Drawing Amanda

by Stephanie Feuer

  The ever-helpful Priya volunteered. Rungs listened as the computer started up, sensing the extra few seconds it took to load the new program.

  Of course he’d be suspected. But as long as there were no witnesses, there’d be no way to trace it to him. The flash drive was trashed, and even if someone could recreate his program, he’d left no signature on the files.

  Rungs expected Mr. Lorenza to put the rubric up on the whiteboard. He’d read each point to the class because it was an opportunity to use the inflections of his well-trained former actor’s voice to emphasize the required elements. Ego.

  Then, Rungs figured, when Lorenza was ready to have the students present their project ideas, he’d call on them by displaying their names on the whiteboard screen. Mr. Lorenza liked to stage direct.

  Rungs knew he’d be called on first because of his comments in the auditorium. He planned that the first sound triggered by the first click of the controls was the sound of the wind, a gentle hush. Rungs bowed his head when Mr. Lorenza called his name—he used the gesture of humility to hide his smile. He heard the subtle rustle of leaves in the wind.

  Rungs stepped up to the front of the room. He had no notes. “My project will be about buat phra, becoming a monk, something most Thai men do before they are married. It’s a rite of passage and a way to get closer to nirvana by studying Buddha’s teachings.

  “It’s not a forever thing,” Rungs continued. “Usually it lasts for one phansa, the three-month rainy season that starts in July. In my village, all the boys over 16 become monks together, and then there’s a giant ordination ceremony. It’s the biggest party of a guy’s life.”

  Rungs thought about beautiful Apsara back in Thailand and almost lost his train of thought. Right after his buat phra, he planned to ask her to marry him.

  He looked over at Mr. Lorenza, who was starting to lean back in his chair. “My project will talk about the monk’s vows, the 227 laws. I’ll focus on a couple of them: adhikarana-samatha, or the settlement of issues; the non-doing of all evil; and the doing of what is skillful.”

  Rungs looked directly at Mr. Lorenza. “Of course, you do not have to wait to keep your heart and body pure and lead a life in accordance with the teachings of the Buddha.”

  “Well, well, Mr. Rungsiyaphoratana, we’ve learned much here. I’ll remind you that you need to use a multidisciplinary approach for your project. Find a way to illustrate some of those customs or principles.”

  “Oh, I hear you, Mr. Lorenza. I’ve already started on that,” Rungs said.

  Mr. Lorenza clicked the controller to bring up the next name on the screen and read, “Helen Stegmann.”

  “Dork, dork,” Sven was heard saying.

  Mr. Lorenza looked toward the Soccer Boys’ row. “We’ll show the courtesy we’d want for ourselves.” Sven shrugged and looked around for support, but found no sympathy. They’d all heard Sven’s voice, and no one dared to call Hawk a dork.

  Rungs had a hard time not smiling. The timing worked out even better than he had planned. He concentrated on his breathing, and wished that Inky was in his class so they could share in the moment. He heard nothing of what Hawk said, but clapped politely when she was finished.

  The sound of a squeaky violin accompanied the slide with the name Amanda Valdez Bates. Rungs was glad it wasn’t the euphonium. She looked nervous enough.

  Mr. Lorenza seemed to think the sound was the squeak of a chair and looked over to the Soccer Boys’ row with a warning glance.

  Amanda spoke about always being new and relating to gypsies and Arabs and nomads. She rocked from foot to foot when she spoke. She had her thick hair pulled back. It reminded Rungs of a swishing horsetail and it made him a little dizzy. Her thoughts were equally confounding. Something about being a fast runner and how she’d like to do her project on running and not knowing where to call home.

  Mr. Lorenza seemed uncomfortable with her discomfort and cut her off. “I appreciate that your subject matter is heartfelt, but I’m not sure I can find the theme in there. In our core studies at MDA, we emphasize organization and focus.”

  Rungs watched her tap her foot as the teacher spoke. She leaned forward like she was in a starting block, and Rungs half expected her to take off.

