Drawn That Way

by Elissa Sussman

  “Like you have to be an animation nerd to love animated movies,” Rachel said.

  “But I am an animation nerd!” Emily said.

  She looked so indignant that we all laughed.

  “That’s probably why there’s only six of us in the program,” Rachel said.

  “Maurene said it was because BB Gun Films didn’t have enough female employees to mentor any other girls,” Sally said.

  Was this all some big, unending cycle? Where the lack of support was considered disinterest, which then created even less opportunity? Were there more of us out there—a “render” of girls who loved animation as much as we did—only they’d been shut out?

  Or shut themselves out.

  I imagined it like a snake, trapped in a cage with no food, eating its own tail.

  “Why do women have to be mentored by other women?” Jeannette asked. “That’s kind of strange, right?”

  “I don’t mind it too much,” Emily said. “I like having a female mentor.”

  “But it doesn’t feel like they were thoughtful about it at all,” Caitlin said. “Like they just randomly paired the female artists with female interns, and artists of color with interns of color.”

  “While Caitlin and I got designated by gender over ethnicity,” Rachel said. “Because, you know, I can’t be both a woman and Asian.”

  Both Rachel’s and Caitlin’s mentors were white women. And I hadn’t really stopped to think about how much harder navigating all of this would be for them. How much harder it had probably been for Sloane when she started out—how hard it probably still was. The directing and department head ratio was just as disappointing if you were a guy of color. And a thousand times more dismal if you were a woman of color.

  “I bet they were more thoughtful about who they paired the white dudes with,” Caitlin said. “They probably matched them based on style and interest, rather than gender or skin color. Because you know they think that gender and race count as personality traits.”

  Rachel nodded. “And since there are, like, a dozen people of color at the studio, I bet you anything it allowed them to put a cap on how many of us they were going to accept in the first place.”

  We all sat there, absorbing this information. Some of it new, most of it previously unexamined. I didn’t think that Bryan had lied to me—at least, not intentionally. I was pretty sure that he believed exactly what he had told me. Believed that I wasn’t good enough, believed that I didn’t deserve to direct one of their short films. But I was also starting to think that he was wrong.

  About me. About all of us.

  I had a hard time imagining that the only reason all of us were here was because the program needed more diversity. Everyone in the room was extremely talented, and it sounded like each one of us felt we could do a better job than those who’d gotten more opportunities.

  Unfortunately, if Bryan—and the brain trust—believed that we weren’t worth taking a risk on, there wasn’t much we could do within the program to get them to change their minds. If we wanted opportunity we’d have to create it for ourselves.

  “What if we made our own short?” I asked.

  There was silence.

  “They’d hate that,” Caitlin said. “Bad enough that we individually want to work in animation—all six of us collectively doing something? Heads would”—she mimed an explosion, much like Bryan had done at the banquet—“explode.”

  “So?” I asked. “So what if their heads explode? So what if they don’t like it? At least we’d be doing what we came to this program to do—create something. Create something that we own. Something that’s ours.”

  Everyone looked at one another as it became clear that I wasn’t joking.

  “The internship’s almost halfway over,” Sally said.

  “And?” I leaned forward. “We basically just restarted, didn’t we?”

  “Sort of,” she said. “But we had a story. And a pipeline.”

  “I have a story. Rachel has a story. Emily has a story,” I said. “And I bet they’re better than any of the things we’re working on.”

  “I don’t know.” Emily chewed at her lip. “My pitch was okay.”

  “It was good,” I said.

  “You never even saw it.”

  “Okay,” I said, standing up. “Then pitch it now. You, me, and Rachel will pitch our projects. We’ll decide—together—which is the strongest. And then we’ll make it into a really short film. Maybe it won’t be better than what the guys are doing, but at least we’ll be working on something that we’re proud of. And it will be collaborative. Truly collaborative. The way we wish the shorts were being made.”

  I could sense the hesitation in the room shift to excitement.

  “The other animators never listen to me when I suggest things,” Jeannette said. “They pretend like I’m not even there.”

  “I’m stuck doing the in-between drawings for Patrick,” Caitlin said. “And he still gets all the credit.” She looked at me and the others. “I’d like to see the pitches,” she said. “Your idea is ridiculous, but I think it’s important to consider all options—even the ridiculous ones.”

  We didn’t watch a movie. I pulled my drawings out of the closet, while Rachel and Emily went to their rooms to get theirs. We didn’t have an easel, so we ended up using one of the chairs. Emily went first, and then Rachel. We were a good audience. We laughed and cheered, and we heckled—in a good-natured way. Everyone applauded once Emily and Rachel were done.

  “Well, that was a way better reaction than the one I got from the brain trust and Bryan,” Rachel said as she sat down.

  Caitlin turned to me. “You’re up next,” she said.

  Their pitches were good, but I was sure mine was the strongest. Still, I knew that if we did this—and the girls voted to pick Emily’s or Rachel’s pitch—I couldn’t be an asshole about it. This was my idea, but I had to be willing to listen to the group if this was going to work. I really had to be a team player.

