Drawn That Way

by Elissa Sussman

  Rolling her chair backward, Sloane pulled a book from the shelf. She handed it to me.

  “Have you ever heard of Lotte Reiniger?” she asked.

  The book was a collection of her art. Shadow puppets, like the kind of animation that Sally did. I’d never heard the name before, nor had I ever seen her work.

  “Most people think that Walt Disney directed the first full-length animated feature in 1937,” Sloane said. “But Lotte Reiniger made The Adventures of Prince Achmed in Germany in 1926. That’s eleven years before Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”

  I flipped the pages of the book Sloane had given me. Lotte Reiniger’s work was beautiful. Simple, yet elegant. Dynamic.

  “She also pioneered the use of the multiplane camera, but barely anyone’s heard of her. There were plenty of female animators—even in the early days—we just don’t know about them. Artists like Reiko Okuyama and Brenda Banks and Retta Scott and Faith Hubley and Evelyn Lambart and Lillian Friedman Astor and Helena Smith Dayton and Makiko Futaki and Joy Batchelor and Laverne Harding and Edith Vernick and Christine Jollow and so many more. All of our heroines have been erased from the story. No wonder we’ve never felt like we belonged.”

  I was overwhelmed.

  “What Bryan said is not about you,” Sloane said. “It’s about him. It’s what comes from growing up in an industry that ignores its own history. Women have been shut out of animation, making us believe it’s because we’re not good enough. That our stories aren’t worth telling.”

  She stood. “But they’re wrong. Bryan was wrong about me, and he’s wrong about you.”

  I sat there, letting her words sink in.

  “You should finish your short,” Sloane said.

  “It’s too late,” I said. “There’s not enough time.”

  “If we restart work right now, there’s a chance.”

  “We?”

  “Hell yeah,” she said. “Look, maybe this industry hasn’t changed as fast as I would like, but things are different. I might not have had the mentor I wanted—the mentor I needed—when I was starting out, but there’s no way I’m going to let history repeat itself.”

  She put her hand on my shoulder.

  “We’re in this together,” she said. “We might not change Bryan’s mind and we probably won’t change the animation industry—but at least we’ll have control over this story.”

  She straightened.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s make a movie.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  With Sloane’s encouragement, I gathered the rest of the girls, Avengers-style, and we hit the ground running. Again.

  It didn’t take much to get everyone back on board, and the time off actually ended up being more beneficial than anything. After a break from the project, I could see certain things more clearly now—the problems, yes, but also the solutions.

  Together, we ate, slept, and breathed animation. It was exactly what I had hoped for when I’d first imagined this internship—working as a team, building something together. With Sloane and Zoe coaching us from the sidelines, we worked until I was sure none of us ever wanted to see a golem again.

  But we were triumphant.

  “I knew you wouldn’t quit,” Sally said.

  Our room was a chaotic mess. All the work that we’d done away from the studio was here. As the final week of the internship came to a close, I had completely given up on trying to keep my desk clear.

  It didn’t bother me anymore. I’d done some of the best work of my life surrounded by drawings, pens scattered everywhere, my own pencil flying over the page as I did my part to bring Miriam and the golem to life.

  “I hope it’s worth it,” I said.

  We had one last day at the studio. The day after that—Saturday—we’d be packing up our things and hosting our parents at the end-of-the-summer banquet in the CalAn dining hall. Then on Sunday, we’d be going back to the studio for the last time—screening the short films in the theater for our parents, the studio, and the press.

  We’d finished the final shot an hour ago.

  Gathering around Emily’s computer, with the lights off, we watched the short. It was the first time we’d seen it all the way through.

  It was five minutes long—only a fraction of the story I’d intended to tell. There was no dialogue. The only noise was some eerie guitar strings, courtesy of Caitlin, and some minimal sound design—footsteps and wind—that Jeannette had managed to make on her phone. Parts of the animation felt jerky at times, and Miriam’s design wasn’t as consistent as I would have liked, but it was finished. And it was good.

  It wasn’t how I had pictured it in my head—not even close—but I could see the fingerprints of every single person who’d worked on it. Sally’s golem was ingenious, and she’d made him stoic, yet tender. Rachel’s backgrounds were stark and devastating, while Emily had woven Miriam within it like needlepoint. Caitlin had been in charge of the few close-ups of Miriam’s face, and she’d discovered sadness in the stern lines, while Jeannette had found ways to bring the dusty environments to life.

  I could even see Sloane and Zoe’s work. How Sloane had urged us to linger on moments that we had been leaving too soon. The way that Zoe had encouraged us to simplify our settings in order to get more done.

  I saw Bear’s influence, too. The way Miriam rubbed the back of her neck when she looked up at the golem. I’d animated it, but I’d been thinking of him.

  “We did it,” Emily said when it was over.

  Caitlin turned the lights back on. We blinked at one another.

  “We did it,” Sally said.

  I felt a spark inside of me. Something that felt a little like magic. We were all bleary-eyed and half dead from exhaustion, but we celebrated.

  Cranking Sally’s “Hero’s Journey” mix, we FaceTimed Sloane and Zoe so they could join in, all of us belting out the words to “Into the Unknown” and “How Far I’ll Go.” It was a good thing that we were the only people on the hall—no doubt if the guys had heard us, they would have complained.

