On the computer screen, the Megaland chat box appeared. Inky felt his head spin.
Justagirl: I’m going to pick out frames for the photos today.
Megaland: Don’t you want to wait for the pictures?
Justagirl: I’ve seen enough of your work to know you’ll do a great job.
As the cursor blinked, Inky slapped the bench. “Just because you draw well doesn’t mean you take good pictures,” he said to the blinking computer.
Megaland: So we’re on for next Saturday then? We can do some pictures for your parents, too.
Justagirl: Great idea.
“He’s trying to make her feel safe,” Rungs said.
Megaland: Why not surprise them?
Justagirl: I’ll just say we’re working on a school project.
“Oh man,” Rungs said.
Justagirl: They’ll be glad that I’ve made a friend.
Her words stuck through Inky like an arrow. It was like she was flirting through the computer. Flirting with him, even if it was not him. It was all exciting and unfamiliar, and he hated to be robbed of the experience.
But Amanda was agreeing to something that could be very dangerous for her. Just because she felt safe with him.
Chapter 26
Small Places, Large Issues
“I’M GOING NOW,” his mother called out. “You gotta get up.” Inky slapped at the alarm clock and hit snooze. Monday. “On it,” he called. He pulled the blanket over his head and tried to shut out the world.
He woke up again with a start. He was late, but really did have to get to school to tell Rungs he’d read the files he’d sent and Rungs was right. And he really had to talk to Amanda.
He got to school late enough to have to go straight to the principal’s office.
Inky sat across from Elsbet Harooni, who asked him the reason for his lateness. Did you ever have a morning when you just didn’t want to get up, just couldn’t face the day? A day when everything seemed bigger than you, when it is all too much? Inky thought to say. Then he looked at the principal and her perfect hair, and shoes that matched her belt and earrings. He shifted in the uncomfortable little chair. No, she did not have days like that.
“I’m not feeling too well. Headache,” Inky told her. It had the benefit of being true.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with your project? I hope you weren’t thinking that you could get out of school to put in the work you haven’t been doing on your project,” the principal said.
Adults were so stupid sometimes. If that’s what he’d wanted, he would have just stayed home. Here he actually showed up.
“Nothing like that, Ms. Harooni. It was pretty nasty out Sunday afternoon and I wasn’t dressed for it. I think I might have caught something.”
“Do you need to see the nurse?”
“No, I just want to get to class,” Inky said as the rattan weave poked in his back. He meant it.
“Hurry on then. I’ll be attending your project presentation, Michael.”
*
When Inky slunk into the back of the auditorium, the presentations were already underway. He’d missed Rungs’s and felt genuinely bad, although he already knew about the 227 precepts and the custom of becoming a monk before marriage. Now he understood the appeal of being cut off from earthly demands and comforts.
Soon it was Amanda’s turn. She was more confident than Inky would have expected as she clicked on her first slide. Social Structure at the Metropolitan Diplomatic Academy, Upper One, by Amanda Valdez Bates.
He liked how she’d designed her slides, effective and understated, liked how she tucked her hair behind her ear as she explained in a sweet voice that she was new and was assigned the topic. She’d been to a lot of places, but MDA was much bigger than her other schools and the social dynamic was more complex.
The auditorium was quiet. Inky could feel everyone paying attention—and why not? It was them that Amanda was talking about. He felt a pang of jealousy. Amanda had been the new girl who nobody paid attention to, his and Rungs’s little secret. Now she was up there for everyone to see.
“The cafeteria is where it all plays out,” Amanda said as she clicked on a diagram of the cafeteria table arrangement. She clicked on the first table on her chart and the name Curry Hill appeared. Everyone giggled.
“Regionalism is set aside for the shared comforts of vegetarian lunches from home generously laced with pungent spices. Don’t think this is just the place to find the students who ace their maths. On Curry Hill you’ll find the DJ for all the school dances and two thirds of the MDA house band, Fluid Borders. The drummer is part of the Kimchi Clan, known for their infinite variety of heavy metal t-shirts.”
