Drawing Amanda (7 page)

He stepped back and thought about the hair. It had to be dark, yes, but he wanted to do something dramatic, something different. His hand was ahead of his brain, and he drew an asymmetrical line ending at the top of the left cheekbone. He made the part jagged, then shaped it like a lightning bolt. On the right side he drew in some bangs. They were more like a fringe, with the pieces tickling the brow and longer pieces kissing the nape of the neck. It was hip and sophisticated and totally original.

With his colored pencils, he made the pants slate gray and the jacket black with purple stitching, and colored a line that suggested a bright yellow shirt underneath. He added purple streaks to the bangs and a smudge of purple on the eyes and lashes.

Inky set all of his Megaland sketches out on the floor. One by one he scanned his sketches into a program that transformed them into a more usable file. When he was satisfied, he signed on to Megaland. While he was waiting for the chat box to appear, he noticed there was no “contact us” tab. He guessed it was because it was a beta site.

Megaland:
Welcome back, Picasso2B.

Picasso2B
: I have those drawings for you. Where can I send them?

Megaland:
Drawings for me? Now?
This is exciting, but unexpected.

The cursor blinked for a moment. Inky wondered why it was unexpected. Did he think he’d flake out?

Megaland:
It’ll take me a little time to set up an inbox for you to upload to. Could you come back for instructions tomorrow?

Inky was disappointed. He wanted quick props for his work.

Picasso2B
: I’d really like to know what you think. Is there someplace I can email them?

Megaland:
My email can’t accept attachments. Viruses and all. Let me see if I can scare up the IT guy. He’s usually pretty close to his computer. Check in later tonight.

Picasso2B
: K.

Even though he typed that it was OK, it really wasn’t. This guy seemed pretty buttoned up in the beginning with his research questions. What was up with not having an FTP site or some kind of file sharing? Even MDA had that. Maybe he was still in the research phase or something. Whatever. What mattered was that the Megaland guy liked his work enough to use it in the game.

Later that night Inky signed on again and got instructions for sending his images. He whistled as he uploaded his files, made himself a snack and returned to Megaland. The dialogue box popped up immediately. Which made him wonder, didn’t the guy have a life? Even his mother took a break from work once in a while to go out for dinner with friends. But Inky abandoned that thought as soon as he saw the comment about his artwork.

Megaland:
Picasso2B, you are a wonderful artist. I couldn’t be more excited to have the opportunity to work with you. It is truly a happy accident that brought you to me. I can anticipate many uses for your talents.

Yes. Inky wanted to screen-capture that chat and save it. But first he had to reply.

Picasso2B:
Really glad u like them. I’m very interested in graphics for games.

Megaland:
Makes sense because you have a real talent. I think you have a natural understanding of story development, and that’s something you don’t always find in an artist.

Picasso2B:
Thanks. That makes me happy. Now I have to make the drawings work for my school project. And I’m nowhere with that.

Megaland:
What’s the topic?

Picasso2B:
Class, caste and costume.

Megaland:
Pretty advanced stuff. I’ll have to look for identifying marks in your sketches. That’s the thing with caste right? The marking that tells everyone where you stand.

Inky liked the way this dude told him something he probably should have known. It was the way his really good art teacher last summer would show him things. The way his father used to help him with his homework.

Picasso2B:
I have to read some essay, then figure it out.

Megaland:
Sounds to me like you’ll be good to go once you focus on it.

Picasso2B:
that’s the thing. It’s hard to concentrate. All this stuff in my head gets in the way.

Megaland:
I think I know what you mean – the what ifs, the movie that won’t turn off.

Picasso2B:
yup. And memories. There are things I can’t shake.

Inky thought of a photograph from some insurance papers his mother filed. A patch of land, perhaps one the pilot had thought would make a good spot for an emergency landing. Everything was charred, bits of baggage, pieces of the plane.

Megaland:
Anything in particular?

Picasso2B:
It’s stupid maybe but in this picture of the crash site, I think I see some of my father’s stuff.

The cursor blinked. It felt polite, like the guy was giving him space to say stuff or not.

Picasso2B:
I swear I can see his mangled camera and a thin metal razor like the one he used. I see it in my head all the time.

Megaland:
For me it’s a smell. Loss, ruin - they stink. I can’t shake the smell - guys too close, too constant.

Inky wondered if he was talking about maybe being on the road with a band or something.

Megaland:
That, and I gotta know what time it is. I can’t sleep. Like I’ll miss something good. Drives me crazy how much I missed when I was away.

He was curious where the Megaland guy had been. But before he could think much about it, there was more on the screen.

Megaland:
Forget that. Forget about me. You were saying there were things you can’t shake . . .

Picasso2B:
I wonder what it must have been like when the plane started to go down. How did the scenery look? Did it whiz by? Did he think of us? When was it exactly? When I was in the hotel getting ready to go to the airport, sitting by the AC and eating strange fruit?

Megaland:
So much you’ll never know. So much to regret. But we can’t dwell in the past. We must move forward. And our forward, Picasso, my man, is Megaland.

Picasso2B:
Does that mean you’ll use my drawings in the game?

Megaland:
It’s quite possible. Of course, everything is market-tested.

Picasso2B:
I have another sketch – it’s of a girl.

Megaland:
Do send it. I believe I’ll find many ways to use your work.

Chapter 14

Green Goddess

I
N THE CAFETERIA, AMANDA’S FACE
was flushed like she’d been running. She was embarrassed by her presentation and that she’d been assigned a topic. And the topic she’d been assigned—
quelle barbe
—so annoying
.
If Mr. Lorenza was even one millimeter more approachable she might talk to him, but he was so smug and full of himself, she doubted he’d change his mind.

