Chapter Four
FIVE HOURS INTO background research on Xander Fairchild, Skylar was ready to admit it would have been wise to do this work before rashly promising his new client the moon.
“You’re going to be wasted in law,” everyone in the frat teased him, insisting he should open a business where he made marketing plans for people. Privately, Skylar agreed with them about being wasted in law, though he didn’t want to make marketing plans for a living either. But his future career was a cauldron of regret he had no desire to stir.
He had a full pot with Xander Fairchild as it was.
Normally when doing this kind of thing, either for class or for practice, he worked up what he called a zip sheet: a digest of facts about the client, assets and liabilities, and his best prognosis for a plan. He gleaned the details from internet searches, company or client history, interviews, social media culls. He couldn’t get anywhere with Xander’s except that he’d gone to Mason City High School in Pennsylvania and that over the years he’d won several art contests. Most of those were elementary and middle school, but there’d been one in high school and a few here at Benten. Skylar wrote those down, but for facts, this was about it. After some intense digging, he was able to verify Xander was confirmed at Bethlehem Lutheran Church in Mason City, Pennsylvania.
No Instagram. No Twitter. No Tinder, no OKCupid, no Facebook, no Pinterest, nothing. Not even DeviantArt, which seemed to be some kind of graphic art showcase.
Skylar did get some hits from Benten itself, of course, from the mundane to the shocking. Xander had been in the requisite Benten art shows as part of his standard curriculum, which Skylar noted on his zip sheet as pertinent but not very helpful. There were a few minor awards and achievements from within the art department Skylar found as well.
And then Skylar found the Lucky 7 website, where a small, three-line bio with an angry amine avatar said that Xander Fairchild was the head mangaka for The Adventures of Hotay & Moo.
Skylar couldn’t help it, he gasped, and he…well, he put his hand over his heart.
He’d been reading the student magazine since he was a freshman, and so had Unc. They discussed it every time a new issue came out, arguing over the Shinto references and debating where the plot would go next. Xander drew that? The very thought made Skylar’s heart beat faster.
He felt ridiculous for not putting two and two together before, but he hadn’t gone to the website and looked up who drew the manga. Which was unlike him, honestly. But Hotay & Moo was a guilty pleasure, an escape from the strict path of his life, so he supposed it made sense that he’d only immersed himself in the story and not explored further. The dots were connected now, though. His guilty pleasure was drawn by Xander Fairchild.
He didn’t know how to put that in his zip sheet, but…damn, he kind of wanted an autograph.
Skylar forced himself to move on from Hotay & Moo and get back to the business of hunting down information that would help him build a profile on Xander, but it quickly became clear the only way he’d get that information was to interview the man himself. Except Skylar felt if he showed up to start that process with nothing flashier than I know you were raised Missouri Synod Lutheran and won an award from your public library, his recalcitrant subject would shut down and give him nothing.
Skylar was desperate. He was on fire with the thrill of uncertainty, of impossibility. He dug deeper. And deeper. He found a thin network of people who had to be classmates of Xander’s in high school and stalked them. Not their present but their past, their deep, social media archives. He hunted their profiles, combing through everything like a madman, looking for a crumb, a hint, an anything.
At two in the morning, he found it, and he was almost sorry.
He nearly missed the nest of threads. It was on Facebook in 2011, bleeding into 2012, in a series of conversations between twenty people, exchanges it was clear he only saw part of. At one point adults had intervened, which was when the public conversation ended. The initial exchange remained, and it was damning.
There wasn’t one post that did it—they were subtle but persistent jabs. Little digs where the way they kept saying Xander Fairchild made Skylar think they’d tagged him but the account was now gone. Mocking his clothes. Suspecting a fart in class as coming from him. Essentially Xander’s peers made it clear he was their scapegoat for teenage angst in every way, every form. Consuming the comments in one sitting, it was clear Quasimodo looked like a golden boy compared to the Mason City teenagers’ construction of Xander Fairchild. Yet only in such a condensed read did it seem horrific. The comments were distributed over months and scattered across profiles. Of course, Skylar acknowledged grimly, Xander would have received them all.
Then, after the start of the year in 2012, the comments took a turn.
Xander Fairchild is a faggot.
