that can happen in the jungle – malaria, scorpion bites, hostile tribes

He hit some wrong keys. He couldn’t focus because of the searing fluorescence of guilt.

Picasso2B:
And it was my freakin birthday that did him in. He was doing great work – you know how amazing a documentary on discovering a new tribe would have been? He was there.

Megaland:
Sounds like a heavy guy. And like someone who made his own decisions. Whatever went down, you have to think he made the best decision he could under the circumstances.

Those words lingered in the chat box for a moment. Inky took them in like he used to breathe in the scent of the wheaty breads his father would bake. The bright hot colors of guilt were softened by the words on the screen.

Picasso2B:
That makes me feel better. Thanks for listening, or whatever.

Inky sat quietly, feeling the closest thing to peace he’d felt in ages. The chubby letters of Megaland above the chat screen no longer bothered him. There was something homegrown and genuine about them. Then it dawned on him. This Megaland dude was speaking from experience.

Picasso2B:
Sounds like you’ve been there

The cursor blinked.

Megaland:
Not like what you’ve been thru, but I can relate to having your whole world snatched away and living without what you love.

Inky wanted him to say more and started typing, but before he could get his words out, he saw the offer he’d been hoping for.

Megaland:
So. Drawing. Are you up to trying some drawings for Megaland?

Inky pumped his fist in the air.

Picasso2B:
Mos def. What do you want?

Megaland:
I could use some art for the Dream Date segment. There’ll be a main guy – well-built, good hair, rock n roll look, the kind girls like. Also a biz guy close-cropped hair, suit jacket. Then a couple of others, a sports type, hipster, lots of different facial looks, different eyes, nose, skin color. All friendly smiles. The kind of guys you’d want to know, that make girls feel comfortable. Does that make sense?

Picasso2B:
I can picture it.

Well, maybe not the stuff that girls liked.

Megaland:
Excellent. And if you do a good job, maybe I’ll have you draw the girl. So far I’m thinking dark hair, long legs and not too curvy, if you know what I mean.

Chapter 11

A Muse Emerges

T
HE CAFETERIA WAS UNUSUALLY QUIET
; the whole grade was working on their outlines for their core presentations. Even Rungs was hyper-focused, reviewing lines of code on his minicomputer, although Inky wasn’t sure what that had to do with his report on Buddhist practices.

Inky was pleased with the drawings he’d done the previous night—kind of a cross between a men’s fashion photo spread and the old dancer iPod commercials. He looked them over and knew he should be thinking about ways to make them work for his project, too, but all he could think about was creating the girl character for Megaland. It was always easier to draw if he had a real person as a starting point. Rungs looked up as Inky was staring at the Sacred Circle’s table.

“You’re not thinking about the dance?”

Inky shook his head. “No way.” He was so not ready for a school dance.

“Oh, I get it,” Rungs said, stealing a glance at Inky’s open sketchbook. “Your project. You’re drawing social structure.”

“Social structure. Yes, social structure,” Inky said, trying not to let on that he still didn’t know what to say about the drawings. “Thank you for seeing that.” His excitement made him speak loudly enough for the new girl at the little table behind them to look up.

“Chill. The new girl is staring at you,” Rungs said.

Inky could feel his cheeks turning red. He angled to look at her, taking in her long, heart-shaped face and amber eyes. She turned her head and her ponytail swayed.

“Her name’s Amanda. I have core classes with her,” Rungs said.

The overhead light caught the tiny diamond in her nose and made a rainbow that Inky thought was meant just for him. Inky smiled at her, his mind like a camera taking a picture that he’d work from later.

He’d found his secret muse for the next drawing for Megaland.

Chapter 12

Rungs Sounds Off

R
UNGS WALKED BEHIND THE ROWS
of desks to the computers in the back of the room. He nodded to Demos, who was updating his Facebook status. Demos looked up guiltily.

“It’s cool,” Rungs said.

He stood by the computer that was connected to the classroom whiteboard and typed in some code. He chuckled to himself over the irony that his classmate was feeling guilty.

Rungs popped a flash drive in to the side of the machine and glanced around to observe his classmates entering the room. Demos continued typing.