  “I think that since you’re new, it would be interesting for you to study MDA as a microcosm. You can look at social structure, group behavior, multiculturalism, or even the role of sports. You decide how you want to fine-tune it. It’ll give you a good excuse to get to know everyone.” Mr. Lorenza saw how dejected she was and added, “I’ll assign someone to help you.”

  Then the teacher dove into a monologue about the assignment and the due date. The class was quiet. While he talked, he clicked his remote to show a blank screen, which triggered the next of the sounds.

  It was Demos’ voice saying, “Loser.” Mr. Lorenza’s face contorted in anger. Several students gasped and the braver ones looked over in the direction of Demos and the Soccer Boys.

  Rungs sat back in his chair, put one foot up on his desk and prepared to savor his retribution.

  Chapter 13

  Class, Caste and Costume

  IN THE NEIGHBORING CLASSROOM, Mrs. Patel called on Inky. He took his time gathering his sketches.

  “My topic is social structure in modern American culture.” He paused a moment. “I plan to present my project as a series of images.” As soon as he touched the thick paper of his sketches, he felt better, like a toddler with his favorite blanket. “Here’s what I have so far.”

  Inky held each picture up to the class, making sure to first show them to Mrs. Patel. His classmates were quiet. His drawings were good and fun to look at, particularly the guy on the lime-colored Vespa with the forest green leather man-bag slung across his body. Another image, created for Megaland, was the grinning rocker dude, microphone in hand, clad in skinny, skinny ink-black leather jeans and an old-school shag haircut. The girls seemed to like that one.

  When he’d shown all the pictures, Inky turned to Mrs. Patel, hoping she would find his effort acceptable. “Well, that’s as far as I’ve gotten, but I’ll work on it some more.”

  “Thank you, Michael,” the teacher said. “I’m glad to see you’ve been working on your project. You need to clarify your area of exploration. I expect you to have an overview and a thesis statement. Do you have the rubric?”

  He pictured the rubric robot and smiled. “Yes, Mrs. Patel. Thanks. I’ll be sure to look at it.” He’d hoped that was it, and she’d send him back to his seat.

  “Perhaps you’ll want to base your final presentation on ‘Class, Caste and Costume.’ You’ll find that chapter in your reader. See if it doesn’t inform your project.”

  *

  That night Inky worked on his sketches, sharpening lines, adjusting angles and cursing himself for his foray into abstract art last year, then remembering exactly why realism had been overwhelming.

  He added tattoos to the arm of a basketball player and etched “Megaland” into the character’s hair in the same bubble typeface as the welcome screen. He toyed with drawing a soccer player, but he hated the thought of spending any of his time thinking of kids he detested.

  He put a couple of new lines down; the torso he drew was long and slender. He penciled in lines for arms and legs, then elongated them to suggest a runner’s body. He stared at the page for a moment to let it suggest a direction.

  This was definitely a girl’s body, long, lean and elegant. He draped her in a cropped jacket, rounding the area under the arms to give her more shape. He sketched pants with a wide flared leg and buttons across a tight waist. Then he worked on the features, shaping the face of his drawing with the same heart shape as Amanda’s. He added a small dot to the left side of her nose.

  He stepped back and thought about the hair. It had to be dark, yes, but he wanted to do something dramatic, something different. His hand was ahead of his brain, and he drew an asymmetrical line ending at the top of the left cheekbone. He made t
he part jagged, then shaped it like a lightning bolt. On the right side he drew in some bangs. They were more like a fringe, with the pieces tickling the brow and longer pieces kissing the nape of the neck. It was hip and sophisticated and totally original.

  With his colored pencils, he made the pants slate gray and the jacket black with purple stitching, and colored a line that suggested a bright yellow shirt underneath. He added purple streaks to the bangs and a smudge of purple on the eyes and lashes.

  Inky set all of his Megaland sketches out on the floor. One by one he scanned his sketches into a program that transformed them into a more usable file. When he was satisfied, he signed on to Megaland. While he was waiting for the chat box to appear, he noticed there was no “contact us” tab. He guessed it was because it was a beta site.