  My throat was sore; my back ached from spending hours bent over my desk, but I felt better than I had in weeks. It barely hurt to think about Bear at all.

  “What did Sloane say about John?” Sally asked as we cleared off our beds. We’d opened a few bottles of sparkling apple cider, and a box or two of doughnuts. Now there was trash strewn everywhere. I had no idea how six of us ended up using as many napkins as we did.

  I shook my head. “She said she’d ask him in the morning.”

  We still didn’t have a way to get it into the final presentation. I’d counted on Bear for that—hoping that his relationship with John would have been enough to convince the editor to do something that could possibly get him fired.

  Zoe wasn’t comfortable asking, and I didn’t blame her. Sloane was our next, best chance.

  “It could go either way,” she’d said.

  I was still amazed that we had completed a five-minute short—a good five-minute short—in the free time we’d had between our other projects. I wanted to see it on the big screen. I wanted everyone to see it. Wanted my parents and Zach to see it. Wanted Bryan to see it.

  Maybe Bear was right—maybe it wouldn’t be enough. Maybe it wouldn’t drown out that little voice in the back of my head—a voice that sounded a lot like Bryan Beckett—telling me that I wasn’t as talented as I thought I was.

  Maybe that voice would never go away. But I wouldn’t know unless I tried.

  * * *

  When Sloane took me out for lunch on my last day, she still hadn’t spoken to John.

  “Do you have the final cut?” she asked.

  I handed her the flash drive. It was warm—I’d been carrying it around since we finaled it, my hand in my pocket, the drive pressed hard against my palm. As we sat down to eat, I kept tracing the indent it had left.

  It was a nearby Mexican place that Sloane had told me was her go-to post-production celebration spot. It was hu
ge—the inside designed to look like it was outside, with a fake veranda and a real tree in the middle of the room. Each table was decked out with colorful flags, plastic tablecloths, and big bowls of fresh chips.

  “If he says yes, I’ll just give it right to him,” Sloane said.

  Neither of us brought up what would happen if he said no.

  “It’s good,” Sloane said. “I’m really proud of you.”

  I nodded, my lips clamped together. I’d already cried enough in front of Sloane—I didn’t want to make a habit of it.

  “Have you thought about what you want to do next?” she asked.

  “I don’t even know where to start,” I said.

  She laughed. “You said that to me your first day here, remember?”

  It felt like it had been years. I’d been so sure of myself—of everything—back then.

  “I remember that you also asked me what I loved about animation,” I said.

  “Ah yes.” Sloane took a sip of the margarita she’d ordered. “The big question.”

  “I said something about the details,” I said. “Repeated something that Bryan had said.”

  Sloane nodded.

  I hadn’t trusted myself back then—hadn’t trusted what I believed.

  “It’s more than that,” I said. “It’s always been more than that.” I still couldn’t really put it into words. “Animation is—”

  It was magic and it was power, and it was something I could do really well. It was a part of me and outside of me. It was feeling nostalgic for something that hadn’t even happened. It was gravity. It just was.

  Sloane looked down and I realized I’d put my hand over my heart.

  “I know exactly what you mean,” she said.

  * * *

  There was a reception in the cafeteria at the end of the day. It seemed like all we would be doing for the next few days would be going to parties or little gatherings like this.

  I saw Ron setting out tiny cupcakes. “Last day,” he said.

  I nodded. “Will you be at the screening on Sunday?”

  “ ’Fraid not,” he said. “Above my pay grade.”

  That was disappointing. I wanted Ron to see my film almost as much as I wanted Bryan to see it. Maybe even more. After all, if one counted the tea and the doughnuts, he’d provided a vital type of support to all of us.

  “I’ll find a way to see the final projects,” Ron said. “All of them.”

  I hadn’t told him that we were making a fifth, secret film, but I was pretty sure he knew. I was pretty sure that Ron knew everything that happened in the studio.

  “I’m going to miss you guys,” Ron said. “You all brought fresh neuroses to the studio.”

  I laughed. “I’m going to miss you, too.”

  He waved a hand. “You’re just going to miss the doughnuts.”

  I wanted to hug him, but before I could decide if it was appropriate or not, Ron was looking over my shoulder and waving. I glanced back to find Bear coming toward us.

  “I should go,” I said.

  Ron gave me a surprised look. “Oh?”

  Apparently, he didn’t know everything.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Bye, Ron.”

  “Bye, Hayley.”

  My shirtsleeve brushed against Bear’s shoulder as I passed him. I didn’t look up. Didn’t look back. I just kept walking.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Mom had been thrilled to get my call. “I brought you a few options,” she said, practically hidden behind dresses as she elbowed her way into my dorm room.

  She dumped them all on the bed and turned to sweep me up into a hug. I leaned into it. I’d forgotten how much I missed her hugs. She smelled like flour.

  “It’s been a long couple of weeks,” she said. “I love your father, and I love your brother, but Hayley, it’s not the same without you.”

  It was almost too much to hear. Almost.

  “Thanks for bringing these over,” I said.