No one looked at Rungs as he restarted the computer. He felt satisfied as he heard the winch-winch noise that meant his program was loading. He went to his seat and strained to hear the sound of the computer over his classmates’ chatter. When the computer became quiet, he picked up his water bottle as if he needed to refill it, and headed to the classroom door. He paused by the computer and stealthily palmed his flash drive and shut down the computer.

He stepped outside and walked down the hall to fill his water bottle. He let the flash drive slip into the water fountain and watched the water dribble on to it. Revenge would be sweet. Lorenza disrespected his customs; now he’d get a taste of how that offense, a
Pacittiya,
was dealt with.

When his bottle was full, he recapped it and picked up the now ruined flash drive and tossed it in the trash. “Leave no traces,” his father would say.

When Rungs returned to his seat, Mr. Lorenza was standing in front of the classroom. “Are we ready?” he said as he waited for the class to turn in his direction.

Rungs had a hard time concentrating on the lecture. He was imagining how his carefully recorded sounds would be triggered from the computer.

Mr. Lorenza sat down at his desk and grabbed the clicker. He leaned back. Rungs felt his shoulders tighten. But instead of bracing for the affront of Lorenza’s feet on the desk, Rungs smiled at the thought that his recordings were now loaded on the classroom computer.

“Let’s have a look on the white board, shall we?” Mr. Lorenza put one foot up on the desk, then another. “Could someone turn on the computer?” he said.

The ever-helpful Priya volunteered. Rungs listened as the computer started up, sensing the extra few seconds it took to load the new program.

Of course he’d be suspected. But as long as there were no witnesses, there’d be no way to trace it to him. The flash drive was trashed, and even if someone could recreate his program, he’d left no signature on the files.

Rungs expected Mr. Lorenza to put the rubric up on the whiteboard. He’d read each point to the class because it was an opportunity to use the inflections of his well-trained former actor’s voice to emphasize the required elements. Ego.

Then, Rungs figured, when Lorenza was ready to have the students present their project ideas, he’d call on them by displaying their names on the whiteboard screen. Mr. Lorenza liked to stage direct.

Rungs knew he’d be called on first because of his comments in the auditorium. He planned that the first sound triggered by the first click of the controls was the sound of the wind, a gentle hush. Rungs bowed his head when Mr. Lorenza called his name—he used the gesture of humility to hide his smile. He heard the subtle rustle of leaves in the wind.

Rungs stepped up to the front of the room. He had no notes. “My project will be about
buat phra
, becoming a monk, something most Thai men do before they are married. It’s a rite of passage and a way to get closer to nirvana by studying Buddha’s teachings.

“It’s not a forever thing,” Rungs continued. “Usually it lasts for one
phansa
, the three-month rainy season that starts in July. In my village, all the boys over 16 become monks together, and then there’s a giant ordination ceremony. It’s the biggest party of a guy’s life.”

Rungs thought about beautiful Apsara back in Thailand and almost lost his train of thought. Right after his
buat phra
, he planned to ask her to marry him.

He looked over at Mr. Lorenza, who was starting to lean back in his chair. “My project will talk about the monk’s vows, the 227 laws. I’ll focus on a couple of them:
adhikarana-samatha
, or the settlement of issues; the non-doing of all evil; and the doing of what is skillful.”

Rungs looked directly at Mr. Lorenza. “Of course, you do not have to wait to keep your heart and body pure and lead a life in accordance with the teachings of the Buddha.”

“Well, well, Mr. Rungsiyaphoratana, we’ve learned much here. I’ll remind you that you need to use a multidisciplinary approach for your project. Find a way to illustrate some of those customs or principles.”

“Oh, I hear you, Mr. Lorenza. I’ve already started on that,” Rungs said.

Mr. Lorenza clicked the controller to bring up the next name on the screen and read, “Helen Stegmann.”

“Dork, dork,” Sven was heard saying.

Mr. Lorenza looked toward the Soccer Boys’ row. “We’ll show the courtesy we’d want for ourselves.” Sven shrugged and looked around for support, but found no sympathy. They’d all heard Sven’s voice, and no one dared to call Hawk a dork.

Rungs had a hard time not smiling. The timing worked out even better than he had planned. He concentrated on his breathing, and wished that Inky was in his class so they could share in the moment. He heard nothing of what Hawk said, but clapped politely when she was finished.

