Drawing Amanda

by Stephanie Feuer

  Megaland: OK. We can 86 that portion.

  She wondered if 86 was a grade and if that was good. Or maybe there was math involved.

  Justagirl: 86?

  Megaland: Drop it. There are other questions in the survey.

  Normally she hated the surveys that popped up on websites, but tonight she was happy to fill out a questionnaire. She was glad that someone somewhere cared what she thought. She answered the questions about her game choices; she had to think about why she liked Scrabble and avoided sites with celebrity gossip. She liked the “hot or not?” and “cool or fool?” questions. Then she faced one that stumped her.

  Megaland: Anyone you’re a dead ringer for?

  Justagirl: what? I don’t play an instrument.

  Megaland: It doesn’t have to be a musician, just someone you resemble.

  So that was what dead ringer meant. That was another reason she hated being here. She couldn’t understand what people were talking about sometimes.

  The cursor blinked. She did not respond to the question.

  Megaland: Is English your native language?

  Justagirl: trick question. We try to speak the language of the place where we live.

  Megaland: Wow. What languages do you speak?

  Justagirl: French, Spanish and a little Mandarin, and English – but not New York English apparently.

  Megaland: LOL. You’ll pick it up, Justagirl. You sound super smart. Where are you from?

  Justagirl: Another trick question. We move around a lot.

  Megaland: Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s a small world after all and all that. You’ll see that you fit in here in Megaland in ways you can’t even imagine. Come back tomorrow and I’ll show you how.

  Chapter 6

  Small Places, Big Issues

  THERE WAS NO EASING into the school year with the core curriculum approach. A series of projects each trimester incorporated multiple subjects, each kicked off with both sections gathering in the auditorium. Inky plopped into his seat and took in the faded blue fabric of the curtain spanning the back of the stage. Rungs slid into the seat next to him just as Mrs. Patel began. Inky stared at Mrs. Patel’s lavender dress and stoplight-red blazer, colors he thought would only be paired as the walls and trim of a room on one of those second-rate home design shows.

  He’d slept fitfully, so little of what Mrs. Patel said filtered through his fuzzy morning brain. If it weren’t for the air-conditioning, he was sure he’d be asleep.

  “… favorite project … interdisciplinary research … core curriculum,” he heard her say. In the row in front of him, two classmates were looking at soccer stats in a carefully-folded copy of The Guardian. Inky was roused to attention, though, when Mr. Lorenza added that this core project would culminate in a presentation that would constitute a major portion of their trimester grade. He did not want to have to sit in Loony Harooni’s chair again.

  “We’ll be grading based on criteria laid out in the rubric,” Mrs. Patel continued. The boys in front of Inky snickered when she said “laid.” Rungs rolled his eyes.

  “You’ll each have a copy of the rubric to refer to as you work on your project. Do I have some volunteers to help distribute the rubric sheets?”

  Ellen and Priya, two Sacred Circle girls, hopped up from their seats in the second row and distributed the papers.

  Mr. Lorenza closed his attendance book and strutted halfway across the stage. “Why is social anthropology important?” He glanced around the room for impact. Papers rustled; the students were still looking over the rubric sheets. He waited until they settled down.

  Inky turned his rubric page over; the blank white back was like an invitation. He reached into his pocket and felt the cool metal of his pen.

  “Understanding the world means understanding the way we live together, the social order of our societies. It is the basis of the work that many of your parents do, and of the diplomatic work many of you will go on to do yourselves.”

  Inky stared at the blank page waiting for it to reveal what it should become. He squinted. What a funny word rubric was. As Mr. Lorenza continued his lecture, Inky started to draw. Rungs glanced at the paper in Inky’s lap. Inky centered three equal squares in the middle of the page. Inside of them he wrote some of the words he heard Mr. Lorenza say: “Human condition … Family ties … Ethnicity.”

  “A rubric’s cube,” Inky wrote next to his drawing. Rungs grabbed it from him.

