I wonder what the fandom is doing. I wonder what Emmy and Max are doing. Emmy’s probably dealing with that asshole calculus professor, and Max is no doubt trying to get his girlfriend back. Or maybe they’re not—maybe Emmy is eating Starburst and watchingDog Daysreruns, and Max has dealt with the girlfriend situation and has moved on to more exciting ventures, like rearranging his Power Rangers action figure collection. I’ll be able to find out tomorrow, when Mom and Dad give me my freaking phone back.
Amity and Damien face the same direction, attacking some unknown enemy, so across from them I draw a long-necked sunset riser rearing up, jaw open and fangs extended. The scale is wrong at first, so I wipe it out with my shoe and stand up to draw the sea monster to its true size.
I miss Wallace. I miss Max and Emmy and the fandom too, but I would miss Wallace even if I had my phone and could talk to him. I miss sitting next to him at Murphy’s, boxed against the wall by his big body. I miss the way he dips both ends of his sushi rolls in soy sauce when we go out to eat. I miss how he brushes hair off his forehead with the end of his pen when he’s in the middle of writing—because it’s grown out since October, and he actually has to do that now.
God, it hasn’t even been four days since I last saw him. This is ridiculous. I go to bed thinking about him; I wake up thinking about him. I want to draw him, but I haven’t tried it yet. I used to only feel this way aboutMonstrous Sea. It’s not like he’s taken that away, either—I still loveMonstrous Sea. I’m still obsessed with it. And that makes sense, right? Because I created it. Who isn’t obsessed with the things they create, they love? Ideas are the asexual reproduction of the mind. You don’t have to share them with anyone else.
But Wallace ... I share Wallace with a lot of people. Wallace isn’t mine any more than I’m his, but Iwanthim. I want to hold him, I want to be near him, I want to crawl inside his mind and live there until I understand the way he works. I want him to be happy.
I wonder what he’d think of this picture I drew in the dirt. He’d probably say it’s good, but I forgot the sunset riser’s horns.
I add in the sunset riser’s horns.
My family exits the cave. Church and Sully charge into the trees, yelling something about the lake. Dad hurries after them, calling at them not to run in the woods. Mom comes last, and her gaze passes over my drawing before I manage to swipe my foot through the middle. Big, arcing foot swipe. Damn giant sea monster.
“Are you still upset with us for taking your phone?” Mom asks. Softly, like I might bite her face off.
I shrug. I’m not allowed to say no to her, and I’m not going to lie to make her feel better.
“We don’t do things like that to punish you, you know.”
I’ve already turned to the trees to follow Dad.
“Eliza, I’m trying to talk to you.”
I stop and turn back to face her. She puts her hands on her hips.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she says.
“Like what?” I say.
“Like I’m wasting your time. I brought you into this world, the least you can do is listen to me for two minutes.”
“Fine, I’m listening.”
She covers her face with her hands. Smooths back the flyaway strands of her hair. A smear of dirt arcs over her left temple.
“Sometimes ...” She sighs. Sighing means she wants to launch into what she believes to be a long, heartfelt conversation, and at the end of it, if I don’t agree with her, then I’m an ungrateful child.
“Sometimes,” she says again, “we don’t know what to do with you. Your brothers are easy. They want to play sports and video games and eat a lot of food. They tell us about school and their friends. They’re like your dad and I used to be when we were younger. We never had the internet in high school. We didn’t have smartphones. Even if we did, I don’t think we’d use them as much as you do. Oh—sorry, that sounded terrible. You just spend somuch time online, we never know if you’re okay or not. We don’t know what’s going on with you. You’re so quiet, and you spend so much time on your own—when Wallace started coming over, it was a real relief.
“What I’m trying to say is that we don’t feel like we know you anymore. We don’t know what you want.”
She stops and stares and waits.
I say, “Monstrous Sea,” because no other words come to me.
She nods. “And we’re proud of you for that. But ... is that it?”
I shrug.
“There’s more to life than stories, Eliza.”
She says it like it’s simple. She says it like I have a choice.
There’s the frustration again, hot and ready, and there’s frustration’s best friend, anger, and there are my hands balling into fists and my stomach twisting in a knot and my jaw clenching so hard my molars squeal in protest. Mom takes a step back and then a step forward. She might try to hug me. I don’t want anyone touching me right now.
“I’m going to the lake,” I say, and turn again.