One of the boys in the band yelled, “Oh yeah.” Amanda smiled. Inky was sorry his seat was so far back.
“There are tables of interest groups,” Amanda said, “and several of the tables along the perimeter of the cafeteria were highlighted with their names: the Lab Rats and the Drama Queens.” Several students snickered. Everyone used these nicknames about their class, but no one had ever shared them so openly—and in front of teachers.
“The Drama Queens. You would think they’d be part of the Culture Club.” When the name appeared, Inky felt himself tense at the mention of his old clique.
“Not anymore. There was a rift in middle school involving the school newspaper,” Amanda said.
Inky sucked in his breath. He’d been the cartoonist for years and had his share of run-ins over his columns.
“Seems an article said that this crop of thespians lacked the spark of their predecessors.” Inky remembered that, and he could see that Jolene Lee, who’d been the play’s lead, did too.
The auditorium grew still. Would Amanda go on about the Culture Club? Would she mention him? There was tension in the air.
“One more thing to know about the Culture Club,” Amanda continued. “You’d best stay away from the girls’ bathroom around recital time. The prima ballerinas go to great lengths to look their best.”
There were a couple of gasps. At least she didn’t name names, Inky thought. He saw a bulimic dancer squirm in her seat. “That’s not nice,” her friend cried out. As everyone turned to look, Inky wondered how Amanda knew all this.
“The Soccer Boys make up the largest group at MDA, and they are a force to be reckoned with.” Several of the boys cheered, which broke the tension and caused Mr. Lorenza to tell them to settle down. “They rule by brute force, locker room antics and good looks, if not good grades. MDA is undefeated in soccer again this year.”
Inky began to relax. At least she wasn’t making trouble for herself. But Inky was secretly disappointed that she passed up a perfectly good opportunity for a dig.
“After the soccer game, they can be found with the girls from the Sacred Circle or the Frenchies. The Sacred Circle girls have the looks, the smarts and the background to reign over the school, and now that they’re in Upper School, they finally can. They’re in J Brand and Topshop, while the Frenchies emulate their moms in Zara and Chanel. There’s movement between the two groups. When one girl ballooned to 150 pounds over the summer, her seat at the Sacred Circle table was no longer available when school resumed. Good thing she was French Canadian.”
Amanda looked into the audience in a way that suggested she was expecting a laugh. Instead there was a gasp because everyone knew who she was talking about. Inky could feel the crowd turn. He wondered what had gotten into Amanda. He suspected Hawk.
Amanda seemed less composed as she continued, like one of those actresses at an awards show that rips up her speech to speak from the heart and then bumbles her way into disaster. Her voice dropped and her pace sped up. “But the Sacred Circle can be bribed. After the mom of one of the circle was linked to a certain young and hunky model in the newspaper, it took a walk-on TV role to make it all right in this circle of friends, even though the mom was married and the very young man had been dating—”
From the middle of the au
ditorium, Priya interrupted. “No. Stop her. She can’t talk about that.”
“You weren’t there. You don’t know. You can’t talk about my mother like that,” Ellen Monahan called out. “You’ll get yours, Amanda whatever-your-name-is.”
Mr. Lorenza ran up to the podium, while Mrs. Patel escorted Ellen out of the auditorium.
“Thank you, Ms. Valdez Bates. We’ve heard enough of your report,” Mr. Lorenza said as someone turned on the lights.
Inky could see Amanda’s face turn bright red. Her face got long, like that Munch painting, The Scream. She burst out into tears.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Amanda called out as she raced up the aisle and out of the auditorium.
Chapter 27
Inky Goes to the Glass Tower
INKY LOOKED FOR AMANDA DURING BREAK, but she was nowhere to be found. He tried the roof, the library, the parking lot and the long corridor by the gym. He checked the area around the lower school playground and by the snack machine, stopping to buy some sugar wafers to substitute for lunch. He even went by the guidance counselors’ room and peered inside Mr. Lorenza’s homeroom. No Amanda.
