I should desire friends I can see with my eyes and touch with my hands.
But I don’t want to be friends with people who have already decided I’m too weird to live. Maybe if they knew who I am and what I’ve made, maybe then they wouldn’t think I was so weird. Maybe then the weird would just be eccentric. But the only person I can be in this school is Eliza Mirk, and Eliza Mirk is barely a footnote in anyone’s life. Including mine.
By the seventh-period bell, I have a whole new page of Monstrous Sea ready for inking, but my mind is on the page at home I still have to finish. New pages go up on Friday nights, always, like TV shows or sporting events. My readers like consistency. I like giving it to them.
I toss the books I don’t need back into my locker and make my way to the parking lot, sticking close to the walls and shrinking until I barely feel myself there. Most people are already in their cars, clogging the lot. I make my way out the school’s front doors, digging through my bag for my keys.
That kid Wallace sits on one of the benches on the front walk, phone in one hand and screen turned up like he’s waiting for a message, a pen in the other hand so he can write on the sheaf of papers on the binder in his lap. Still looks like he’s falling asleep. He might need a ride home. Or maybe he’s just smart and knows it’s better to wait until the parking lot clears out to try to leave. I stop outside the doors and watch him for a moment. I could offer him a ride, but that would be strange. Eliza Mirk does not offer rides, and no one asks her for them.
When he starts to look up, I turn away and hurry out to my car.
CHAPTER 4
Apocalypse_Cow: are you working on the next page right now?
MirkerLurker: No—finished one earlier. Now sitting in the car going to my brothers’ soccer game. Only have my sketchbook.
emmersmacks: Bummer
emmersmacks: Hey did you get my care package
MirkerLurker: No! You sent another one? You didn’t have to do that, Em!
emmersmacks: :DDD I love sending stuff to you guys!! Besides this ones got good stuff in it
Apocalypse_Cow: when do they not have good stuff in them?
Apocalypse_Cow: also where’s MY care package???
emmersmacks: Oh calm down youre getting one too dummy
emmersmacks: E youre going to be around for the Dog Days livewatch right
MirkerLurker: Duh. The day I miss Dog Days is the day I eat my own foot.
Apocalypse_Cow: takes screenshot
Apocalypse_Cow: let it be known on this day that if eliza ever misses dog days, she will eat her own foot.
emmersmacks: Masterminds would love that one
emmersmacks: Creator of Monstrous Sea eats own foot over teen soap opera
Apocalypse_Cow: tacky teen soap opera.
MirkerLurker: Tacky teen soap opera? Yes. Wildly entertaining? Also yes.
emmersmacks: Amen
“Are you texting your boyfriend again?” Sully nudges up against my side, putting his chin on my shoulder. At his words, Church pulls away from the car window on my other side and leans in too. I slam my phone facedown on the sketchbook in my lap.
“Stop reading over my shoulder,” I snap. “And it’s not my boyfriend. It’s just Max and Emmy.”
“Oh, just Max and Emmy,” Sully says, making air quotes. “Sure.” Church snickers and copies the air quotes a second later.
“Be nice back there,” Mom chirps from the passenger seat. Dad makes a sound of agreement.
We pull into the parking lot of the gym where Sully and Church play indoor soccer. The half-hour drive went fast thanks to Max and Emmy, but I don’t look at the phone again until the two nightmares climb out of the car. Then I follow Mom and Dad into the building, with my nose in the phone.
Apocalypse_Cow: but seriously tho, dog days is the worst
emmersmacks: Not worse than the second season when Chris got with Ben
Apocalypse_Cow: chris got with jason in the second season, not ben
emmersmacks: Says the guy who doesnt watch Dog Days
Apocalypse_Cow: . . .
emmersmacks: Ah how the mighty have fallen
I snicker. Dad looks over his shoulder at me. “What’s so funny, Eggs?”
I turn off the phone and press it to my sketchbook again. Annoyance pings over my humor, little dark spots in the lightness. “Nothing.”
Until I’m sure neither Mom or Dad are looking back again, I keep the phone down and my eyes up. This gym is more like a warehouse than anything. A big empty room with movable walls as dividers between different courts. Volleyball, basketball, tennis. The place is huge. In the center is a walled-in soccer field with bleachers and everything. I take a picture and send it to the chat.
MirkerLurker: This place is actual hell.
emmersmacks: My sister hangs out at one of those gyms
emmersmacks: They make me want to shower
Apocalypse_Cow: that is weirdly specific, ems. sorry for your luck, e.
MirkerLurker: When I die here, bury me with my art.
Apocalypse_Cow: songs will be sung. potential mourned. someone will have to notify the fans, of course. as head security admin for the ms forums, i accept this responsibility.
emmersmacks: When did you start calling yourself Head Security Admin
emmersmacks: All you do is ban trolls
“Oh, Eliza, look.” Mom’s hand brushes my shoulder. I look up and find her examining a poster on a board by the gym entrance. Dad and the boys have already taken off toward the soccer field, where the teams warm up for their game. “They’re starting tennis lessons soon. I really think you’d love tennis—it’s a solitary game, and it’s great exercise.”
“No,” I say, and go back to my phone. She gives up immediately.
We’ve evolved this process steadily over the years. When I was little and didn’t have a say in the matter, my parents signed me up for every sport under the sun. Little League Baseball. Soccer. Basketball. Volleyball. I hated all of them because I didn’t—don’t—have any coordination and I didn’t—don’t—like to talk, so I didn’t play well, so my teammates wanted me gone. The first time I told my dad I wanted to quit softball, he flipped out and didn’t speak to me for a week. Mom tried to reason me back into it.
It would build character. It would help me make friends. It would be good exercise.
I refused. Then I quit all the other sports too. Casting them off was like casting off a set of old, heavy armor. Church and Sully loved sports, so some of the focus fell away from me, but Mom and Dad still tried. If I said no, they kept trying. I kept saying no.
Now we are at that place where they suggest something and I say no and that’s the end of it.
I follow Mom to the soccer field and perch beside her at the foot of the bleachers. Dad stands on the sidelines, coach’s clipboard in hand, talking to a group of gangly fourteen-and-under boys in sky-blue uniforms. I take my pencils and eraser out of my pocket and crack open my sketchbook.