  Mr. Lorenza paused for dramatic effect. He was the faculty advisor for the annual student play, and he tried to demonstrate dramatic flair whenever he could. “Social anthropology has been known as the investigation of more traditional or ‘primitive’ societies. Today, social anthropologists also study modern societies and seek out what is unique within each individual culture whilst also attempting to find the common human factor.”

  Inky looked suspiciously at Rungs. Even if it was a doodle, he wasn’t thrilled about letting go of his drawing. Rungs fished around in his backpack and found a pencil. He held it up like a prize, which made Inky chuckle. Mrs. Patel looked in their direction. Inky put his head down and coughed.

  Inky watched as Rungs drew tabs on the sides of Inky’s boxes and extended some of squares. He nodded his approval. Rungs had visualized a way to make Inky’s drawing 3-D.

  “Now = paper cut-out,” Rungs wrote. “Rubric’s Robot.”

  Mr. Lorenza finished his speech, sat down and leaned back in the chair on stage, looking satisfied with himself. He crossed his legs so the dirt-caked soles of his coffee brown leather boots faced the students. Rungs stiffened.

  “No respect. He’s got no respect.” Inky could see his friend was seething again at the teacher’s lack of knowledge of Buddhist etiquette.

  Mrs. Patel recited the deadlines and required formats for the project. In her Bombay accent, she told them they needed to “state the thesis clearly, use specific examples in an original presentation on any topic within classic or modern cultural anthropology.”

  Inky was using the sharp point of his pen to cut around the lines. Rungs folded it into a 3-D robot and walked it across Inky’s notebook. The boys behind them snorted.

  Mrs. Patel gave Inky and Rungs a pointed stare. “Ooh. Show her your paper dolly,” the boy behind them said.

  “Let’s talk about the first chapter of Small Places, Large Issues,” Ms. Patel said. “I know you’ve all done your reading.”

  Mr. Lorenza stood up. “Yes, what can you tell us about anthropology?”

  Sven, extending his role as soccer captain, raised his hand first. “It tells us about why some people succeed in society.”

  Demos, in his goalie-aggressive way, called out, “It’s about cultural norms, like in some cultures it’s perfectly acceptable to have several wives.” That got a good laugh.

  Rungs raised his hand. “Respecting cultural differences by knowing what things mean in other places. Like in lots of places, it’s rude to point. Or in the Philippines, calling someone over like this,” Rungs said, curling his index finger, “means you think he’s a dog. Or like the thumbs up sign. Here it means ‘yes.’ In Africa it means, ‘sit on this.’” The Soccer Boys cackled and egged Rungs on.

  “In Turkey, if you do this”—he made the OK circle sign—“the hole between your fingers refers to another hole.” Then Rungs squared up his shoulders and looked straight at Mr. Lorenza, while his classmates gasped and laughed.

  “And in Southeast Asia, and for Buddhists everywhere, it’s considered rude to cross your legs when you sit down. The soles of your shoes are dirty, and to show a Buddhist the bottoms of your feet is a sign of disrespect.”

  The auditorium went quiet, and Mr. Lorenza let it hang for a long second. “Thank you, Mr. Rungsiyaphoratana,” he finally said, pronouncing each of the seven syllables of Rungs’s last name slowly and clearly. Everybody laughed—twitters of relief, more than amusement. “You certainly have a good understanding of cultural anthropology. Let’s have your project begin the pre
sentations, shall we? We’ll look forward to your fascinating cultural insights.”

  Rungs turned over his own rubric sheet and wrote “Pacittiya 54 – habitual lack of respect.” Inky had to look hard to make out Rung’s handwriting. Had the auditorium lights dimmed, or was it because he was looking down?

  Rungs outlined the letters so that they looked ominous, like something from Halloween. Inky felt a blast of air conditioning. He thought about what Rungs had written. He knew that had to do with the list of Buddhist rules to live by. And he knew it meant Mr. Lorenza was in for a lesson from his friend.

  Inky shivered. He was cold, and the room really was growing darker. He heard a mechanical clack and then the soft slow whir of the screen as it started its descent in front of the auditorium.

  Mr. Lorenza spoke. “Today we’ll have an introduction to anthropology. One of the groups most studied by anthropologists is the Yanomami Indians. Shall we see a little film about them, Mr. Rungsiyaphoratana?”