Xander Fairchild wants to suck cock.
I saw Xander Fairchild looking at my ass. OMG, barf.
If I catch Xander Fairchild drooling at me, I’m punching him in the face.
Then all comments ceased.
Skylar closed the window, leaned back in his chair, and shut his eyes. No social media, Xander had said. No friends. Skylar had thought, maybe, he had an introvert on his hands. He suspected he still did. Now he acknowledged he had a damaged introvert.
He spun his chair sideways to study the painting on his wall. Maybe it was conceit or affectation after reading those horrible posts, but the painting that had captivated him for a week turned abruptly haunting and sad. That was indeed a man in the foreground, staring out at a…sea. Of feelings. Of rage, of sadness, of longing. Beautiful, terrible longing. Viewing it in the dim light of his desk lamp only intensified the aesthetic.
He’d dug deep in a pile of bones, so of course he’d found skeletons. He feared he’d never be able to look at the painting again without feeling guilty for violating Xander’s privacy. Obviously the guy had left social media because he wanted no association with it, and he had good reason to make that decision. Yet if Skylar hadn’t stumbled onto this boil, he’d have accidentally lanced it in attempts to nudge Xander out of what seemed like a ridiculous refusal. Skylar had his arguments all ready. Some of them he’d still have to use, as the art department made it clear they expected some social media promotion.
Knowing what he knew now, though, Skylar would never push Xander the way he’d originally intended.
He brushed his teeth and climbed into boxers, then lay in his bed a long time, staring at the painting.
His phone buzzed, and he glanced at it—Carolyn again. Frowning, Skylar turned the phone over.
He put in his earphones, logged into his tablet, and queued up a show, watching until his eyes started closing and he couldn’t read the subtitles, at which point he gave up and let sleep claim him. When he slept, he dreamed of painted whorls that chased him into darkness, chattering at him in languages he couldn’t understand. He was in high school again, running down a hall, looking for something he couldn’t find, until he finally escaped to the roof, where he stared at the sunset and wept silent tears while his uniform tie whipped in the breeze.
At seven in the morning, he woke feeling disoriented and jumbled. But as sleep sloughed away, it revealed an idea formed in the back of his mind. He stared at the ceiling for a half hour, letting it expand and fall and rebuild itself.
At seven thirty he got up, padded downstairs to get a mug of coffee from the Keurig, and woke his computer from its sleep. He opened a new zip sheet template and filled it effortlessly, a profile he’d never share with his client, the deep analysis which would help him create the actual zip sheet he’d take to their coffee meeting on Sunday.
Xander Fairchild, 21, Bachelor of Fine Arts junior. Paints in oils.
NOTE: Also is a manga artist.
Born in Mason City, Pennsylvania. Attended Bethlehem Lutheran Church, Missouri Synod.
NOTE: Missouri Synod not LGBT accepting.
Bullied online in middle/high school, possibly in real life as well.
NOTE: RL bullying impossible to confirm without direct question, but likely, given facts about bullying in general.
CLIENT GOAL: To have successful art show via effective marketing and promotional campaign, particularly via social media.
ASSETS: Client is talented visual artist. Has won awards. (verify GPA, other flair)
LIABILITIES: Client is antisocial and resistant to social media promotions and direct contact with public. In fact, direct engagement will likely upset client and possibly affect his ability to work.
DIAGNOSIS/PLAN: Client must be aided in all steps through professional promotion and with a careful hand. Client must be schooled in all aspects of social engagement, not only to maximize potential but to eradicate unease in said social situations.
Marketing and promotional manager must convince client to enter these lessons. Most likely means of doing so is to become his friend.
Skylar sat back and sipped his coffee as he reread what he’d written. Xander had serious walls to climb, and only a genuine, honest attempt to breach them would work. Once that had happened, Skylar would have the Herculean task of convincing Xander he could trust other people too, helping him find them. And he’d have to lead him into even the most basic social media exchanges without letting on he knew exactly why they were land mines.
Skylar smiled around the rim of his mug. God but he loved a challenge.
When he set the coffee cup down, his gaze fell on the fat LSAT study guide, and some of his good mood deflated. Unbidden, the image of his father materialized in his mind’s eye, glowering and judgmental, demanding to know why Skylar was fixating on a mousy art student instead of doing his best to ensure he got a high enough score to get into Yale Law.
