And then he saw Woody.
He looked like the pictures they’d seen online, but it was still a shock to see him in person. He’d spent so much energy thinking about how creepy Woody really was that he was unsettled to find that he was just a regular guy, a trim and confident regular guy with a friendly smile.
“Hi there, Picasso in training,” Woody said breathlessly. “I wasn’t expecting you now. Sorry I can’t invite you up. Big session. I just have a minute. But it’s great to meet you. Great to meet you.” He held out his hand.
Inky shifted his drawing to the other hand and shook Woody’s hand. He wondered if Woody noticed how sweaty his palms were. Would he think anything of it, or just think that Inky was nerdy and graceless?
“So you’re the guy behind Megaland. It’s so exciting to meet you,” Inky said, hoping he sounded sincere. “Er, thanks for saying all those nice things about my work.”
“You’re a real talent,” Woody said in a manner that made Inky think of the way agents or advertising guys were portrayed in movies.
Inky tapped on the rolled-up drawing. “Let me show you this one.” It wobbled in his hand and he hoped that Woody didn’t notice the shake.
This next part would be the hardest of all: getting Woody to step outside. They wanted Woody out of the building so it would be that much harder for him to go back and destroy any evidence on his computer. Inky tried to sound unrehearsed. He looked around the little space they stood in and said, “It’s really dark in here.”
Inky leaned against the glass door, then released it just like he’d practiced while he was waiting for Woody to respond. It was an awkward gesture and he hoped that Woody would not be suspicious. Inky’s foot and the hand with the drawing were outside the doorway.
Woody gave him a curious look. Inky stepped all the way out, taking two steps back. He awkwardly held the door for Woody to follow, thankful for his long arms, worrying that he’d lose his footing or that he’d trip and blow it all.
Inky waved the rolled-up drawing—his signal to Rungs. “I really like figurative art,” he said, hoping to distract Woody. Woody nodded in response.
Inky had another maneuver; he had to position himself in such a way that Woody would not see Rungs and the police officer approaching. He did a bit of a pirouette; he stumbled, just enough so that Woody noticed.
“I’m nervous, I guess,” Inky said. “I’ve never shown a piece like this before, and well, you know, you’ve been …”
Woody waved him off. “Of course, of course. I understand. All artists are vulnerable. This must be hard.”
Inky felt soothed by Woody’s response. He didn’t seem that suspicious. As Inky rolled the rubber band off of his drawing, he was hit with a wave of guilt about what he was about to do. Megaland had been a good thing for him in a lot of ways.
The rubber band snapped and hurt his finger. “Damn,” Inky said, and he felt tears well up in his eyes. He tried to fill his mind with a soft color, settled on the peach of the shirt that Amanda was wearing and recovered.
He opened the picture and held it up for Woody to see. As he raised it, he noticed a shift in the shadow down the street. It had to be Rungs. He held the picture up to Woody’s eye level, so that it blocked his own face. He was afraid his expression of relief would betray him. It was so close to over, but so much could still go wrong.
His hands were shaking so much that Woody was having a hard time taking in the picture.
“Easy, easy. It’s just art,” Woody said. Inky knew he was looking at the contour of the girl’s breast in his picture.
“You are a truly marvelous artist. So realistic,” Woody said. He put a hand on the picture.
For a moment Inky forgot why he was there and let himself feel proud. “I’d love to show you more someday. I have a whole portfolio,” Inky said, stalling. What was taking them so long? The car wasn’t parked that far away.
“Let me just take this and I’ll get back to you,” Woody said. He seemed more hurried. Could he have caught a glimpse of the police car? “We’ll make up a time when you can show me your whole portfolio. I know a lot of people.” Woody started to reroll the poster in his hand and turned his body to go inside.
Inky’s heart was beating so hard he felt like his chest could rip open. It was all so close. They’d worked so hard on all the details, but now Woody had the poster in his hand and he was turning to go upstairs. To go back to Amanda.