  A film? Darkness wrapped around Inky’s throat, and he had to cough to breathe. A pulsing crimson color filled his head. He wasn’t expecting this. He wasn’t prepared for a film. He felt all clammy.

  The film’s narrator, in a voice of deep green velvet, said, “These Indians are oft-studied, but very much in danger. In the mid-70s, gold-diggers called garimpeiros started to invade the Yanomami land in the northern sector of Brazil.”

  The mention of Brazil started Inky’s own personal film strip, the one that had been going through his head for more than a year. Spring break. Rio. Waiting in the airport. The funky purple loveseats in the TAM lounge. Candy-colored jewels in the window of H. Stern. Instead of birthday cake, Guarana soda and coconut pastries that made the waxed paper sticky. Waiting, waiting as other planes landed. His father on the way to meet them to celebrate his 13th birthday. Drawing an Indian with a bow and arrow from the tribe his father was filming. The man behind the desk with a twirly mustache saying, “Nevoeiro.” Fog. The hours of his birthday coming to a close. Drinking cafezinho, mud-dark and sweet, trying to stay up, but falling asleep on the uncomfortable chair. And then his mother’s sobs. The little plane his father was in had gone down.

  The lights came back up, and Inky was stunned.

  “Now everyone jot down something you’ve learned about how environment impacts social structure,” Mrs. Patel said.

  Inky, clueless about the actual film, thought of an email his father had sent him from the field: “Here’s something you’ll like: the Awa keep the embers from their fire in a little clay pot and carry it with them to light the next one.”

  Chapter 7

  Not a Girl in Megaland

  THAT NIGHT INKY FELT PURPLE. Not the otherworldly purple of wizards and healers or the My Little Pony-purple of junior school girls, but indigo, deep indigo laced with gray. He didn’t have the energy to lose himself in his art and didn’t feel like watching anything on YouTube. He poked around the Internet, then clicked on the URL for Megaland.

  The welcome screen looked just like when he’d first visited. He couldn’t help but think how he’d change the typeface to make it more modern looking. It took a moment before anything happened. He wondered how long it would be before the real game was up and running, maybe using a welcome screen he designed.

  Just as he was about to abandon the site, a large text box opened on the right side of his screen.

  Megaland: Welcome back to Megaland.

  When the game takes off, he’s gonna have to abandon this live chat thing, Inky thought. The cursor blinked as his screen name appeared.

  Picasso2B: Tnx

  Megaland: Do you have some time today? We have a survey that will help determine the best role for you in the development of the Megaland site. Can you answer a few questions?

  There’s only one role for me, or at least only one I really want, Inky thought as he typed.

  Picasso2B: K.

  Megaland: Please answer all the questions as truthfully as you can. Your answers won’t be shared with anyone, ever. Some of the questions may not apply to you. Don’t worry. It’s all part of the statistical modeling, so we can determine your areas of special insight and make this a super fun experience. Sound good?

  Hell, yeah, Inky thought. This sounds legit.

  Picasso2B: k

  Megaland: Please check off any of the games on this list you’ve played in the past six months:

  Gone Home

  Barbie Fashion Designer

  Maia

  Master Chef

  Interior Designer

  Animal Doctor

  Plants vs. Zombies

  It was an odd list; no World of Warcraft, Assassin’s Creed or Call of Duty. Inky checked off Maia, Plants vs. Zombies and Interior Designer. The rest seemed young and very girly. Something to do with the statistics, he figured. There probably was no need to ask about games everybody played.

  The next section asked questions about his TV preferences: The Vampire Diaries or Pretty Little Liars? He passed the whole section without thinking. The TV was covered just like the mirrors, and he didn’t miss it. Anything he wanted to see was online, anyway—not that he had much use for shows like Gossip Girl.

  Megaland: Please rate the next section as “hot or not.”

  J. Crew

  Angels

  American Apparel

  Wide leg pants

  Nose piercings

  Kittens

  Stonewashed jeans

  Inky stared at the screen. The list was so lame it actually made him laugh. He checked off “not” next to everything but pierced nose. A well-placed stud was hot.