She pushed her way past the taco station, inadvertently bumping into Ellen Monahan.

“Watch it, Spider Legs.”

Amanda ignored her and asked for a grilled cheese.

Amanda looked at the perfect little flip in Ellen’s hair; her presentation would be polished. Amanda had always done well in school, but she was used to studying and tests, not projects and presentations.

Well, she wasn’t going to wallow. She tried to keep her thoughts on the salty, gooey orange cheese on sweet white toast. She’d just have to learn how to speak in front of a group.

Amanda selected the vegetables for her side salad and headed to the little table in the back of the cafeteria where she’d been sitting alone since the start of school. It was taken; two students were seated in front of a pile of flyers about the school clubs.

She sat at the table where the Thai boy was sitting by himself. His presentation in class made her think he wasn’t as rude as he seemed that first day. She put her tray down at the edge of the table. Amanda put her elbows down to her sides and pressed her palms together below her chin. She bent her head slightly. The prayer-like gesture was called
wai
—their old housekeeper had taught her the greeting. It was a sign of respect in Thailand. The boy smiled at her and seemed surprised.

“Lived in Laos once,” Amanda said.

While Rungs introduced himself, one of the students at the club table called out, “The UNICEF club is planning a haunted house.”

Amanda saw Rungs’s friend walking towards them. A couple of the boys in soccer shirts snickered. “Of course, some of us already
are
a haunted house,” the thick black-haired one said.

“NRN,” Rungs said as his tall friend sat down. “No response necessary.”

The boy nodded to Rungs, then looked at her. She could tell by the red patches on his neck that he was really embarrassed about being teased. It happened to her all the time when she didn’t know what to say. Like now.

Rungs looked down under the table at some device.

Amanda stabbed at her lettuce. The boy ate his sandwich without saying a word. She looked up at the clock. She thought she felt him looking at her, but when she glanced over he was looking at a thin slice of tomato that had slipped out of his sandwich.

Another fifteen minutes until lunch was over. Not enough time to go for a run. She could go up to the roof with the view of the East River, but she didn’t want to stand alone. She tried that last week and felt like she was out on the open plain, exposed, like some kind of small bush animal.

She snuck a glance at the boy. He was looking at his tomato like it was the most interesting thing in the world. She knew that look. How many times had she pretended to be interested in something as a buffer to the world?

The lettuce trembled on her fork. She hoped he didn’t notice.

“The dressing is good,” she said to him.

“Never tried it,” he said, at least looking up from his tomato.

“I’m Amanda. I’m new.”

“Michael. But everyone calls me Inky.” She liked his long, scraggly hair and dark-gray nervous eyes. His discomfort made her feel more at ease.

“Enqui? What language is that?”

“No, Inky. Like pen and ink.”

“How’d you get that name?”

Amanda felt proud of herself. Her mother always told her that the way around shyness was to express interest in the people around her by asking questions.

He hesitated before he answered her, like he was filling himself up with resolve. She did the same thing before she spoke to people.

“I always loved to draw—especially with my father’s fountain pen. He used emerald green ink,” he said, suddenly more animated. “I loved how heavy that pen felt in my hand. The swirls of color on its casing made me think of an ice cream sundae when everything melts in the bowl.”

“I know those pens. Like Venetian paper.” Amanda thought she saw him pat his pocket.

“Right. So one day I was sitting in the big wooden chair at my father’s desk drawing a birthday card. My father was printing some pictures. He made the bathroom into a darkroom and I couldn’t open the door while he was working or his film would get ruined.”

“A photographer, wow,” Amanda said.

“Filmmaker, actually.” He stopped and seemed to get lost inside his head.

“So. Your nickname?”

“Yeah, right. Sorry. I was drawing a card, and the pen ran out of ink. When I tried to change the cartridge, I made a huge mess and got ink all over my hands.”

Amanda nodded for him to continue.

“I didn’t wash it off too well and I went to the birthday party with green hands. Hawk, well, she was Helen then, was Little Miss Manners and shook my hand and said they were dirty.”

Amanda took another bite of salad, careful not to drip dressing on her shirt.

“She thought it was funny or something when I told her it was ink and yelled out to everyone, ‘Inky, Inky, Inky.’ Even then she had that thing that makes people follow. All the kids at the party—basically everyone in our class—mimicked her. From then on, I was Inky. Inky Kahn.”

Amanda saw Inky’s cheeks flush. “Wow.” He was cute when he was embarrassed, in a gangly sort of way. “Great story. Did you like the nickname?”

“Well, it fit. That’s the thing about Hawk. Plus, I didn’t want to be a wet blanket.”

Amanda didn’t know what he meant about the blanket. She pointed to the remnants of her salad. “This dressing really is good. Green Goddess.” She thought of a silly joke her brother once told her at a restaurant and thought she’d try it. “Maybe you know. What Greek goddess is the goddess of lettuce?”

Amanda regretted it as soon as she said it. What a lame remark. But miraculously, he smiled, and even laughed a little, making the bite of sandwich give him a bit of trouble. That made her smile.

But Inky’s laugh stopped abruptly. Amanda wondered what stopped him.

“Hey, new girl,” she heard someone say behind her.

Inky grabbed his tray like he was ready to go. Amanda turned to see the girl who presented before her in Mr. Lorenza’s class.

“We were just talking about you,” Inky said. The girl snorted.

“So, new girl. I’ve been assigned to help you with that lame-ass project Lorenza stuck you with. Call me Hawk. Like Tony Hawk.”

Amanda wondered why she’d glared at Inky. She couldn’t read his expression, but it seemed like a dark cloud passed over his head. Hawk wagged her finger for Amanda to come with her. She didn’t want to leave, but Inky was right, Hawk was like a magnet; she had something that made it impossible to say no to her.