Skylar pushed the manual and mental image aside, shifting his gaze to the painting hanging on his wall. He focused on the fat brushstrokes, on the nebulous figure staring out at the wild sea of color.
Then he took another swig of coffee and dove back into Xander Fairchild’s zip sheet.
THE DAY XANDER met Skylar Stone to hear the marketing plan he absolutely didn’t want yet decidedly had to endure, they met at the Kanahe Trail Java House. Xander intended to arrive half an hour early to stake out his favorite table by the fireplace, but he got distracted with a sketch and suddenly he’d had to work to avoid being late, forget early. Which meant he remembered to run a comb through his hair at the last minute and tossed a flannel on over his painting T-shirt instead of dithering over what to wear. He wasn’t sure if he should bring anything, so he chucked a steno book and a few functional pens into his satchel and took off.
When he arrived at the coffeehouse, it was overflowing with patrons, and it looked as if every table was taken. There was space at the other end of one of the couches, but Xander didn’t have words for how much he did not want to have the conversation while trying not to accidentally snuggle Skylar. He was so busy scouring for empty seats he’d overlooked he didn’t see Skylar approaching until his greeting made Xander startle.
“Thanks for coming.” Skylar held out his hand for Xander to shake, which he did, awkwardly. Skylar wasn’t wearing a suit this time, but he hadn’t rushed a comb through his hair and thrown on a flannel, either. He wore cargo pants that somehow still managed to look dressy, and a close-fitting T-shirt Xander was sure he’d have a wet dream about later.
Xander nodded at the full seating area. “Sorry, I was going to come early and grab us a seat, but I got caught up.”
Ting. There was that damn smile again. Xander noticed Skylar smelled like a magazine again too. “No worries. I got us a seat in the second study area, by the fireplace.” Skylar indicated the line for placing orders. “What can I get you?”
It quickly became clear it’d be easier to let Skylar buy him a drink than talk the guy out of it, so Xander settled on a café au lait and a croissant. Skylar ordered a sugar-cookie latte, and when they both had their drinks, he led them to the table, which was pretty much where Xander had wanted to get a seat.
“I tried to do as much advance work as I could.” Skylar passed over a three-hole-punched folder with professional-looking headers and notes as well as some blank spaces Xander assumed were for questions. “I’d like to conduct an interview with you today so I can finish fleshing things out and give you a few different proposals. I also want to make sure I understand the breadth of what the department wants of you. I don’t want to conflate my expectations from my studies with the actual needs of your exhibit.”
This guy was so intense it made Xander exhausted simply watching him spin like a top. He pulled at the edge of his croissant as he sorted out a reply. He settled on, “Okay.”
Ting. “Fantastic. Let’s start with some basics. Where are you from?”
“Mason City, Pennsylvania.”
“And you’re twenty-one? Or twenty?”
“Twenty-one. I’ll turn twenty-two in December.”
“Oh?” This smile was less ting and more regular human. “When? Hopefully not too close to Christmas. I’m January fourth, and it’s always some sort of pathetic Christmas afterbirth.”
That weird visual made Xander’s lips quirk a smile against his will. “December thirteenth. It’s not much better on the other side.”
Skylar lifted his mug and gave a sad salute before sipping the foam. “If it’s okay, I need a little info on your life before college. We won’t use much, but I need something for the postcard.”
“Postcard?”
“Sorry—that’s not literal, just my shorthand for this kind of information. This would be the kind of stuff you’d put on an About page on a website, what we’d pull bios from for interviews and promotions. We want a broad postcard to build that from—nobody but you and I will see this full version. And yet this is a selective self-history. If you chain-smoked your way through high school and cursed your family farm, we don’t say that. We spin that into something a little more palatable. Packaged, if you will.” He put down his pen and turned over his hands so his palms extended like an offering. “For example. You and me, sitting here drinking coffee, I’ll tell you I’m the only child of two aggressive, successful people, and there are moments that’s great and moments it’s so much pressure I can’t breathe. On my postcard, though, I talk about how living in Greenwich, Connecticut, watching my father practice law and my mother run her own company, I was instilled with the desire to help others and succeed in business. My bio is much more polished than that, with buzzwords tailored to whatever I’m aiming at.”