  No one said a word during my pitch, and I went through it like it was second nature, which it was. I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d done it more than twenty times by this point. The muscle memory was deep.

  There wasn’t a cheer when I was done. Instead there was a long, tense silence.

  “What. The. Fuck,” Caitlin said.

  “I—” I started to apologize but she got to her feet and gave me a hug. “Uh.”

  Suddenly everyone was on their feet, surrounding me, embracing me.

  “That was aces,” Emily said. “No wonder you were so upset that night.”

  “I would have punched Bryan Beckett in the face if I’d written something like that and it didn’t get picked,” Caitlin said. “This is ridiculous. All three of those pitches were way better than the projects we’re currently working on.”

  “I would settle for punching Nick in the face,” Sally said.

  “Don’t even get me started on what he named his villain,” I said.

  They all looked at me.

  “Mr. Bigsworth.”

  “Blech!”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I’m embarrassed for him.”

  “What an absolute nob.”

  I grinned. The whole Nick experience might have been worth it just to have all of them confirm how dumb that name was.

  “It has to be your pitch,” Rachel said. “It was really good, plus it’s the most polished.”

  I looked around the room at the nodding faces, my heart speeding up with excitement. We were doing this.

  “It won’t be easy,” I said. “We’ll all be working on two projects at the same time.”

  Jeannette waved her hand. “They’re wasting my efforts on our short—I’d happily work extra on something that I actually cared about. And that would let me do some real animation.”

  “Do you have any ideas for how you’d want to animate it?” Sally asked. “Because I think there are some really cool opportunities for some interestin
g, unique drawings. To really lean into the mysticism of the whole project.”

  “I might have a few ideas.” I pulled out my notebook.

  “Of course you do.” Caitlin rubbed her hands together eagerly. “And don’t forget about music. Because I can do a lot with my guitar and the music app on my phone.”

  We all gathered around my desk as I flipped through my sketchbook, showing them some of the drawings I’d done. As I did, though, my brain was already beginning to make adjustments based on what I knew about everyone’s strengths and skills. Even though Bear wasn’t as motivated as I was, I had learned a lot from watching him. He was really good at listening to others, at absorbing their suggestions, and making space for new ideas. I wanted to do the same.

  “What if we did two different types of animation?” I asked. “The whole thing could be really simple and sparse—very little background, not a lot of color—but I think it would really be interesting if we did something like what Sally did in her animation test.”

  I pointed to the wall where her cut-out drawings were currently posed doing jumping jacks. “Maybe everything is hand-drawn, except the golem. He can be more like a shadow puppet,” I said. “It would make him stand out even more and really separate him from Miriam and her world.”

  “That’s a really cool idea,” Jeannette said.

  “How do you imagine the rest of the animation?” Caitlin asked.

  I’d noticed that everyone had taken out their notebooks and was either drawing or writing things down.

  “It should feel really tactile,” I said. “Miriam is grieving, so she’s much more disjointed than the golem, who’s solid and graphic. I don’t imagine any clean lines on her—more like she’s radiating out into the world—like she might disappear herself if she’s not careful.”

  “I like that,” Sally said. “The contrast will look really cool and interesting. It will be really effective if we pull it off. What if we tried something like this for the golem?”

  She held up a quick sketch that showed the golem—a big Frankenstein-looking figure with hulking shoulders and giant hands. It was extremely simplistic, so there were no facial details indicating what the golem might be thinking or feeling, just two dark circles for eyes. It was way more minimal than what I’d done in my initial pitch, but I loved it.

  “That’s incredible,” I said.

  “And this for Miriam?” Emily passed over her notebook.

  She’d drawn a very sketchy image of a young girl walking forward, her head bent down. Emily had captured the same general essence of Miriam from my sketches—dark hair and eyebrows, with a tense jaw and tightly clenched hands. Her hair was loose, blowing in the wind, the lines of it extending outward to meet the line of the horizon. Emily had done the same with her shoes, so that she looked like she was part of the ground she was stepping on. Like she was dissolving into the breeze.

  “Perfect,” I said. “That’s absolutely perfect.”

  We brainstormed and sketched for almost two hours, taking my beat sheet and building out our sequences—compressing others. We couldn’t do the full project; we didn’t have time. Instead of a ten-minute short, it would have to be five minutes. A taste of what the project could be instead of the whole thing. Just the essentials.

  This was something that would prove to my parents that this was a worthwhile use of my time. I’d been avoiding their calls and their texts. Even Zach’s. I didn’t want to consider that Dad could be right—that I didn’t belong here. I didn’t want to admit defeat to them. I didn’t want to be defeated.

  This was my chance to change the story.

  A few hours in, and it was already way more fun than I’d ever had on Nick’s film, and even though I enjoyed working on Bear’s project, there was something special about making my idea come to life. Taking something that had been mine for so long and watching other people experiment, explore, and make it better.

  “Here’s the real question.” Caitlin leaned back against the bed.

  We’d eaten all the popcorn, and the wrappers from the face masks were crumpled up alongside sheets of sketchbook paper, overflowing the trash can.

