Drawn That Way

by Elissa Sussman

  I knew what she wished. What both my parents wished. That I could take that determination and motivation and do something like Zach was doing. Something they understood. The pressure of that, plus the work that had to be done, felt like a scarf wrapped too tightly around me. I didn’t have time for it.

  “I have to go,” I said. “Lots of work to do.”

  * * *

  I told the other girls about Charles Osbourne’s drawing. None of them were surprised.

  “You should see some of the stuff the guys hang up in their cubicles near me,” Rachel said. “I’ve seen more nipples and butt cracks in the past few weeks than I’ve seen in my entire life.”

  There was something especially funny about her saying “nipples” and “butt cracks” while delicately dabbing the corner of her mouth with the monogrammed handkerchief she carried in her Mary Poppins–esque bag.

  “What is it with guys and nipples?” Sally asked.

  I shrugged.

  We were working late—it seemed like the whole studio was. Deadlines of all sorts were approaching, so the cafeteria was open almost all night. Ron kept bringing us cups of tea and coffee, and plates of doughnuts, fresh out of the oven.

  “Tell me what you think of these,” he’d say.

  No one around us seemed to notice that we were working on something of our own.

  “I knew a guy in my drawing class who always gave his girls square, puffy nipples,” Caitlin said, her big black boots up on a chair. “I couldn’t tell if it was ignorance or just wishful thinking.”

  “I mean, I’ve drawn my share of naked men,” Emily said. “Nipples and butt cracks included.”

  “We’ve all gone to figure drawing classes before,” Sally said. “You have to draw naked people to get an idea of shape and form. It’s not the nudity that’s the problem.”

  “I bet we’re the first teen girls that have ever really spent time in the building.” Jeannette folded a piece of paper into a tiny, taut triangle. “Let alone gone to hang out in the head of layout’s office.”

  “That’s it, though,” Caitlin said. “The feeling that we don’t belong here.”

  “They want us on the walls,” Rachel said. “Not working with them.”

  We were all silent.

  I noticed Bear enter the cafeteria. He’d been at the directors’ meeting in his dad’s office, so I wasn’t surprised when I saw Nick trailing behind him, talking up a storm. For all of Nick’s bluster about Bear not belonging in the program, I knew that he would twist himself in knots if he thought they could be friends. If he thought it would get him closer to Bryan. Bear’s attention, however, was focused on our table.

  “Hey, doughnuts,” he said, and grabbed one from my plate.

  Caitlin lifted her feet off the chair and pushed it toward him so he could sit.

  “We should definitely get together sometime this weekend,” Nick was saying. “You know, all us directors. Finalize what we’re going to say. Oh, hey, girls,” he said, faux-noticing us. “Bear and I are just talking about what we have to do for our final presentation. You know, when we show the films that we directed to the entire studio.”

  He said that last part to me. I thought about what he would do if I dumped my scalding hot tea down the front of his pants.

  “Pretty sweet setup you’ve got here,” Nick said. “Your dad loves your film and you’ve got a whole harem of ladies waiting for you with doughnuts.”

  Bear didn’t look at him.

  “He liked everything you came up with,” Nick said.

  Bear’s hand was on my knee.

  “I’m going to have a little reception the night before the final screening,” Nick said. “In my room. We’ll have beer. For directors only.”

  Bear turned slowly. “I’m not going to hang out in your room,” he said.

  Nick turned red. “Whatever,” he said. “Don’t be all gay about it.”

  “Is that supposed to be an insult?” Bear asked.

  “I dunno…” Nick tried a mocking tone. “Is it?”

  He just sounded like an idiot.

  “You’re annoying me,” Bear said. “And who even says ‘harem’ anymore?”

  Nick clenched his jaw, his bottom lip curling outward. I’d seen that look before—it was the one he’d given me when he’d read the treatment I’d done for him.

  “Your film isn’t even that good,” Nick said. “Everyone knows the only reason you’re directing is because your daddy owns the studio.”

  I mentally face-palmed. Nick was burning bridges left and right.

  Bear stood. He towered over Nick.

  “Do you want to know why you’re directing?”

  Nick puffed out his chest. “Because I’m good at it.”

  Bear smiled and shook his head slowly. “Because my daddy didn’t want me to have any competition.”

  I watched as the implication sunk in. It wasn’t true, not really, but I could see it plant a seed of doubt in Nick’s mind.

  “Your dad said it was good.” Nick sounded like a whiny little kid.

  “My dad’s a liar,” Bear said. “We both know you suck.”

  Everyone at the table was watching the exchange with wide eyes and barely concealed amusement, our gazes bouncing back and forth between the two of them like we were at a tennis match.

  “You’re just jealous,” Nick said.

  Bear laughed. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll just sit here, being ‘gay’ with my ‘harem’ and all these doughnuts, wishing I was more like you.” He leaned down toward Nick. “Go away, or I’ll tell my dad what you’ve been saying about me and some of the other people in the program.”

  Nick hurried off, shooting a few angry looks over his shoulder as he departed.

  I wiggled my fingers in his direction.

  “Sorry about that.” Bear sat down at the table. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Nipples,” I said.