  Megaland: Thank you Picasso2B. Next, we have some questions about fashion preferences.

  Which look do you prefer?

  Smoky eye

  Ruby lips

  Natural neutrals

  Ballroom glitz

  There were images next to each choice. Good thing he read the line about some things not applying to you. Questions about costumes—swords and capes and masks—might have made sense, with the popularity of ComicCon and all, but what was up with the images that now filled his screen?

  The picture accompanying “ballroom glitz” looked like a cross between a fairy princess and a sorceress, totally cheesy. He picked it anyway. If this was packaging or something for the game, he could do a whole lot better.

  Megaland: Would you consider that your everyday look?

  Inky hesitated a moment and reread the screen. These were some weird ass questions. No weirder than the questions the school psychologist used to ask him, he supposed, but still …

  Picasso2B: My everyday look?????

  Megaland: I know some schools limit the use of makeup.

  Inky typed without thinking.

  Picasso2B: makeup? WTF.

  His words remained on the screen. The cursor blinked. He regretted being so harsh. Maybe this was about tolerance. He considered adding that he thought it was OK for a guy to wear makeup, but that might seem weird in another way. He just hoped he hadn’t blown his chance.

  Megaland: Didn’t you come from the GamerGlamGirls message board? That’s the code you used.

  Did gamer girls who were into glamour really exist? That had to be a mighty tiny group. Inky cursed Rungs and the fancy geek girls from his computer summer camp.

  He’d thought this site could be a real opportunity for him. Something to be part of. Served him right for hoping. Looked like this was just some clown selling makeup to no-life prep school princesses.

  Picasso2B: I don’t want to buy any makeup.

  Picasso2B: I’m all about the game.

  Picasso2B: Are you designing a game or not? Of course I’m not interested in buying?

  The guy responded so fast Inky didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence.

  Megaland: MOSDEF developing a game. Sorry for the confusion, Picasso2B. No one here will try to sell you makeup. You don’t need to wear makeup. I personally think it would be better if people would just l
et their true selves shine through.

  Picasso2B: yeah and

  Before Inky could finish typing, more chat appeared on his screen.

  Megaland: Not only am I developing a game, I want kids like you involved in every stage and some especially talented kids will get to work directly with me one-on-one.

  Inky leaned forward, as if getting closer to his computer screen would make the words come faster. He felt the stirrings of genuine enthusiasm.

  Megaland: Plus I plan to give kids credit for their initial efforts and then a share of the profits – which there will be. I was successful before and I will be again. There are enough car crash, shoot ‘em up and take ‘em hostage games for boys. I want to use your special skills to create the kind of scenarios that will get girls excited.

  Inky was sorry to see the last bit of text. A game for girls—something else that he wasn’t a part of. Damn. But then he was never looking to play the game, anyway. He just wanted to draw for it. He thought a moment before he typed.

  Picasso2B: I’m not a girl, but I can draw things that girls like. Maybe I can draw something for you.

  Swamp green desire bubbled up in him. The cursor blinked. It seemed forever before the response came.

  Megaland: Well, maybe you can Picasso2B. I think I can find a special place for you here in Megaland.

  Chapter 8

  Loaded with Audacity

  HOW APPROPRIATE, RUNGS THOUGHT as he walked towards the school gym. The recording software he was using was called Audacity. Already by the lockers he’d captured some priceless bits of that annoying Ellen Monahan saying, “Hello, Hello,” and Sven saying, “Dork.” During class he’d recorded several Mr. Lorenza-isms, including his signature condescension, “Shall we?” Oh, we shall. Rungs smiled at his plan.

  A couple of the Soccer Boys in their shorts and shin guards nodded to him in the hall, apparently giving no thought as to why he was hanging out by afterschool soccer practice. Rungs was used to that. His classmates gave him berth like they would a big dog; respect laced with fear. Yes, he was tall and in shape, but it was more than a physical thing. His beliefs were like a protective force field around him. Beliefs that were age old and not to be tampered with, especially not by some high school teacher who should know better.