When the presentations resumed, Inky took a seat in the back and scanned the room. Amanda was still missing. Inky barely listened to the reports. Sven started his presentation by saying “I’m a Soccer Boy, and yes, we’re winning again, thank you.” Priya and Shiri, who were doing a joint presentation on the meaning of fashion, identified themselves as being part of the Sacred Circle. Poor Amanda. Her report wasn’t likely to be forgotten any time soon.
Next, Hawk stepped up to the podium. Inky saw that she was nervous, very out-of-character for Hawk. She pulled at a strand of hair on the side of her neck and wrapped it and unwrapped it around her finger.
Inky wanted to tune out Hawk in support of Amanda. She would never have known any of those stories about their classmates if it weren’t for Hawk. Hawk, who was quick to point out others’ weaknesses, mishaps and missteps. Hawk, ever strong and unflappable, bright crimson among pastels. Hawk, who made other people miserable because she was unable to cry herself.
Hawk, who reached out to him in need, whose outstretched hand he pushed away.
Her presentation was about social interaction on the cancer ward. The room was quiet, pin-drop quiet. The gladiator shedding her armor.
“Of course, there’s not much interaction with the patient. She is pale and gasps for breath. You keep talking, hoping she’ll drift into consciousness. You try to imagine her beautiful blond curls. You keep talking, not for her, but for you, because you know that someday soon there’ll be no more talking. You keep talking because that’s what you’re supposed to do, even when you run out of things to say. You keep talking even after the nurse comes in and delivers one of the practiced lies. ‘She’s a fighter’ or ‘She’s turning a corner now.’ That’s hospital code for ‘She’s about to die.’”
The room remained quiet. To Inky, the collective sadness was leaf brown. His head filled with the color of Hawk’s loss—and his own.
Hawk described the waiting room at the hospital as “heavy with things unsaid or undone.” God, he knew what that felt like.
He resolved that he wasn’t going to heap on more regret—he had to talk to Amanda. She needed to know she was in danger, that Woody was trouble and she had bigger things to worry about than a stupid school report.
He raced out of the auditorium as soon as the presentations were over. Principal Harooni caught up with him as he headed towards his locker. “You have a very impressive group of classmates, Michael. I expect that you will rise to the occasion as Helen did.”
Ugh, Inky thought. He hated being lumped in with Hawk, a member of the kids-with-dead-parents club. It certainly did not make him want to work on his report.
Seeing the well-wishers begin to gather by Hawk’s locker made him feel bad that he was rushing out. He should tell her how brave she was to share as she did, and how much she helped him. But he was focused on Amanda. As he left the building, he dialed the only phone number he had for her—her family’s landline. He hung up when her mother’s too cheery voice message came on.
He practically raced to Amanda’s building, passing by the bench where he and Rungs had discovered Woody’s plan to meet her. He hesitated before going inside. The Nth Factor lobby was cold and imposing even to a born New Yorker like Inky. The doorman looked Inky up and down as he approached.
“I’m here to see Amanda Valdez Bates. My name is Michael Kahn.”
The doorman scanned a list on his clipboard. “Is she expecting you?”
“No.” The doorman’s stare made Inky feel like he had to explain himself. “I’m her classmate. She left school early today. I have her homework assignment.”
Inky heard only the doorman’s end of the conversation. “There’s a young man, a Mr. Michaels here to see Miss Amanda.”
“Excuse me.” Inky felt small. “Not Michaels. Michael Kahn. But she knows me as Inky.”
“Mr. Inky,” the doorman said into the intercom. There was a pause. “Inky, Inky. Yes, Inky. Has some homework.”
The doorman turned to Inky. “They say you can leave the papers with me. They’re preparing for guests later.”
“It really needs to be explained,” Inky said to him, pleading.
The doorman buzzed the intercom again. “He wants to bring it upstairs to explain.”
