And there was no way I was going to tell my parents or Zach. My parents would want to know everything about him, and Zach would threaten to send him embarrassing bare-butt pictures from when we were kids. He’d also probably send him the list of obscure, random—possibly made-up—disorders that Zach was certain I had.
I was 99 percent sure there was no such thing as reverse brain spatial syndrome.
And I really didn’t want any of the other interns to know. Gossip traveled fast, like with the incident between me and Nick. But the truth was usually mixed up with a lot of falsehoods, and I didn’t care to contribute to either. I had the sense that some people suspected there was something going on between me and Bear, but we’d done our best to avoid confirming it.
“They’re going to figure it out,” Bear had said the other night. “We barely spoke to each other for the first few weeks and now we’re always together.”
“That’s not true,” I’d said. “Besides, we’re working on a team. We spend the appropriate amount of time together.”
I knew he was right—I just didn’t want to deal with it. Not yet. Until then, though, it was nice to have Sally to talk to.
“The short is looking a lot better,” Sally said. “It feels like it has momentum, you know? There’s a real purpose to what we’re doing now. Even though it’s all different things, all these different styles, it feels more cohesive.”
“I’m really looking forward to seeing your stuff,” I said. “You deserve this opportunity.”
“Thanks,” she said. “It’s nice that we’re getting free rein.”
“Do you like the idea?” I asked.
“About having four unique sequences?” She speared her penne. “Yeah, it’s really cool. Definitely better than what we originally started with. No offense.”
“It wasn’t my idea.”
Sally laughed. “Bear definitely seems more focused now. More inspired.”
“He just wasn’t very motivated before.”
I knew he was still conflicted about his place in the internship—in the world of animation in general. We had that in common. And now that we were spending more time together, I saw firsthand how he was treated. He was right about no one thinking he deserved to be there. I’d been guilty of that, but seeing his work, I knew he had talent. But he’d definitely been given opportunities that he didn’t want and hadn’t worked for. I should have felt jealous, and I did, but mostly I felt sad about it.
It was complicated.
“Lucky we have you to motivate him,” Sally said. “He seems a lot happier to be working on the project, too.”
I knew she was being playful, but her words just reminded me of what Bryan had said. Every day it seemed like I returned to this internal battle—did I believe what Bryan said about me, or did I think I was capable of something more? And if I did—what was I going to do about it?
I imagined myself being tugged in two different directions—by the screaming version of myself that Nick had drawn, and a mini-size Bryan. Would I be giving up and giving in if I listened to Bryan? Or was it arrogant and self-centered to believe that I deserved more?
The internship was speeding by. Pretty soon, I wouldn’t have to make a decision—the clock would make it for me.
“Ugh.” Sally looked behind me. “Your least favorite person. Twelve o’clock.”
I didn’t need to turn around to know who she was talking about.
“Sally,” Nick said, walking up to our table. “Hayley.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
We hadn’t really spoken since I’d been taken off his team, but I didn’t think he was coming over here to apologize for stealing my ideas. The thought that we had been friends before—that I’d believed we were the same—made me clench my teeth.
“Oh, nothing.” Nick picked up our saltshaker. “Just wanted to see how you were doing with your new director. Have you accused him of being a liar yet?”
“He hasn’t given me a reason to,” I said.
Nick pursed his lips. “No, I guess he wouldn’t,” he said. “But I’ve heard he’s been giving you other things.”
I looked at Sally, who was glaring at Nick.
“Go away, Nick,” I said.
“Get it?” He made a dumb, lewd gesture with his hips and his hand. “Giving it to you?”
I wasn’t going to allow myself to be surprised, or hurt, by anything he said to me.
“Fuck off, Nick,” I said.
“Where is he tonight?” Nick looked around. “What does he do without his creative-support animal?”
When I was a kid, I’d hated the scene in Pinocchio where Lampwick and the other boys were turned into donkeys. It had always terrified me a little. But right now, I imagined Nick getting turned into a donkey—braying and crying—and I didn’t feel sad at all. Instead I had to bite back a smile. The “ass” jokes would write themselves.
“What I don’t get”—Nick put his hands on our table, leaning down close to me—“is why you wouldn’t give me the same kind of inspiration you’re giving Bear.”
I looked up at him, not finding this funny anymore.
“Because you’re a shitty director,” I said.
Red spots appeared on his cheeks. “At least I’m not sleeping my way through the program,” he said.
Before I could say anything, Nick’s head jerked forward.
“What the fuck?” He put his hand to the back of his neck.
When his fingers came away, they were covered in mashed potatoes.
He turned, revealing Caitlin, Rachel, Emily, and Jeannette. They each had spoons and Emily was holding a giant bowl of mashed potatoes.
“Goodbye, Nick,” Caitlin said.
With her shaved head and ripped black shirt, she looked a bit like Furiosa, with her Mad Max–style army behind her. I wouldn’t want to mess with her, but Nick didn’t seem to realize the danger he was in.
“You’re all fucking crazy,” he said.
“Goodbye, Nick,” she repeated, digging her spoon into the mashed potatoes and brandishing it like a miniature catapult.