  “Even if we managed to get this made—how are we going to get it into the final lineup?” Caitlin asked.

  I hadn’t thought about that.

  “They all have to go through the editorial department,” Rachel said. “We had our lunch lecture with John in editorial this week and he said that he’s going to be in charge of running the actual screening.”

  “Also, we probably need a PA to help us out,” Jeannette said. “There’s no way we can figure out the schedule all by ourselves—plus, our PA helps with a ton of things I wouldn’t even think to remember.”

  “I might know someone who could help on the PA side of things.” I thought of Zoe, currently trapped in a Nick-made hell. “She might even be able to help us talk to John in editorial.”

  “Won’t she have to tell Gena or Bryan what we’re doing?” Emily asked. “We could all get kicked out of the program.”

  I didn’t want Zoe to risk too much to help us, but I thought of someone else who knew John personally. Someone who usually got whatever he wanted when it came to the world of BB Gun Films. Someone who was damn near untouchable. Someone who had been completely on board the first time I’d thought of doing a short film of my own.

  I took out my phone. “I think I know who can help us.”

  You up? I texted Bear. Come over if you are.

  Rachel held up a quick sketch of an idea for the background. It was exactly what I’d imagined, but better—the lines were smudged and blurry—like we were staring into a sandstorm. There wasn’t much on the horizon but a few scraggly trees and some tumbleweeds.

  “The whole background could be a variation on this,” she said. “You can only tell that they’re making progress by the movement of the trees and other landmarks.”

  “That’s perfect,” I said.

  There was a knock. Everyone looked up.

  “Are you expecting someone?” Caitlin asked.

  “Reinforcements,” I said.

  I opened the door to find Bear leaning against the wall—his casual stance offset by the way he was breathing, as if he was out of breath.

  “Did you run here?” I asked.

  “Nice pajamas,” Bear said.

  He hooked his finger into the neckline of my top and gave me a tug, his mouth coming down to meet mine as I was pulled forward. He kissed me deeply, his hands reaching around my back, one palm coming to rest on my butt.

  There was a round of applause from inside the room.

  Bear froze. Slowly, he lifted his head and pulled back.

  “Hey, Bear,” Sally said.

  All five of the girls were gathered in the doorway. Bear’s hand was still on my butt.

  “Ladies,” he said.

  “Just friends, huh?” Caitlin asked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I’m going to talk to Zoe this afternoon,” I told Sally on the shuttle Monday morning.

  Thankfully, Bear hadn’t been too embarrassed on Friday night, and once he’d heard what we were doing, had been more than happy to help. The seven of us spent the whole weekend working on the short and by Sunday night we were pretty much neck-and-neck with where Bear’s was after our quick animation reboot.

  “My dad is going to be so pissed,” he said. “I can’t wait.”

  I wasn’t super excited about making Bryan Beckett mad, but I also understood that if we wanted to do this, it was probably inevitable that he’d be upset. At least the program would be over by that point. He couldn’t retroactively kick us out.

  “Do you think Zoe will be willing to help us?” Sally asked.

  I shrugged. “I hope so. I can’t imagine she’s having fun working with Nick.”

  “Did you tell Bear what Nick said to you?” Sally shot a quick look to where Bear and Nick were sitting. Far away from each other.

  I shook my head, though I wondered
if I should.

  “If he’s your boyfriend, then I definitely think he should know,” Sally said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I mean, it seems like you guys are keeping it pretty casual, but he’s helping us with the short, so maybe it’s a little more serious than that,” Sally said, mostly to herself. “He did also, like, run to our room after he got your text message, so clearly he’s really into you. Then again, the internship will be over in a few weeks, and you guys don’t go to the same school. But you do live in the same city.”

  In spite of all the time we spent together, Bear and I had never really gotten around to talking about what we were. I knew there wasn’t another girl, and I knew that I would occasionally catch him looking at me with this really intense stare. Like he was trying to figure something out about me. I caught myself staring at him sometimes, too. He was nice to look at. I just didn’t know what that meant when the summer ended. And I didn’t know what I wanted it to mean. Right now, all I wanted to focus on was the work.

  “I just hate that Nick keeps getting away with things,” Sally said.

  “Nailing him with pasta was a good punishment,” I said.

  “You know what I mean,” she said. “It’s not enough.”

  I agreed, but I also didn’t think there was anything that could be done about it. Right now, the short film was the priority. Revenge against Nick would have to wait.

  After lunch, I went down to editorial to talk to Zoe.

  “She should be back soon,” John said. “I think she had a meeting or something.”

  After twenty minutes, she still hadn’t returned to her desk. I had to get back to working on Bear’s short and I also had to pee. I waved goodbye to John and headed to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

  I spotted a pair of shoes in the stall and heard the sound of sniffling. For a moment, I thought about leaving and going upstairs to use the bathroom in the story department, but before I could go, the toilet flushed, and Zoe came out.

  She was wearing a blue vintage dress with embroidered flowers down the front and a pair of gray flats. Her glasses were in her hands and her eyes were red.

  “Hayley,” she said, looking surprised to see me, and a little embarrassed.