  We still had a few hours until the reception on campus, but I’d decided I wanted to wear something different from what I’d been wearing all summer.

  It was funny. During the chaotic rush to finish our short, I’d never been more grateful for my uniform. I’d barely remembered to brush my teeth, let alone had time to decide what to wear every morning. Bryan was right. Dressing the same every single day made it easier to focus all your attention on the work.

  It was just that I realized, when we were done, that I didn’t want to focus all my attention on the work. I was beyond proud of what we’d done, but I was pretty sure when I thought about this internship, I wasn’t going to remember the golem shot we had to half-ass, or the wonky animation on Miriam, or even the story problems we couldn’t quite fix.

  I was going to remember lunches with Sloane. Shuttle rides with Sally. Sheet masks and popcorn with the other girls.

  I was going to remember Bear.

  The work was the work, but in the end, it wasn’t everything.

  There was more. I was more.

  As of tonight, I was ready to step out from Bryan Beckett’s shadow. And a new dress felt like just the right start.

  “I went shopping on my way here,” Mom said. “They all still have the tags on, so I’ll take back whatever you don’t like.”

  She had brought armfuls. “I also have the one from Stella’s wedding,” Mom held up a green dress with a big, swishy skirt. “And the one from your cousin’s bar mitzvah.”

  It was a black-and-white sheath that I’d thought made me look at least twenty. Maybe even twenty-one. I took my time with the bounty of dresses she’d brought me. I’d missed this. Missed how clothes could make you feel like a new person when you most needed to.

  One of the new dresses was white with black polka dots all over, and puffy sleeves. I held it up against me as I looked in the mirror. Unlike the one from the bar mitzvah, it made me look my own age. It made me look like me.

  “This one,” I said.

  Mom beamed. “I hoped you would like it.”

  I hung it up in the closet alongside the green dress and the bar mitzvah dress. Mom was sitting on my bed and patted the spot next to her.

  “Tell me about the internship,” she said. “We missed hearing from you.”

  I sat. “I was busy,” I said.

  “I know.” She took my face in her hands, her thumbs against my cheeks. She hadn’t done something like that since I was a kid—I hadn’t let her. It was a little embarrassing, but also a little nice and no one was around so I just let her be my mom. “You’re always busy.”

  “I like being busy,” I said.

  It was true, but I had also started to think about other things I could do to keep myself busy. Things that didn’t necessarily have to do with animation. I didn’t think I’d start running or join the soccer team like Sally and Jeannette. I was pretty sure I didn’t have the talent for music like Caitlin or the patience for plants like Emily, but it had become clear to me, the more we all worked together, how much the things they did outside of animation informed the work they did for it.

  Animation would probably always be first in my heart, but maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to make room for other stuff as well. I’d even promised Samantha and Julie I’d go on a hike with them when we were all home, something I’d never really felt I had time for.

  I was going to make time now. For them. For my family. For new things.

  “Was the program everything you hoped it would be?” Mom asked.

  I wanted to tell her about the short film. Wanted to tell her everything that had happened this summer, but I didn’t know how to tell her or what she would say.

  Mom patted my knee. “You know I love your father, right?”

  I nodded.

  She looked up at the ceiling. “Sometimes, though, he can be such a schmuck.”

  I was so surprised that I laughed. Mom laughed too.

  “He told me what he said to you the night you called. The night you found out abou
t the director position.” She sighed. “I could have throttled him.”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “No, honey, no it’s not,” Mom said. “But it’s my fault too. We haven’t been doing a very good job supporting you, have we?”

  I lifted my shoulder in a half-shrug.

  “When you told us about the internship, you were so sure you’d get in, but I was worried,” she said. “I know you think that I don’t understand animation, and maybe I don’t understand everything about it, but I can tell how important it is to you. I also know how hard it is to be an artist. Not from personal experience, but I know what it’s like to love an artist. I saw how devastated your father was when he didn’t get into grad school. I don’t think he ever fully recovered from that rejection, and I didn’t want to see that happen to you.”

  “But I did get in,” I said.

  “I know,” Mom said. “It scared me a little, I guess. I worried that the further you went, the harder it would be when you did face rejection. Because rejection is part of the deal, isn’t it? I didn’t want you to find yourself in a position where you didn’t have options. I wanted to protect you, I guess.”

  I understood. Because right now, part of me still wanted to give up. It was hard—so hard—and the thought of having to fight all the time just to be seen made me feel worn-out. Like I wanted to curl into a little ball and go to sleep. Turn off. Shut down.

  “But I can’t protect you from something that’s a part of life—something you’re going to face whether you’re an artist or not,” Mom said. “And that’s when I realized something. I always thought that you took after your father—your ambition, your artistry—and you do. But what I realized is that you take after me, too. Your stubbornness?” Mom pointed to her chest. “That comes from me.”

  I’d never really thought about it that way.

  “Your father let one rejection stop him,” she said. “You won’t. Because I didn’t. You think it’s easy going back to school at my age? No. It’s hard. But I do it because it’s worth it. Because I know I’m good at it. And that confidence, that strength to keep trying, that’s what you have. No matter what, I know you’ll find your way.”