Everyone in the dining hall was staring at us now.
Nick glanced around, realizing that he had an audience. He raised his hands, making a face at the room as if to say Can you believe these bitches? and backed away from the table. Still, he couldn’t resist one last glance at me.
“You know, the closest you’re ever going to get to the director’s chair is if you’re on your knees in front of it,” he said. “Slut.”
Sally was on her feet before he could even close his teeth on the t. Picking up her plate of pasta, she dumped it down the front of his white shirt. He yelped in surprise, the sound muffled by the bowl of mashed potatoes that Emily pushed into his face.
The entire dining hall erupted in laughter as Nick sputtered through mashed potatoes, slipping on the spilled pasta as he scrambled to get away from us.
“Fuck you,” he managed before running away.
“Fuck you,” I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Gena quickly learned about the incident, and Sally and the other girls were sentenced to clean up the mess they’d made in the dining hall. I offered to help, since the only reason the whole thing had gotten chaotic was because of what had happened between me and Nick.
“I still think that Nick should be punished as well.” Caitlin mopped the floor.
“It’s probably better this way,” Sally said, picking noodles off the table. “At least we don’t have to spend another hour with him.”
“That’s true,” Jeannette said. “His punishment would have been our punishment.”
“I still hate that he’s getting away with saying what he did,” Caitlin said. “He’s such a shithead.”
I was wiping off the table. “It’s fine,” I said.
As crappy as the whole incident had been, I was glad that it had ended the long, tense standoff between me and the other girls. In that way, Nick’s bullshit, ineffec
tual attempt at slut-shaming had been worth it. Also worth it had been watching him run into Gena and his mentor on the way out of the cafeteria—mashed potatoes and pesto dripping from his face and shirt.
“It’s not fine.” Caitlin leaned on the handle of the mop. “He’s the fucking worst.”
“And he stole Hayley’s idea,” Sally said. “That’s what actually happened. Everything else that Nick said was totally a lie.”
I was grateful for Sally. Trying to change the existing narrative seemed like a fool’s errand, but I cared what the girls thought. Especially since they’d already seen me at my worst. I hated the idea that Nick’s story might have reinforced my already bad reputation.
“I mean, I assumed you didn’t try to attack him with his own pencil, but I kind of wished you did,” Emily said.
“I’d heard that you broke the easel over your knee and threw it across the room,” Rachel said. “And then stomped on his drawings. But I didn’t believe it.”
Suddenly all of them were looking at me hopefully.
“Should I have believed it?” Rachel asked, looking very bloodthirsty for someone wearing a skirt with a petticoat and bow-tie blouse.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I said. “I didn’t throw or break anything.”
“She did call him a fucking liar, though,” Sally said.
Four pairs of eyes widened.
I nodded. “I did do that.”
Caitlin held out a hand and I gave it a high five.
It didn’t take us long to finish cleaning up, but we were all little grubbier and sweatier than we’d been when we headed to dinner.
“Look,” Caitlin said as we left the dining hall. “I’m sorry I called you a bitch.”
“I deserved it,” I said. “I’m sorry. For acting like a bitch.” That part I directed to Emily.
“You’re forgiven,” she said.
“Now that we’re all friends again,” Jeannette said, “I’ve got all the Miyazaki films on Blu-ray.” At some point, she’d dyed the tips of her blue hair pink, making her braids look like thick, dipped paintbrushes.
“I’ve got popcorn,” Rachel said. “The extra-buttery kind.”
“I’ve got sheet masks,” Caitlin said. “Last one back to the dorms has to say something nice about Nick.”
We all broke into a run. Unsurprisingly, it turned into a full-on race between Sally and Jeannette, with the latter winning by a hair. Emily was the last in the door.
“I’m not going to do it,” she said. “He’s a right wanker.”
“I need a shower.” Sally flapped the hem of her shirt. “Meet in our room in thirty?”
I went back to the room to send Bear a quick text. Girls’ night. See you tomorrow?
His response was a thumbs-up emoji. I couldn’t help wondering what he did on the nights we didn’t hang out. He’d always been alone when I saw him before or having lunch with Josh or other BB Gun employees.
Bear in real life had friends and a daily existence that was completely separate from animation. It made sense that he hadn’t wanted to be part of the internship. That he might not want to work in animation. Ever.
Our room smelled like popcorn and aloe vera as we piled onto my bed or the floor while Caitlin passed around sheet masks. They had animal faces printed on them, so when we smoothed them into position, we all looked like extremely creepy human-animal hybrids.
“My dad hates it when I wear these,” Caitlin said. “Sometimes I put one on just to freak him out.”
“It is pretty terrifying.” Rachel was looking at herself in the full-length mirror, stretching her mouth wide and making a variety of contorted expressions. “Good inspiration, though.”
“Someone should do a short film about sheet masks that transform the wearer into a wild animal,” Jeannette said. “A herd of well-moisturized girls roaming the streets of Los Angeles.”