“Wait,” Inky said too loudly. He could hear the panic in his own voice. Woody turned around.
“I really gotta run. Look I, er, it’s my fault, Picasso, my friend. I shoulda had you confirm. I can’t hold up a session—work being so scarce and all.”
Woody’s apology gave him a chance to compose himself. “I just wanted to sign it for you. I should have signed it. It was rude not to. Maybe, someday, you never know, maybe I will be a famous artist,” Inky said, reaching into his pocket for a pen.
Woody sighed. “I have people waiting for me.” He handed the poster to Inky.
Inky looked down the street and saw Rungs approaching. It was everything he could do not to smile in relief. “Yeah. I’ll sign it and date it for you, too.”
Inky shimmied over so that he was between Woody and the inner door. He held the picture up so that it was propped against the glass. His back was to Woody.
Inky could feel Woody watch him with impatient eyes as he put the pen to the poster and made the loop for a capital P and started to write “Picasso.” Inky heard Rungs talking to the officers. Woody heard the voices, too. He whipped his head around to look down the street.
Inky glanced up at Woody’s face and saw it turn white. He felt his heart pounding again. Had Woody seen the police with Rungs?
Woody shoved Inky hard to get him out of the way and grabbed at the door. Inky’s shoulder blade hit the wall. The pain was a garish bright orange as it seared through Inky. He fell to the floor in a dizzy heap. It happened so fast. He’d dropped the poster and his fall had ripped it so that the head was now severed from the rest of the image. Amanda.
Woody fumbled with a key, which Inky assumed opened the inner door. Searing red flashed in his head. Woody was going to go back upstairs. Amanda was upstairs. Inky shot out his long leg in front of Woody, and made him trip.
The officers and Rungs entered the doorway.
Woody gave Inky a withering glance. “You?” he hissed.
Inky felt sick from the look of horror and betrayal on Woody’s face. One of the officers reached out and grabbed Woody.
“William Turner,” one of the officers said to Woody, “you are in violation of the terms of your parole as a Category 2 sex offender.”
It seemed to Inky that Woody crumpled before him as he let out a low wail.
Rungs gave Inky a thumbs-up. He untangled his leg from in front of Woody and scuttled to his feet. One of the officers placed handcuffs on Woody. “You have the right to remain silent,” he said.
As he continued, the other officer said to Inky and Rungs, “Let’s go, boys. Let’s tell your friend this is over.”
Inky was already running up the stairs.
Chapter 38
Artboy and DiploKids
Bust Creep
AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, Inky was unsure which way to turn. He followed the wall of gold records, calling out Amanda’s name. He entered a lobby area and yelled out, “Amanda, Amanda, it’s over.”
She ran to him and he opened his arms. As he drew her toward him, he could feel her shake.
“You are the bravest girl I’ve ever met,” he said. He held her tight and rubbed her back, petting the soft peach sweater like a small animal. Gently, gently. A blossomy aura filled his head as she cried from relief, and he felt the warmth of her body against his. They said nothing but communicated everything while the officer, accompanied by Rungs, packed up Woody’s computer and camera and gathered other evidence. Inky was unsure how long they stayed that way, but he knew it was long enough for him to feel
the imprint of her on his chest; it felt like tomorrow had already come.
*
The hug was branded into his memory, white-hot and beautiful. It was that hug he thought of as he looked down at the beige stippled floor of the interview room in the police station while Rungs talked tech with Officer Hogan. The brown specks in the imitation stone pattern had too much red, but not enough to distract from the layer of dirt on the station floor. Inky would have liked to be near real rocks; actually, he would have liked to be anywhere but there in the Midtown North precinct.
Mostly he wanted to be with Amanda, wanted to sit quietly with her and hear how she had felt each and every moment of that eventful day. He wanted to tell her again how proud he was of her, wanted to tell her about the moment when Woody looked at him, aware that Inky and his friends had busted him. She’d understand the muddy mix of pride and guilt he’d felt. He wanted to tell her how worried about her he’d been, wanted to hold her and tell her everything would be different now.