The sound of a squeaky violin accompanied the slide with the name Amanda Valdez Bates. Rungs was glad it wasn’t the euphonium. She looked nervous enough.

Mr. Lorenza seemed to think the sound was the squeak of a chair and looked over to the Soccer Boys’ row with a warning glance.

Amanda spoke about always being new and relating to gypsies and Arabs and nomads. She rocked from foot to foot when she spoke. She had her thick hair pulled back. It reminded Rungs of a swishing horsetail and it made him a little dizzy. Her thoughts were equally confounding. Something about being a fast runner and how she’d like to do her project on running and not knowing where to call home.

Mr. Lorenza seemed uncomfortable with her discomfort and cut her off. “I appreciate that your subject matter is heartfelt, but I’m not sure I can find the theme in there. In our core studies at MDA, we emphasize organization and focus.”

Rungs watched her tap her foot as the teacher spoke. She leaned forward like she was in a starting block, and Rungs half expected her to take off.

“I think that since you’re new, it would be interesting for you to study MDA as a microcosm. You can look at social structure, group behavior, multiculturalism, or even the role of sports. You decide how you want to fine-tune it. It’ll give you a good excuse to get to know everyone.” Mr. Lorenza saw how dejected she was and added, “I’ll assign someone to help you.”

Then the teacher dove into a monologue about the assignment and the due date. The class was quiet. While he talked, he clicked his remote to show a blank screen, which triggered the next of the sounds.

It was Demos’ voice saying, “Loser.” Mr. Lorenza’s face contorted in anger. Several students gasped and the braver ones looked over in the direction of Demos and the Soccer Boys.

Rungs sat back in his chair, put one foot up on his desk and prepared to savor his retribution.

Chapter 13

Class, Caste and Costume

I
N THE NEIGHBORING CLASSROOM,
Mrs. Patel called on Inky. He took his time gathering his sketches.

“My topic is social structure in modern American culture.” He paused a moment. “I plan to present my project as a series of images.” As soon as he touched the thick paper of his sketches, he felt better, like a toddler with his favorite blanket. “Here’s what I have so far.”

Inky held each picture up to the class, making sure to first show them to Mrs. Patel. His classmates were quiet. His drawings were good and fun to look at, particularly the guy on the lime-colored Vespa with the forest green leather man-bag slung across his body. Another image, created for Megaland, was the grinning rocker dude, microphone in hand, clad in skinny, skinny ink-black leather jeans and an old-school shag haircut. The girls seemed to like that one.

When he’d shown all the pictures, Inky turned to Mrs. Patel, hoping she would find his effort acceptable. “Well, that’s as far as I’ve gotten, but I’ll work on it some more.”

“Thank you, Michael,” the teacher said. “I’m glad to see you’ve been working on your project. You need to clarify your area of exploration. I expect you to have an overview and a thesis statement. Do you have the rubric?”

He pictured the rubric robot and smiled. “Yes, Mrs. Patel. Thanks. I’ll be sure to look at it.” He’d hoped that was it, and she’d send him back to his seat.

“Perhaps you’ll want to base your final presentation on ‘Class, Caste and Costume.’ You’ll find that chapter in your reader. See if it doesn’t inform your project.”

* * *

That night Inky worked on his sketches, sharpening lines, adjusting angles and cursing himself for his foray into abstract art last year, then remembering exactly why realism had been overwhelming.

He added tattoos to the arm of a basketball player and etched “Megaland” into the character’s hair in the same bubble typeface as the welcome screen. He toyed with drawing a soccer player, but he hated the thought of spending any of his time thinking of kids he detested.

He put a couple of new lines down; the torso he drew was long and slender. He penciled in lines for arms and legs, then elongated them to suggest a runner’s body. He stared at the page for a moment to let it suggest a direction.

This was definitely a girl’s body, long, lean and elegant. He draped her in a cropped jacket, rounding the area under the arms to give her more shape. He sketched pants with a wide flared leg and buttons across a tight waist. Then he worked on the features, shaping the face of his drawing with the same heart shape as Amanda’s. He added a small dot to the left side of her nose.