Xander was going to need a Tylenol before this was over, he could already tell. “You have a bio? Why?”
“I have several bios. Some are brief ones on social media and networking sites. I have some information loaded on generic hosting services, but I have my own website as well, because I want my own flagship space where I can build my brand. Stand out from the crowd a little.”
“I don’t have any websites. Or bios. Or postcards.”
Ting. “I know. That’s why I’m here, to help you figure out which ones you want. Or more to the point, what kind of presence will be something you’re comfortable maintaining and what will satisfy the requirements of your department and promote your show. So.” He took up his pen once more. “Don’t fluff it up. Tell me how you’d describe your precollege life.”
Xander picked at the croissant again. “I have three younger half brothers. They’re my mom’s. She’s remarried, my birth father isn’t. They divorced when I was two, and it was a mess, but it’s better now.” He sifted through his sea of experience, searching for a nugget he could offer up. “None of their professions particularly inspired me in any way. Mom’s a secretary part-time at a dentist office. My stepdad is a machinist. My real dad is a real estate agent in California, but I don’t have any contact with him outside of birthday cards with twenties in them.”
“Why did you become an artist?”
“I don’t know. I always doodled, and art was my favorite class. My aunt bought me an oil painting set for Christmas one year, and I liked it, so I kept buying canvas and new paint with my allowance, as well as sketchbooks and markers and so on. Took art in high school. Lots of art. A whole year of independent study.”
“That’s unusual, right? To take that much art?” When Xander gave a kind of shrug-nod, Skylar pressed on. “Why did you take so much art? What was the driving factor?”
It was independent study and meant I didn’t have to be with anyone else in class. Not saying that. “I’ve never…been much of a people person. And I do like painting. So I used independent study to be by myself and work.”
“Perfect. Okay, give me a minute, then tell me what you think.”
Skylar scribbled on his notebook, pausing twice to sip his drink. Xander watched him awkwardly, unsure what Skylar was doing and what he was supposed to do in the meantime. He drank his coffee, studying the shadows and highlights of Skylar’s face, absently plotting the colors he’d use to paint him. Debated brushstrokes to catch the perfect falls of his hair. The crisp folds of his clothes. The smooth perfection of his skin.
God, the guy was too perfect. Xander wanted to draw him, paint him, uncover the parts of this guy he didn’t want the world to see. Because the more he studied Skylar Stone, the more Xander wanted to find the flaws. Would they ruin the beauty, or crack him open to reveal a treasure all the more breathtaking?
Xander’s fingers itched to put down the sketches his mind was already mapping out. The shape of his ear. Line of his neck…Xander could lose himself shading that for an hour.
God, he wanted to run his finger down it, memorize the curve…
Xander cleared his throat and focused on his coffee.
After five minutes Skylar put down the pen, lifted the legal pad slightly, and read aloud. “‘Xander Fairchild grew up in picturesque Mason City, Pennsylvania, the eldest of a boisterous family. When his aunt gave him the gift of an oil painting set for Christmas, he discovered a creative escape and nurturing space in visual arts. The opportunity to take intensive art classes and several courses of independent study allowed him to enrich and practice his skills, leading to—’” Skylar paused, glancing at Xander. “What I’m hoping I can say here is that you won some awards. If not, I can spin it in another direction.”
“I won a few, I guess. They weren’t particularly fantastic, though.”
“Doesn’t matter. Any scholarships?”
“Yes, but they’re not anything important. Just the standard ones Benten hands out for grades.”
Skylar waved this away. “No worries. But anything you can think of that singles you out, tell me. Even if the scholarship or award wasn’t directly related to art. If you won some big thing everybody in art knows about, we’ll trumpet that, but if not, we’re basically giving you some flair.”
Xander wrinkled his nose. “This is like that movie. Office Space or something?”
“Right. Except it’s not a joke. You need shiny things to wave at people. We’re taking the initial steps of crafting your brand. This is the you that isn’t exactly you. It’s not lies, it’s not bullshit, but it’s not you spreading your shirt open and showing your naked chest.”
