Apocalypse_Cow: BUT NOT ME.
Apocalypse_Cow: LET IT BE KNOWN THAT MAX CHOPRA HAS NEVER FELT EMASCULATED.
Apocalypse_Cow: but really, did this guy say something to you? why feel so bad about it?
MirkerLurker: He didn’t say ANYTHING. That’s the problem!
MirkerLurker: He just stood there and wouldn’t even look at me.
emmersmacks: Did you say anything
MirkerLurker: . . . No.
emmersmacks: Well
emmersmacks: E
emmersmacks: There you might have a problem
Apocalypse_Cow: you’re getting schooled in social skills by a twelve-year-old in college. how does that feel
emmersmacks: Im fourteen not twelve
emmersmacks: Asshole
Apocalypse_Cow: wait, he left a note in your sketchbook? what did it say?
MirkerLurker: It said thanks, and that the pictures were good.
emmersmacks: OH MY GOD
emmersmacks: THATS WHY HE DIDNT TALK
MirkerLurker: What?
emmersmacks: HE WAS TOO NERVOUS
emmersmacks: AW HE LIKES YOU E
MirkerLurker: I really really doubt that.
MirkerLurker: Like, I mean, REALLY doubt it.
MirkerLurker: He’s not exactly the kind of guy that’s usually interested in me.
Apocalypse_Cow: what kind of guy is usually interested in you?
MirkerLurker: The kind I make up in my head.
Apocalypse_Cow: wooooooooooooooooooooooow
Apocalypse_Cow: woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow
Apocalypse_Cow: woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooow
Apocalypse_Cow: do you want me to go ahead and fill your house with cats right now, or do you want to put that off for a few years?
MirkerLurker: Har har
MirkerLurker: I have to sit next to this guy in homeroom on Monday. What am I going to say to him?
emmersmacks: What have you been saying to him
MirkerLurker: Nothing. I thought that was clear.
emmersmacks: Then continue doing that
emmersmacks: If he wants to say something to you he will
MirkerLurker: Why does a twelve-year-old know more about boys than I do?
emmersmacks: IM FOURTEEN
CHAPTER 6
On Monday I walk into homeroom—past victorious homecoming banners that say WILDCATS ARE THE CHAMPS—and Wallace is already there in the seat next to mine. But Mrs. Grier is there too, and she catches me by the door. Today it’s earrings shaped like shamrocks and a green dress shirt with black slacks.
“How are you this morning, Eliza?” she asks, smiling. It’s seven in the morning, how is she already smiling? I wait for her to continue, but she stands there staring at me like she actually wants to know the answer to that question.
“Um. Okay?” I say. She frowns and leans in. I raise my voice. “Okay.”
“Great! I just wanted to check and make sure everything was going good.”
Just wanted to check? Why? Did she hear about the Travis and Deshawn thing Friday? Wallace wouldn’t have told her about that, would he? When she again doesn’t continue, I shrug and edge my way past her. It’s bad enough that I have to deal with Wallace; I don’t want to deal with teachers worried about bullied students too.
I slide into my seat as quietly as I can, but Wallace looks up from his phone anyway. He lowers his head again, scratches at his neck, looks away. I hold my backpack in my lap and stare at the back of Shelby Lewis’s ginger head. Then, after a few seconds of frozen anxiety, I take out my phone and start going through last night’s long chat with Emmy and Max. I’d text them now, but Emmy’s asleep and Max is at work. They won’t respond anyway, and by the time they do I’ll be out of this situation.
I switch over to the MS forums. I don’t normally read forum posts on my phone, but, well, desperate situations. There are a few noticeable people online, among them rainmaker and Fire_Served_Cold, who are playing a game of tag in the General Topics threads. As I refresh the page, more and more people join in. Where rainmaker goes, the fans follow.
After a few minutes, the hairs on my neck rise. I stare at the phone screen and pretend I don’t notice Mrs. Grier looking at me from her spot by the door.
The bell rings. Mrs. Grier closes the door and goes to her desk for her attendance list. Per school rules, I shove my phone into my pocket and look like I’m paying attention to what’s actually going on instead of thinking about the next time I can take the phone out again.
Then I find a paper on my desk that wasn’t there when I sat down.
On it, in handwriting so neat and precise it looks like it was printed out by a machine, the words:
Do you like Monstrous Sea?
The handwriting is nicer and less hurried. I don’t know anyone else who writes with such blocky, printer-neat words like that. I glance at Wallace and he’s bent over his desk, head turned slightly away so he can massage the tip of his right ear. His hair sticks up on the back of his head where he scratched at it.
Great. He really does like Monstrous Sea. I don’t know if that should be flattering or terrifying. With the sheer number of people that go to my school, I figured at least one of them would be a Monstrous Sea fan, but I also figured I’d never end up talking to them. Ever. Ever in my life. Why now? I only had to survive another seven months without something like this happening. Why now, O cruel universe?
Wallace turns back, and he looks at my freaking desk. God, he’s waiting for an answer. Great. What could this hurt, really? He doesn’t know who I am. All he knows is that I draw Monstrous Sea pictures. It’s fan art. That’s all it has to be. And this paper—this paper is a chat window. I don’t have to look at his face while I write. Just put the words down and hand it back.
I take out a pen. The tip hovers over the paper. Do you like Monstrous Sea?
Yes, I do. Monstrous Sea is my favorite thing in the whole entire world. I like it more than any person. I like it more than I like myself. I like it more than food, and sleep, and hot showers. I like it more than I like being alone. It is everything to me.
I write Yes.
Then I shove the paper back at him.
If Mrs. Grier sees this from the front of the room, she doesn’t say anything. Wallace rights the paper on his desk, stares at my one word, then slowly reaches for his pen and begins carefully printing. He goes so slow. It feels like the tectonic plates move faster than he does. I look away while he writes, until I feel the gentle nudge of paper against my hand.
Who’s your favorite character?
My favorite? All of the characters are my favorite. I’ve known them all for so long even the ones I used to hate are my favorites. They’re more real to me than most of the real people I know. I love all of them. But I suppose I love some more than others. And LadyConstellation loves asking her fans which ones are their favorites.
I write Izarian Silas.
When I get the paper back, he’s written, Izzy’s a good one. Mine’s Dallas. He has the best power of any of the Angels. Favorite location?
Orcus itself is my favorite location. If I could live there instead of on Earth, I would do it in a heartbeat. I would build an airship and fly over the monster-filled oceans, and I’d visit all the places I’ve only ever seen in my head. Dark and isolated Nocturne Island, where Amity grew up; the vast and beautiful Great Continent, where the ancestors of the Earthens laid their roots; the clockwork city, Risht, where Amity and Damien learn to be friends, and realize they’re stronger when they work together.
I write Risht. In Risht, no one fears monsters. In Risht, monsters are a memory of a bygone age, and the people who vanquished them are revered as gods.
He writes faster this time. Same. For the fusion power, the clock palace, and the music. Also because of that giant antlered phoenix statue they made out of food for Rory’s birthday. I want a giant edible phoenix statue.
No question this time. I sit with the paper on my desk for several minutes, staring at the back of Shelby Lewis’s head and her retro 90s butterfly clips. The tip of the pen presses into the paper until there’s just a large blue dot beside Wallace’s neat “palace.”
Finally, I put down Were you writing MS fanfiction?
But when I push it back on his desk, the bell rings for first period. I grab my bag and run, and hesitate for only a second at the door. It’s not even first period yet, and I’ve killed my deodorant. It’s not even first period yet, and the new kid is a Monstrous Sea fan. The first one I’ve ever met in real life.