  Megaland: Welcome back, Picasso2B.

  Picasso2B: I have those drawings for you. Where can I send them?

  Megaland: Drawings for me? Now? This is exciting, but unexpected.

  The cursor blinked for a moment. Inky wondered why it was unexpected. Did he think he’d flake out?

  Megaland: It’ll take me a little time to set up an inbox for you to upload to. Could you come back for instructions tomorrow?

  Inky was disappointed. He wanted quick props for his work.

  Picasso2B: I’d really like to know what you think. Is there someplace I can email them?

  Megaland: My email can’t accept attachments. Viruses and all. Let me see if I can scare up the IT guy. He’s usually pretty close to his computer. Check in later tonight.

  Picasso2B: K.

  Even though he typed that it was OK, it really wasn’t. This guy seemed pretty buttoned up in the beginning with his research questions. What was up with not having an FTP site or some kind of file sharing? Even MDA had that. Maybe he was still in the research phase or something. Whatever. What mattered was that the Megaland guy liked his work enough to use it in the game.

  Later that night Inky signed on again and got instructions for sending his images. He whistled as he uploaded his files, made himself a snack and returned to Megaland. The dialogue box popped up immediately. Which made him wonder, didn’t the guy have a life? Even his mother took a break from work once in a while to go out for dinner with friends. But Inky abandoned that thought as soon as he saw the comment about his artwork.

  Megaland: Picasso2B, you are a wonderful artist. I couldn’t be more excited to have the opportunity to work with you. It is truly a happy accident that brought you to me. I can anticipate many uses for your talents.

  Yes. Inky wanted to screen-capture that chat and save it. But first he had to reply.

  Picasso2B: Really glad u like them. I’m very interested in graphics for games.

  Megaland: Makes sense because you have a real talent. I think you have a natural understanding of story development, and that’s something you don’t always find in an artist.

  Picasso2B: Thanks. That makes me happy. Now I have to make the drawings work for my school project. And I’m nowhere with that.

  Megaland: What’s the topic?

  Picasso2B: Class, caste and costume.

  Megaland: Pretty advanced stuff. I’ll have to look for identifying marks in your sketches. That’s the thing with caste right? The marking that tells everyone where you stand.

  Inky liked the way this dude told him something he probably should have known. It was the way his really good art teacher last summer would show him things. The way his father used to help him with his homework.

  Picasso2B: I have to read some essay, then figure it out.

  Megaland: Sounds to me like you’ll be good to go once you focus on it.

  Picasso2B: that’s the thing. It’s hard to concentrate. All this stuff in my head gets in the way.

  Megaland: I think I know what you mean – the what ifs, the movie that won’t turn off.

  Picasso2B: yup. And memories. There are things I can’t shake.

  Inky thought of a photograph from some insurance papers his mother filed. A patch of land, perhaps one the pilot had thought would make a good spot for an emergency landing. Everything was charred, bits of baggage, pieces of the plane.

  Megaland: Anything in particular?

  Picasso2B: It’s stupid maybe but in this picture of the crash site, I think I see some of my father’s stuff.

  The cursor blinked. It felt polite, like the guy was giving him space to say stuff or not.

  Picasso2B: I swear I can see his mangled camera and a thin metal razor like the one he used. I see it in my head all the time.

  Megaland: For me it’s a smell. Loss, ruin - they stink. I can’t shake the smell - guys too close, too constant.

  Inky wondered if he was talking about maybe being on the road with a band or something.

  Megaland: That, and I gotta know what time it is. I can’t sleep. Like I’ll miss something good. Drives me crazy how much I missed when I was away.

  He was curious where the Megaland guy had been. But before he could think much about it, there was more on the screen.

  Megaland: Forget that. Forget about me. You were saying there were things you can’t shake …

  Picasso2B: I wonder what it must have been like when the plane started to go down. How did the scenery look? Did it whiz by? Did he think of us? When was it exactly? When I was in the hotel getting ready to go to the airport, sitting by the AC and eating strange fruit?

