“It’s still different.”
“I think you might be surprised how thin the lines between art and sports really are—some artists consider their craft a sport, and some athletes consider their sport an art. My point is, we ascribe value to the things we care most about, but sometimes we don’t stop long enough to take a look at the bigger picture. You are able to see who your brothers are, separate from what they do and accomplish, but you have trouble doing the same for yourself.”
“I . . . maybe . . .”
“Worth as a person is not based on any tangible evidence. There’s no test for it, no scale. Everyone’s got their own idea of what it is. But I can tell you that Monstrous Sea is not the measure of your value in life, Eliza. Whether or not you finish it does not determine if you should live or die.”
“But . . . Wallace. Wallace was offered a book deal for his transcription of the story, and it would completely change his life, but the publisher doesn’t want it unless it’s done. If I don’t finish, he’s going to lose everything.”
“Is it a life-or-death situation?”
“No.”
“Is he in some sort of danger only this can save him from?”
“I . . . no. But it would make things easier for him. . . .”
“It does sound difficult.”
“What am I supposed to do? That’s why I’m here, that’s why I’m trying to get through all of this and be able to draw. If it weren’t for him, I’d never think about the comic again. I want to finish the comic for him, but I can’t. If he doesn’t get this, it’s my fault.”
“I don’t think the important thing here is that you finish the comic. It’s that you realize that you can’t be held responsible for Wallace’s life, or the lives of your fans. The state of your fandom shouldn’t dictate your self-worth.”
“But it’s my fault. I should be able to finish even if I don’t feel like it.”
“I understand that may not be your first choice of action, and certainly it may not seem like the kindest, but is it more important that you work despite the block, or should you take the time to rest?”
“Shouldn’t you be the one telling me that?”
“I think in this case it’s more important that you decide for yourself. This issue—your anxiety—may not be a quick fix. I can prescribe medicine for it, but it’s vital that you learn how to identify it when it feels like you’re being overwhelmed, and to know when you can push through it and when you need to step away.”
“Oh.”
“Let’s explore something else. Did you give any thought to what you would do after Monstrous Sea was finished?”
“I . . . I kind of felt like I’d collapse on the ground. You know, like a puppet with its strings cut.”
“You didn’t have any other ideas you wanted to explore?”
“No.”
“Life doesn’t end with the story. Maybe you won’t finish Monstrous Sea. Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t draw anything else after Monstrous Sea. Maybe you will. The fans will still love it. The haters will find something else to hate. Time will go on, and so will you.”
“But . . . how long will that take? I’m tired of feeling like this.”
“That’s hard to tell.”
“I have to go to college in the fall. I can’t—I don’t want to deal with this and be in a new place too.”
“Have you thought of taking time off? A gap year? You don’t have to jump into college right away.”
“But what would I do with myself? I can’t stay in my room all the time, right? Even though I want to.”
“If you continue coming to see me, we can talk about this, but it would be a great time to take stock of things. Recenter yourself. It will also give you plenty of breathing room to work on your anxiety.”
“That . . . sounds nice.”
“Would you like more water? Your ice has melted—it must be warm by now.”
“Oh. Yes, thank you.”
CHAPTER 41
Graduation couldn’t come fast enough.
My grades slipped over the past few weeks, but it was so close to the end of the semester it didn’t matter. It wasn’t enough for any college to rescind their offer of admission. I accepted at a small local university, and almost immediately wrote a letter to the director of admissions explaining why I wanted to defer for a year.
Last September, Mom and Dad wouldn’t have loved the idea of me taking a gap year. After all this, they agreed that it might be for the best. I think part of the reason they did was because of Sully and Church’s impromptu intervention on my behalf. Right away Dad began intercepting all phone calls and mail meant for me, and Mom planned a list of activities we could do to get me out of the house more—most of which involved walking Davy around the neighborhood, thankfully—and she hung up a little sign on the fridge with a row of emotion faces so I can mark how I’m feeling every day. I would’ve called it stupid before, but it’s easier, some days, than having to talk.
“What do you mean, you won’t have to go to school next year?” Sully roars at the dinner table when Mom and Dad announce the plan. “We still have to go to school next year! That’s so not fair!”
Church quietly shovels peas into his mouth.
“Sully!” Mom hisses. Neither of my brothers is allowed to complain about anything that happens because of my “meltdowns,” as Sully calls them, even if they’re joking, but I like it that Sully gets so upset. He makes this all feel like some goofy problem in a movie. It’ll get resolved with a neat little bow after an hour and a half of family fun.
Sully sinks in his chair with a sour look.
Something buzzes. Church pulls his phone out of his pocket.
“Oh, hey, look.” He passes it across the table to me. On it is a message from Lucy Warland.
“Why do you have Lucy Warland’s number?” I ask.
“Because she’s cool,” Church says. “Also because Sully didn’t want to ask for her number himself.”
Sully’s face turns red.
“She told me she’d send pictures from the graduation ceremony,” Church goes on.
Ah, graduation. That thing I achieved, and then refused to celebrate. Just knowing I never have to set foot in that high school again has made it easier to breathe. I bring up the picture full screen and find a ceremony hall full of my classmates, seated in neat rows of silky graduation robes. A line has formed on one side of the stage, where the graduates are ascending to take their diplomas from the principal.
Lucy snapped the shot as Wallace went up. I can see it as if the picture’s a video: Wallace sets his own deliberate pace up the steps and across the stage. His face is stoic, as always, because there are far too many people in the room and the more overloaded he is, the less expression he makes. He’s bigger than the principal. His hand dwarfs the smaller man’s. He takes his diploma and lumbers off the stage, and most of the crowd thinks he’s stupid, or a dumb jock, or nobody at all.
I know who he is. I know what he can do.