Eliza and Her Monsters(9)
Travis fakes surprise. “Oh my god, Murky can actually speak.”
We’ve been in school together since the second grade. He knows I can speak fine, unlike some of our other classmates, who believe I am an actual mute.
“Leave him alone, Travis.” My voice is already too weak for this. Emergency courage reserves depleted.
“Why’re you standing up for him, Murky? Does someone have a crush?”
My face flames instantly. I press the edge of my sketchbook into my thighs. I know this is his go-to to make a girl either stop talking or get so flustered she can’t make a rational argument. He started using it in middle school, when I became too weird for anyone to hang out with. If I can push through it, maybe I’ll knock him off his game.
“No. Shut up,” I warble. “I just—you . . . let him write what he wants. Whatever it is, it’s none of your business.”
“None of my business? I’m not trying to hate on him for it, Murky, I just want to read it! What’s your problem?”
“He obviously doesn’t want you to read it!”
Wallace stares at me the whole time I’m saying this, and heat seeps into my ears too. So I’m distracted when Deshawn slips my sketchbook out of my hands.
“Hey!”
I reach for it, but he backpedals away, opening it up to look at the pictures. Some of the loose pages flutter in the cold breeze but don’t come free of the pages.
“Whoa, these are really good,” Deshawn says. “Trav, I think she’s into the sea thing too.”
He snaps the book closed and Frisbees it over my head, out of the reach of my fingers when I jump for it, to Travis, who has stood up off the bench. Travis grabs it out of the air, sending a few of the loose pages sailing off into the wind, and opens it up.
“Oh, this is why you stood up for him. You guys like the same thing!”
“Give it back!” No one is supposed to look in that sketchbook. It’s the one I bring to school, so it’s safer than some of the others I have, but there are still Monstrous Sea things in there—like unfinished comic pages—and it might give away who I am. Plus I just don’t like the idea of Travis Stone’s goopy eyes on the things I’ve drawn. I didn’t let him see my drawings even when we were friends, and I’m not going to start now. I rush at Travis to get it back, but he tosses it to Deshawn.
I won’t be caught in a game of monkey in the middle. Not as a senior in high school. I won’t. But Deshawn stands there holding it, rifling through the pages, and he won’t move until I do. Tears blur my vision. Great. Now I’m crying too. Let’s make the situation worse. I ball my hands into fists and move toward Deshawn. As soon as I get close enough, he laughs and throws the sketchbook back.
I turn again, ready to scream in frustration, only to find Wallace standing between me and Travis, the sketchbook in one hand. He must have caught it out of the air. I didn’t think he could move that fast. Travis looks both stunned and vaguely impressed. Wallace turns and stares him down. Travis is about my height, so when they’re both standing Wallace is half a head taller than him, and a hell of a lot wider. Travis looks like a sapling standing next to an oak.
Wallace steps toward him, whole body tense, and Travis holds up his hands and backs away. “Yo. Okay. Chill, dude. Damn.” He looks at Deshawn, jerks his head toward the parking lot, and the two go loping off. On the way, Travis scoops up one of my fallen pictures, then stares me in the face as he folds it and slips it in his pocket.
Wallace is already walking across the front sidewalk to pick up the other loose sheets. I scramble for the few near me—Amity using her crystals to launch herself into the sky, Damien surrounded by a cloud of fog and a flock of dread crows—and wipe my eyes.
Wallace lumbers back, holding my sketchbook as a hard surface so he can scribble on one of his loose papers. He stuffs that inside the sketchbook along with all the pictures he grabbed, then holds it out for me. Instead of looking at me like I should be invisible, he doesn’t look at me at all; his eyes rove left, then right, then down, until I take the sketchbook from him. I almost drop it and have to catch it against my leg.
He stands there. Am I supposed to say something? Does he want me to say something? He scratches the back of his head, lets his hand fall to his neck, and takes a deep breath.
I dig in my pocket for my phone, but Emmy and Max probably aren’t even around right now. Emmy’s in class and Max is at work. My fingers hover over the keys with nowhere to go. Wallace is still standing there, but now he has his phone out too.
He has his phone out. He’s not paying attention.
I turn and march away before he has the chance to look up again. I’m pretty sure he does, but it doesn’t matter because I’m already halfway across the parking lot and I don’t care if he thinks I’m weird, because I’m never ever going to speak in front of him again. When I reach my car, I dive inside and slam the door shut behind me. The parking lot is still too full to leave. I should probably take off my backpack before I try to drive, anyway.
I move my backpack into the passenger seat, buckle my seat belt, and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. I’m light-headed. This isn’t good. The heat in my face fills the car, and I bathe in gross sweaty embarrassment. Why did Travis and Deshawn have to pick today to mess with Wallace? Why couldn’t Wallace take care of them himself? Why did he have to maybe be writing Monstrous Sea fanfiction?