But that would have to wait while Officer Hogan and his partner debriefed them in that charmless room in the Midtown North precinct. Rungs, however, was in his element, his natural habitat, as Mr.Wallingford, their science teacher, would call it.
Inky looked closely at Rungs, who had removed his sunglasses to talk to the officer. He could see the deep bags under his friend’s eyes, as much of a badge of achievement as the one on the officer’s uniform. Now Rungs reveled in the retelling of his nighttime code-cracking. He was drinking coffee with the cops, his jetlagged father alternately yawning and beaming at his son’s accomplishments.
Rungs had been the first to comply with the police request for them to call their parents. He had reached his father, who was on the way home from the airport. Mr. R. had the cab take him directly to the police station, apologizing when he arrived for “not being fresh” after 24 hours of travel from Thailand.
The officers were deferential to Mr. Rungsiyaphoratana. “Just get it right,” Inky had heard one of the bosses instruct the officers on the case. “Put on those kid gloves and don’t make an international incident.”
Amanda was hesitant to call her parents. “I’ll get a historic talking-to,” she’d said, with talking-to in air quotes as she illustrated the way her father got when he was mad. She puffed up her cheeks and made a face so grotesque she convinced Mr. R. to speak to her father first.
In the language known only to diplomats, Rungs’s dad explained to Amanda’s parents what had happened and smoothed it over for Amanda, so that instead of the scolding she expected, when she said, “Daddy, I’ll tell you all about it, but now I just want to come home,” he quickly said they loved her and they’d pick her up.
It was her mother who came in to the station, all glamorous and dramatic. Inky could see how much Amanda resembled her. “Maybe your father was right,” Amanda’s mother said, grabbing Amanda by the arm. “We should have gotten you a dog. You miss your brothers so. But Amanda, dear, how could you have made friends with this unsavory character?”
Amanda looked at Inky, then back at her mother. “It’s complicated.”
“Have you thought about what could have happened? This was a very dangerous thing you did, young lady. Your father told me not to overreact, but don’t give me your shy, quiet routine.”
Inky could see Amanda blush, and she almost seemed to shrink under her mother’s words. Then she straightened her shoulders and smiled at him.
“It’s OK, mama. I mean, a dog would be cool and all, but I have real friends now.”
So do I, Inky thought, and beamed at her.
Then Rungs started talking again about the equipment and tracing the IP address to the studio. He reminded Inky of one of those trick birthday candles you blow out and after a moment it starts up again.
Inky saw the second policeman enter the room. He’d been questioning Woody. “Fine bit of work from you kids, fine bit of work,” he said. “We got us a collar. Smart thinking to wait for him to take those pictures.” Rungs’s father put his palms together and bowed his head slightly in respect for the work his son had done.
Even though it was a weekend, Inky’s mother was at work when he called. She was quiet while he explained about the game site and how Woody was so positive about his artwork, and how especially with everything going on with school and stuff at home, he’d been glad to have something that he wasn’t failing at.
“I couldn’t tell you about our plan. You would have been too afraid for me, too afraid to lose me. But the truth is, I was already lost.”
“What would I do if something happened to you? What would I have done without you?” Inky’s mother said.
Inky tried to tune out the officer who was tapping his foot impatiently while they spoke. “It worked out all right, Ma. But it’s not like we’ve been so together.” Inky disliked having this conversation on the phone in front of everyone. Thankfully Amanda and her mother were busy with paperwork and out of earshot.
His mother was quiet for a moment, and then said, “I know I haven’t been there for you, Michael. It’s just been so hard.” Inky could hear her sob. “Your father, he was the expressive one. He was my balance. I don’t know how …”
Inky hated it when his mother cried. She was always practical, stoic, the uber working mom.
“Mom, don’t cry. It’s OK. It’s OK now. I mean, they’re calling us heroes. Besides there’s a reporter who wants to talk to us. Maybe you can tell us what to do.”