Inky shuffled from foot to foot. The intercom crackled and the doorman picked it up. There was a brief exchange, and the doorman said, “OK, you can go up.” Inky felt victorious.
Inky checked himself in the elevator mirror. His reflection did not make him feel more confident. He’d been up most of the night with the files Rungs sent, and it showed on his face. The fuzz over his lip looked like dirt, not like the start of a moustache. His hair was a crazy quilt of lengths.
A housekeeper opened the door. Amanda stood shyly behind. Inky mumbled a greeting and the housekeeper returned to setting the long dining room table, leaving Inky and Amanda in the entranceway.
Everything was new and clean and barely lived in. Inky looked out of the enormous window to the face of a building’s clock and the golden dome of an ornate old building. “Cool view,” Inky said.
They walked over to the window. Inky’s breath fogged the perfectly clean window, and he stepped back. He could see the weave of the fabric in her cocoa colored shirt. Amanda seemed smaller now that he was standing so close to her.
“So what’s this homework? Did the teachers assign an essay on screwing up?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Why’d you come? I thought you didn’t get involved with anyone. Shut yourself down, they say.”
“You can’t always believe what people say. Or repeat it,” Inky said as gently as he could.
“Right,” Amanda said and looked down. “All I wanted to do was fit in—all those stories that Hawk told me, she said everyone knew. When everyone started laughing, it was with me, and it felt good. It gave me courage to go on, to say more than just what I had written. Then it all slipped out. I never wanted to hurt anyone. Well, maybe Ellen a little. She’s always so mean to me.”
Inky watched Amanda’s face scrunch up as she fought back tears. Inky wanted to hug her to make her feel better, wanted to smooth the lines around her cheeks, wanted to help her stop the sob that was forming in her throat.
He reached out for Amanda’s hand. It felt like slow motion as he let his pinky touch her. A tremor of good feeling went through him, yellow and vibrant. A bold color. She did not move her hand away. He placed his fingers over her hand and gently squeezed it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. In a moment the sob passed.
“I only wanted to belong. There’s no place I fit in. Hawk seemed so sure of herself, I thought … I thought she was my friend.”
Inky thought about Hawk’s presentation, and her description of doing her homework on the cancer ward, and how she waited for her mother to drift into consci
ousness.
“It’s complicated with her. She’s been through a lot,” he said.
“Funny, she said the same about you. It’s awful about your father.”
Inky looked down at his feet, then out the window. He knew he was silent for too long. “Can I sit down? Or can we go to your room or something?”
Inky saw Amanda look over to the housekeeper. The flash in her eyes suggested she was asking for permission. Inky wondered if she’d ever had a boy in her room before.
“There wasn’t really any homework. I wanted to talk to you.”
“My dad’s having a dinner party tonight. Fundraising stuff. My mother’s out getting her hair done.”
“I won’t stay long.”
Amanda led him down the short hallway. He was expecting her room to be decorated in soft colors and small patterns—calico, and maybe an old quilt, just like you’d see on TV. The bright white walls and furniture and bold geometric print bedspread surprised him, for their design, but also just because he was seeing them. He didn’t have much experience in girls’ rooms, but he’d guessed the decorating choices were not Amanda’s.
He picked up a carved wooden monkey from her dresser. Inky moved its little arms up and down. Amanda bristled.
“Cool,” Inky said as he put it down, sensing she was uncomfortable with him touching her things.
“Thanks,” she said, softening a bit.
“Listen,” Inky said.
“I,” Amanda started, speaking at the same time as Inky.
They laughed awkwardly.
Inky noticed that her eyes were red and her face was swollen like she’d been crying for a long time. He wanted to say something to make her feel better. He had so much to say; he felt ready to explode, but he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. He couldn’t believe that he was actually alone with Amanda in her room. He forgot the reason he was there for a moment and smiled.
He noticed her hair was no longer parted in the clean lightning bolt pattern of his drawing. The soft part made her hair fall over her face so that he wanted to reach up and brush the hair away.
Drawing Amanda Page 12