  Bear didn’t even blink. “You told them about Osbourne’s picture?” he asked.

  “How has he not gotten in trouble with HR for having that there?” Caitlin asked.

  Bear shrugged. “He’s been here a while. Most people ignore it. It’s not even his sketch.”

  He placed his elbows on the table, using his hands to make a goal for Jeannette’s paper football. She gave it a flick with her fingers and it sailed through. They high-fived.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “The drawing is Hal’s handiwork.”

  Bear pointed at me. “Bingo.”

  I wondered if Hal was responsible for that drawing of Sloane. It seemed like his style.

  Bear ate a doughnut. “Osbourne’s surprisingly straight-laced. If anything, people find it funny that he keeps it up.”

  “Somehow that just makes it worse,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “How was the directors’ meeting?” I asked.

  “Fine,” he said. “My dad really did like your stuff. He just doesn’t know it’s yours.”

  We’d decided that it would be easier to just finish the short before Bear told his dad how involved I’d been in making it better.

  “Did you watch all the shorts?” I asked.

  Bear ate another doughnut. “They’re okay. Serviceable, I guess. But this one’s better,” he said, pointing at my notebook. “Way better.”

  Everyone at the table grinned. We worked for a few more hours, all seven of us with our heads bowed around the table, until Sally let out a loud yawn.

  “I need some sleep,” she said.

  It set off a chain reaction and pretty soon the rest of the girls were packing up their things. I’d just had another cup of Earl Grey so I knew I would be good to work for a while longer.

  “I’ll stick around,” Bear said.

  “See you back at the dorm,” Sally said.

  Bear and I were among the only ones left in the cafeteria. There were a few people working together at a table across from us, but mostly it was a steady flow of one o
r two employees wandering in, grabbing some doughnuts and coffee, and wandering back out. Most of them would nod or wave to Bear.

  “Your group seems to have shrunk,” Ron observed when he came out to replenish the doughnuts. “Hey, Bear.”

  “Hey, Ron,” he said. “Good doughnuts.”

  “These still your favorite?” He held out a plate of cinnamon-and-sugar ones.

  “Hell yeah.” Bear grabbed two.

  Ron pulled out a chair. “I hate crunch time,” he groaned as he sat.

  “Part of the process,” Bear said.

  I didn’t know how he could keep eating doughnuts without getting sick.

  “This happens every movie?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t as bad on the first film,” Ron said. “But it seems to get worse with every production.”

  “Is it a problem with the schedule?” I asked.

  “Just the nature of the business,” Ron said. “The never-ending struggle between the creative side and the production side.”

  “Dad calls it ‘art versus money,’ ” Bear said.

  Ron laughed. “Madeline calls it ‘ego versus reality.’ ”

  Madeline. The producer. The ball-buster. The queen on high. I’d be meeting her in two weeks, during our last lunchtime lecture.

  “Who’s right?” I asked.

  Ron shrugged. “Both. Neither. You can’t make a movie without creative vision, but you can’t finish a movie without a schedule. Or money. Both sides need each other.” He stood and stretched. “That’s enough of a break for me.” He turned to Bear. “I like her,” he said, pointing at me.

  “I do too,” Bear said.

  “Don’t work too hard, you crazy kids.” Ron headed back into the kitchen.

  Bear reached for my hand and threaded our fingers together.

  “Does Ron comment on your love life a lot?” I asked.

  “What love life?” Bear asked.

  I looked at our hands. We still hadn’t had that conversation, but I didn’t have the time or the bandwidth to focus on it. Not when we were working so hard.

  I watched a few more people wander into the cafeteria. They all had sort of a zombie gait, their eyes blurry and unfocused. I’d see it on people in the hallways sometimes—in the middle of the day—if you paid attention, you could tell who was on deadline.

  “What’s it like?” I asked. “Being here?”

  Bear shrugged. “I basically grew up here, so it’s sort of like my second home.”

  We were sitting at my favorite table in the cafeteria. It was right by the doors, so you were close to the food, but also had a really nice view of the campus—especially the stream. The path across the bridge was illuminated with little mushroom-shaped lights. Sometimes you could see the shadow on the ground of a bug scurrying across the bulb.

  “Was it cool?” I asked. “Being around to see all these amazing films getting made?”

  “Not really.” Bear looked down. “I mean, yeah, there were cool things about it, but it all gets kind of old after a while. Most people probably think it would be fun to live at Disneyland, unless, you know, you actually live at Disneyland. There’s fun stuff, but you’re also seeing behind the scenes, and I think you’ve realized that things look different from the inside. It’s a lot dirtier and messier.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t have to. He was right. I’d thought the studio was going to be heaven for me. That it would be a place where I belonged.

  Most of the office lights in the main building were out, but I watched some of them come on as the cleaning crew made their nightly rounds. Through the windows I could watch the work that mostly went unseen—trash cans getting emptied, floors being vacuumed.

  “I came to the studio because I wanted to spend time with my dad,” Bear said. “But he always passed me off to PAs or his assistant. I was never more important than whatever film he was working on at the time. I just kind of wandered around the studio when I visited, trying to entertain myself. That’s why I know everyone here.”