Inky could feel her flex into her work mode, like the motor of his dad’s old Saab when he shifted into the right gear and it started to run again.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” she said. “After we sign whatever they need, why don’t you invite your friends over and you can talk to the reporter then. We’ll order in a feast for you and your friends, and their parents.”
When all the paperwork was done and they were ready to go, Inky sought out Officer Hogan.
“Excuse me, officer. Could you tell me, did Woody say if there were other kids involved in this game?”
“Your guy was up to more than you knew about. Our search of his premises turned up evidence that his scheme with you kids was not his only endeavor. We’re waiting for his lawyer to arrive so we can extract his confession.”
“What else was he up to?” Inky asked.
“Afraid we can’t tell you that just yet, but you’ve done a good thing.”
*
Inky’s mom had ordered a feast of Indian samosas and curries and had the big table set for eight. Inky was amazed that she’d even remembered where the tablecloth was.
“It’s been so long since we’ve had a gang of your friends over. Do you remember, Michael, how your father used to have everyone over? He used to say a bunch of you was easier than just one.”
Inky looked around the table at his friends, then at the one empty seat, but before he could get sad about his father, his mother said, “I set a place for the reporter, too. Always a good idea to feed the press.”
Rungs and his dad ate hastily and left before the reporter arrived. Mr. R. had suggested that Rungs not be present or named in the article due to the sensitivity of his job. Inky thought his friend would be more disappointed, but that was the thing about Rungs: you peeled back one layer and there was always something more, like those multicolored grease pencils in the art room.
“It’s about the doing,” Rungs said. “Plus, I got my props from the cops. LYDK, that matters more to me than a thing in the paper. Like you didn’t know.
“Besides,” Rungs told Inky on the way out, “my dad’s exhausted. And somewhere in his bag there’s a letter and a tape from Apsara,” Rungs said, referring to his girlfriend in Thailand.
“See ya later, Spyboy,” said Amanda, who was there without her parents. Hawk laughed. Not the mean laugh that Inky had gotten used to hearing, but a soft, tinkling laugh. She’d come over with her dad. Mr. Stegmann was concerned about the possible mention of his bank. Inky’s mother had handled th
at as soon as the reporter arrived and had started interviewing the adults.
“Don’t put us in,” Carol Kahn said to the reporter, someone she knew slightly from her corporate public relations work. “That the kids have prominent parents is not news. It’s what they did, how clever they were, how brave. That’s your story. And if you must say anything about their background, consider this: If these smart kids could get sucked in, anyone can. There’s your story.”
Then she led Mr. Stegmann to the living room. Inky heard the clink of wine glasses and Hawk’s dad complimenting his mother on how she had everything under control.
Hawk played up her role, said she was the logistics coordinator or some such, but Inky didn’t care. When Amanda retold her story, he got to look at her the whole time, noticing for the first time a freckle on her earlobe that looked like an earring. How could he have missed it? How much more was there to explore?
Amanda yawned and said she had to go. Her parents had asked her not to stay too long. Inky offered to walk her home.
Just outside his building, he saw the big tree he’d stare at from the window of his father’s study. Most of the trees on the block were left barren from a midweek rainstorm, but this one held on steadfastly to a small crest of leaves. Inky pointed.
“It doesn’t want winter to come yet,” Amanda said, seeing what he saw. “But I don’t mind.”
Inky put his arm around her and steered her off the sidewalk and under the tree. He put two fingers on her face and turned her head towards his. She closed her eyes. He wanted his open, wanted to take in the softness of her skin, the length of her face, wanted to be sure he touched her lips with his. He watched her lip quiver, leaned in and let his lips meet hers, so soft and warm.
A leaf, the last vestige of fall, dropped from the tree and slowly fell, landing in her hair. She did not shake it out.
He was sure he said something to her and she said something back on the rest of the walk home, but all that Inky could think of was how unfamiliar his cheeks felt, uplifted in a smile.
Drawing Amanda Page 18