  Megaland: So much you’ll never know. So much to regret. But we can’t dwell in the past. We must move forward. And our forward, Picasso, my man, is Megaland.

  Picasso2B: Does that mean you’ll use my drawings in the game?

  Megaland: It’s quite possible. Of course, everything is market-tested.

  Picasso2B: I have another sketch – it’s of a girl.

  Megaland: Do send it. I believe I’ll find many ways to use your work.

  Chapter 14

  Green Goddess

  IN THE CAFETERIA, AMANDA’S FACE was flushed like she’d been running. She was embarrassed by her presentation and that she’d been assigned a topic. And the topic she’d been assigned—quelle barbe—so annoying. If Mr. Lorenza was even one millimeter more approachable she might talk to him, but he was so smug and full of himself, she doubted he’d change his mind.

  She pushed her way past the taco station, inadvertently bumping into Ellen Monahan.

  “Watch it, Spider Legs.”

  Amanda ignored her and asked for a grilled cheese.

  Amanda looked at the perfect little flip in Ellen’s hair; her presentation would be polished. Amanda had always done well in school, but she was used to studying and tests, not projects and presentations.

  Well, she wasn’t going to wallow. She tried to keep her thoughts on the salty, gooey orange cheese on sweet white toast. She’d just have to learn how to speak in front of a group.

  Amanda selected the vegetables for her side salad and headed to the little table in the back of the cafeteria where she’d been sitting alone since the start of school. It was taken; two students were seated in front of a pile of flyers about the school clubs.

  She sat at the table where the Thai boy was sitting by himself. His presentation in class made her think he wasn’t as rude as he seemed that first day. She put her tray down at the edge of the table. Amanda put her elbows down to her sides and pressed her palms together below her chin. She bent her head slightly. The prayer-like gesture was called wai—their old housekeeper had taught her the greeting. It was a sign of respect in Thailand. The boy smiled at her and seemed surprised.

  “Lived in Laos once,” Amanda said.

  While Rungs introduced himself, one of the students at the club table called out, “The UNICEF club is planning a haunted house.”

  Amanda saw Rungs’s friend walking towards them. A couple of the boys in soccer shirts snickered. “Of course, some of us already are a haunted house,” the thick black-haired one said.

  “NRN,” Rungs said as his tall friend sat down. �
�No response necessary.”

  The boy nodded to Rungs, then looked at her. She could tell by the red patches on his neck that he was really embarrassed about being teased. It happened to her all the time when she didn’t know what to say. Like now.

  Rungs looked down under the table at some device.

  Amanda stabbed at her lettuce. The boy ate his sandwich without saying a word. She looked up at the clock. She thought she felt him looking at her, but when she glanced over he was looking at a thin slice of tomato that had slipped out of his sandwich.

  Another fifteen minutes until lunch was over. Not enough time to go for a run. She could go up to the roof with the view of the East River, but she didn’t want to stand alone. She tried that last week and felt like she was out on the open plain, exposed, like some kind of small bush animal.

  She snuck a glance at the boy. He was looking at his tomato like it was the most interesting thing in the world. She knew that look. How many times had she pretended to be interested in something as a buffer to the world?

  The lettuce trembled on her fork. She hoped he didn’t notice.

  “The dressing is good,” she said to him.

  “Never tried it,” he said, at least looking up from his tomato.

  “I’m Amanda. I’m new.”

  “Michael. But everyone calls me Inky.” She liked his long, scraggly hair and dark-gray nervous eyes. His discomfort made her feel more at ease.

  “Enqui? What language is that?”

  “No, Inky. Like pen and ink.”

  “How’d you get that name?”

  Amanda felt proud of herself. Her mother always told her that the way around shyness was to express interest in the people around her by asking questions.

  He hesitated before he answered her, like he was filling himself up with resolve. She did the same thing before she spoke to people.

  “I always loved to draw—especially with my father’s fountain pen. He used emerald green ink,” he said, suddenly more animated. “I loved how heavy that pen felt in my hand. The swirls of color on its casing made me think of an ice cream sundae when everything melts in the bowl.”