  “It’s like your family,” I said.

  Bear leaned back. “Yeah. I think a lot of people here feel like they had some hand in raising me. And they did. But they also still see me as a kid. As that kid. The one that used to run through the halls, interrupting meetings and causing trouble.”

  “I’m pretty sure you’re still causing trouble,” I said.

  “You know what I mean,” he said. “It’s like, I changed my last name when I was seven, but most people still think of me as Bear Beckett. And I’ll always be that to them.” He shrugged. “But it could be worse. They still think of me as a kid—but at least I’m real to them, you know?”

  I’d thought a lot about that. About what it was like be part of something as well-known and well-loved as A Boy Named Bear. What it was like to be the symbol for a generation of creative kids.

  I heard the sound of Ron puttering around in the kitchen. I knew it was him because he was listening to disco music. He’d told me that it was the best music to clean up to. Kept it from being too boring.

  “It must be weird,” I said. “Being famous. Being famous here.”

  “I used to think about it a lot—like, what it would be like if no one knew who I was,” Bear said. “Or if people didn’t meet me and immediately assume I was just like my character in the movie.” He stroked my hand with his thumb. “It’s not so bad, though. I’ve gotten better at figuring out when people want to get to know me, or when they want to know me because of the film or because of my dad.”

  He looked across the cafeteria. “Sometimes I think there are people here who know me better than my dad does. He sees me as Bryan Beckett’s kid, you know? Like I’m an extension of him.”

  He said it casually, but there was a tightness in his voice. I thought about the conversation I’d had with Mom the other night. How she’d said that Dad was trying to protect me.

  “I kind of know what you mean,” I said.

  I didn’t want to be protected—I wanted to be seen.

  Bear wanted his dad to notice him. Wanted him to see who he actually was instead of who his dad wanted him to be. I felt a little bad for Bryan—that he was unable to see the real Bear. Because I really liked the real Bear.

  “What about your mom?” I asked.

  I was curious about her—wondering if any of the online rumors were true. Had she been involved in A Boy Named Bear? And if she had, why hadn’t she gotten credit for it?

  “Mom’s pretty great,” Bear said. “She’s always given me a choice, and whatever I decide, she’s totally behind it. My dad likes to pretend he’s doing the same, but he just expects me to give him the answer he wants, and if I don’t, he’ll do everything he can to convince me that I’m wrong.”

  “Is that what happened with the internship?” I asked.

  Bear rubbed the back of his neck. “He put the whole thing together without asking me, and then made it impossible for me to say no. It would look really bad for the studio, you know? Didn’t I care about the company? About all the people who worked at BB Gun Films? We’re a family here. Except, we’re only a family when it suits him.”

  I looked out toward the water running under the bridge—in the quieter moments, I could hear it. I still hadn’t seen any ducks, though. I was starting to think that they didn’t actually exist.

  “Is the studio in trouble?” I asked.

  “Yes, and no,” he said. “The movies aren’t breaking the same records they used to, but they’re still doing well at the box office. That’s not enough for my dad. He’s always worried about his ‘legacy,’ whatever that means. Nothing is ever enough for him. My mom told me I didn’t have to do the internship. She said she’d talk to my dad, but—” Bear shook his head. “The two of them have barely spoken since the divorce. I know my mom is glad she walked away from all of this, and the last thing I want to do is drag her back into the middle of it.”

  I wanted to ask him more questions about his mom, but I knew
that I couldn’t really ask him what I wanted to know. When he said she walked away from all this, he had to mean animation. BB Gun Films.

  “I’m kind of tired,” Bear said. “Want to go back to the dorms?”

  I started gathering up my things. I probably could have worked for another hour, but I could sleep, too.

  “Maybe we could go to your room,” I said as we walked out of the cafeteria.

  “Listen to some music?” Bear’s arm was around my waist.

  We were alone, so I leaned into him. “I’d like that,” I said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I never thought that working on two shorts at once would be easy, but I didn’t expect it to be as hard as it was. It wasn’t just the actual work that was starting to wear on me—it was the difficulty I had in switching between the two projects, going from working on Golem Goes West in the evenings and weekends, to spending the day at the studio focusing on Bear’s short, which still didn’t have a title.

  “Can’t I just call it Bear’s Fantasia?” he asked on our way to the story department.

  I gave him a look.

  “Hayley’s Fantasia?”

  “We can do better than that,” I said.

  “We need to do it fast,” he said. “I have to make the credits and the title card this weekend.”

  “Have you talked to John yet?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Bear.”

  “I’ll get around to it,” he said. “I’ve been busy.”

  The other night, I’d caught him watching the Long Beach Aquarium otter cam while both of us were supposed to be working.

  “We’ve all been busy,” I said. “And all that hard work is going to feel like a waste if we can’t get our short into the lineup.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  Annoyed, I sped up, walking ahead of him. It was our second-to-last lunch lecture, and we’d be speaking to Isaac today. Even though I really liked Isaac and was interested in what he would have to say, I felt like I had a pretty good idea of how the story department worked, and right now I needed as much time as I could get in order to finish the two projects I was working on.