Even though Skylar had specifically said that wasn’t what he was doing, Xander pulled his shirt a little tighter. “Is this really necessary? All I’m supposed to do is put forth a good-faith effort in advertising my show.”
“This isn’t simply advertising your show. This is laying track for postgraduate shows you might have. This is the foundation of a career.”
This was so much bullshit. “I won’t have a career. Not in hosting shows. Not like this.”
“But that’s just it.” Skylar tapped the legal pad with the tip of his pen. “This postcard, these bios, this plan—it exists so you don’t have to be this person. Not all the time. Not all the way. The Xander Fairchild we create here is your shield. He takes the dings so you don’t have to.” The ting in his smile eased into something gentle, pretty. “You can focus your energy on making more great paintings.”
The smile got to Xander, so he prickled. “Anybody ever point out you’d make a great snake oil salesman?”
“In fact, they have.” He poised the pen over the pad. “Just a few more questions, and then I’ll work up your prospectus. Okay?”
What choice did he have? Xander slumped over his coffee and stared glumly at the legal pad. “Fine.”
The rest of the interview was more of the same, Xander barfing up his mediocre background and Skylar spinning it into something shinier. He had to admit, the finished product wasn’t bad. It would look great on a flyer and on his space on the department website, which was currently a blank square with coming soon in faded gray beside a generic profile silhouette. He wondered if he dared ask Skylar to help him get a decent headshot.
“I’ll email you some branding worksheets. If you could at least wrestle with them a little before we meet next time, that’d be a big help. But don’t worry if you get stuck. They’re just something to nudge you toward thinking about packaging yourself.” Skylar leaned back in his chair as he sipped his drink. “Which brings me to my next question. When would you like to get together next?”
Xander shrugged, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his mug. “Whenever. I’m usually free after five, except when I have studio time. Then I’m out at seven.” He paused, remembering Pamela and her whims. “Unless I get called in to work.”
“Why don’t we meet after your studio time, barring a call from work? I’m assuming that puts you at one of the art buildings, and they’re near my fraternity. We could find somewhere in the department and use my room as a backup.”
It’d be a cold day in hell before Xander entered a fraternity, especially Delta Eta Sigma. “The Java House is fine.”
“Sure. Wherever you’re the most comfortable.” Skylar removed the stylus from the side of his phone and dragged it around on his calendar. “Would Thursday work for you, or do you want more time to go over the worksheets?”
Xander had no idea how long he’d need, only knew the sooner he dealt with this unpleasantness, the sooner it’d be over. “Thursday’s fine.”
“Great.” Ting. “You’ve got my information. Call, text, or email if you need anything at all. I’m utterly at your disposal.”
With a grunt, Xander scooped up his empty mug and left the table. After dropping his dishes into the tub by the coffee bar, he hefted his backpack onto his hunched shoulders, tucked his head down, and began the trek back to his apartment.
It wasn’t as bad as he’d imagined it would be. He didn’t enjoy any of it, and he doubted he ever would, but he thought he could endure enough to get through. After all, how long could it take to get a social media campaign set up?
Feeling moderately hopeful for the first time ever about his project, Xander hiked his backpack higher on his shoulders and rounded the corner to cut through the south side of campus. He was behind the science building when he heard a familiar, shrill voice shouting his name.
“Xander Fairchild, stop right where you are.”
Xander turned around, frowning as he squinted across the sidewalk. It was Zelda, the closest thing he had to a friend, if you were liberal with the definition. “Zelda, what’s wrong—?”
He cut himself off as Zelda came closer, and he saw the image on the screen of the smartphone they were holding out.
Zelda glared at him, shaking the phone in Xander’s face, which had an Instagram of Skylar smiling at Xander (who was scowling) at the coffee shop on it. “Explain to me what in the hell you were doing at Java House having coffee with a fucking Greek?”
Xander’s gut twisted, wondering who had taken the picture and why, what they’d captioned it with, who had seen it, how many people were laughing—he shut his eyes and took a deep breath, doing his best to stop the avalanche. “It’s a long, stupid story.”
“Tell me all about it.” Zelda tucked their phone into their pocket and linked arms with Xander, frog-marching him toward the art building. “I love long, stupid stories.”