I looked around the room, that splinter of an idea poking at me again. If I enlisted everyone here, we could make a short-short film of our own. We’d have to work crazy hours to get it done, especially since we’d still be working on projects for the internship, but it wasn’t impossible.
“How are your shorts going?” I pushed the boat out tentatively.
Even with masks on, everyone’s expression of displeasure was obvious.
“I’ve heard Nick’s film is a train wreck.” Emily was sitting cross-legged on the floor.
The most disappointing part was that Nick had the makings of a good project, he was just unable to put it together in a cohesive way.
“The one Rachel and I are working on is okay.” Caitlin ran a hand over her prickly haired head. “It’s just not really challenging.”
Rachel peeled off her mask, tossing it in the trash. “I feel like it has jokes I’ve seen a billion times before.”
“That’s the opposite of ours,” Jeannette said. “Jeff wants everything to be completely new, even if it doesn’t make sense with the story.”
“He’s also really bad at explaining what he wants,” Emily said. “Whenever we share scenes with him, he just tells us he hates them and that we need to do better—but never gives us any indication of what he thinks ‘better’ is.”
“Bear’s has gotten a lot stronger.” Sally shot me a look. “But he was totally hands-off at the beginning. Our head of story had no idea what he was doing—I think he was so starstruck that he just said yes to everything Bear suggested and wouldn’t listen to anyone else.”
She was talking about Alec, who despite still being the head of story, seemed perfectly happy to step back and let me take over. Unofficially, at least. He’d still get the credit on the final film.
“I mean, none of them have experience directing anything, so it could just be really stressful,” Jeanette said. “Maybe I’d do the same if I was in their position.”
“Maybe,” Emily said.
“I don’t think so,” Sally said.
“Do you guys think it’s weird, you know, that none of us were chosen to direct?” I asked. “And that none of us got to be the head of any department?”
“I’m sure the directors just picked the people they knew to be department heads.” Emily twisted her long blond hair into a topknot.
It’s what I’d assumed as well, until I’d learned the truth.
It was also true that BB Gun Films had never once had a woman direct any of their features. They also didn’t have any women heading up a single department. Even the production staff, which was mostly women, still had a guy in charge. If anything, the internship just reflected what was already happening at the studio.
And they weren’t an anomaly. I could count on one hand—maybe two—the number of animated films that had been directed by women.
It wasn’t as if I hadn’t known the numbers, I’d just never really stopped to think about them. About what they meant. I’d been so focused on myself and my goals, that I hadn’t seen the bigger picture. Or the problems behind it.
“Bear said that the directors didn’t actually pick their department heads—the brain trust and Bryan made the assignments,” I said.
“Oh, did Bear say that?” Caitlin asked.
The question was casually asked, but pointed. Everyone looked at me.
“We’re friends now,” I said, even though I could tell I’d convinced no one.
“That makes sense, I guess. About the brain trust picking assignments,” Sally said, changing the subject. “They saw all our portfolios and applications.”
“I thought it was because we all hung out together,” Jeannette said. “And I assumed some of the guys might have been jealous.”
“They’re not jealous.” Caitlin frowned. “They don’t like that girls are in the program. We’re invading what they think is their space.”
I thought about what Hal had said. Clearly he wasn’t the only one at the studio—or in the industry—who felt that way. And I’d definitely met enough guys who’d had the need to test my animation knowledge before they wou
ld even deign to speak to me about my favorite movies.
“Not all blokes are like that,” Emily said.
“No,” Caitlin said. “But enough.”
“That’s always the way it is, though,” Rachel said. “I don’t know how many times I’ve been accused of liking animated movies because I wanted to impress boys.” She rolled her eyes. “They also didn’t believe me when I told them that I had literally no interest in boys.”
“My brothers thought the only reason I liked animated movies was because there were cute guys in them,” Jeannette said.
“I’ve heard that one before,” Caitlin said. “As if I couldn’t possibly just like it because it was, you know, amazing. For lots of reasons.”
“At least you didn’t have to listen to Nick and his mentor talk about the new Star Wars movies,” Rachel said. “My mentor sits next to them, and they used to spend hours talking about how the new ones are a desecration of the originals.”
“Let me guess, it’s not because he’s sexist,” Sally said.
“Oh no, of course not,” Rachel said. “How dare you even say that.”
“A ‘desecration.’ ” Emily snorted. “You should have heard the guys at school bitch and moan about Rey and Rose Tico and how they’re both such Mary Sues.”
Caitlin practically growled. “I hate that term.”
“Let’s not even get started on how upset all those dudes were that Harley Quinn wasn’t half naked in Birds of Prey,” I said.
“Yet we’re the emotional ones,” Sally said.
“I know so many guys like that at my school.” Rachel leaned back against my bed. “They’re ‘just trying to have an opinion.’ ”
“The guys in my drawing class like to quiz me on my favorite animated movies,” Emily said, before lowering her voice. “I bet she doesn’t even know that the same guy who directed Iron Giant directed Ratatouille.”
I thought about how Nick hadn’t known that Henry Selick had directed A Nightmare Before Christmas.
Drawn That Way Page 18
