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.
I rush into the hallway before Wallace can catch up.
Between first and second period I message Emmy and Max, even though they won’t see it until later.
MirkerLurker: New Kid update—he actually does like Monstrous Sea, and now he knows I do too. Not sure what to do about this. Please advise.
By fourth period, my body temperature has returned to normal. Thankfully. Just in time for me to get my lunch and find my seat in the courtyard. The grass is curled and brown. Dead leaves skitter over concrete in the stiff breeze. When I sit at my usual picnic table in the corner, the bench freezes my butt through my jeans. This seems too cold for October in Indiana, but maybe I’m not as acclimated to temperature changes as I used to be. I don’t spend much time outside anymore.
I’ll take the cold if it means I’m alone out here, though. I check my phone to find one response from Emmy—IN LOVE WITH YOU E—probably when she was between classes. I roll my eyes, then pull my headphones and sketchbook out of my bag. The headphones go in the phone to put on some music—Pendulum, of course, the only music for Monstrous Sea action scenes—and the sketchbook falls open to a fresh page. Finally, some uninterrupted drawing time. I jam a few french fries in my mouth and start sketching out a rough idea of the next page.
Last week wasn’t quite a full chapter week; I only made four pages, but they were an awesome four pages. I got to introduce the giant animal-headed mechas that the Haigans, the desert dwellers, use to fight in the Battle of Sands. I love the mechas, but they take forever to draw, and if I put less detail into them I’d feel like I’m letting down the great anime mecha artists. The battle’s going to go on for at least two more chapters, max four, and that means a lot of panels involving giant fighting robots.
I want to roll in pictures of highly detailed mechas.
I feel around for my lunch tray to grab another handful of fries and instead touch the edge of a paper hanging in the air.
Reflexively, I snap the sketchbook shut and rip my headphones out in the same motion. Wallace stands in front of me, holding the same piece of paper. My heart races in my chest; my neck twinges from how fast my head whipped up to look at him. He’s frozen, eyes wide, like I caught him in the middle of something. He withdraws the paper a little, then holds it out again. In his other hand is a lunch tray.
The only noise comes from the leaves tap dancing across the ground and “Propane Nightmares” blasting from my headphones.
I take the paper. There’s the last thing I wrote earlier—Were you writing MS fanfiction?—and below that, his response—Yes. Then on the next line, in pencil instead of pen, Can I sit here?
I’m sweating again. Dammit. Also I just realized I ripped the paper out of his hands, and now it shakes because I’m shaking. He doesn’t think we’re friends because I told Travis and Deshawn to stop picking on him, does he? Because we’re definitely not. Does he think he owes me something?
I use my drawing pencil and write. Can you talk?
He takes the paper back, reads it, then puts it on the empty half of his tray to write. He hands it back.
Yes. Sometimes. Is this weird?
Weird? Yes. Bad? Depends.
You can sit down.
I move my sketchbook, backpack, and phone so he can set his tray down across from me. He really does look like he should be a football player—he has to fold his legs into the little picnic table bench, his shoulders hunched so his elbows reach the table—and he eats like a football player too. Two hamburgers, two french fries, two cartons of milk, and a Drumstick. His nose is crooked like it’s been broken, and his cheeks are red from the cold.
When our eyes meet, he smiles a little. Just a little. He holds the paper down with one huge hand and curls the other around his pencil to carefully spell out something new. His lips move as he writes, like he’s sounding out the words as he puts them down.
Thanks. I know Mrs. Grier already introduced us, but I’m Wallace. I write fanfiction about Monstrous Sea. It’s kind of hard to make friends when you switch schools partway through senior year.
Probably also hard when you don’t talk, I write back. I’m Eliza.
He eats with one hand and writes with the other.
Hi, Eliza. Yes, also the talking.
What kind of fanfiction were you working on?
He looks up after he reads that, then looks back down, then taps his pencil on the paper. Right now I’m working on transcribing the comic into prose form. Into books.
Books? I’ve thought of doing that myself—and I would, if I had any skill writing long form—but comics don’t translate perfectly into books. The best I’ve been able to do so far is to compile all the comic pages into graphic novels available for purchase in the Monstrous Sea store.
That’s a tall order, I write. There’s a lot of comic.
He puts on that little smile again. It takes him a good three minutes to write.
The main story could probably fill a trilogy, and that’s if I take the backstory out. The backstory—all the stuff with the Orcian Alliance, and Damien’s pirates, and the Angels and the Rishtians—all that could fit another two or three prequels.
I take a deep breath. And you want to write all that? For something you didn’t even come up with?
He shrugs. I really love Monstrous Sea. And it seems like a challenge.
I bite my lip to keep in this wash of emotion bubbling up in my chest. He doesn’t even realize he’s praising me. This is weird. And probably wrong, right? Like, I should tell him who I am. But what if that ruins this? I don’t want him to know who I am because it’s not who I am all the time. I’m not LadyConstellation right now. I can’t be.
When I don’t immediately answer, he carefully touches the tips of his fingers to the edge of the paper and reclaims it. He writes more and slides it back.
I actually need a new beta reader for it—would you want to read it? I saw some of your pictures the other day, and it seems like you know a lot about the world.
My hand hesitates before I answer.
I’m not much of a fanfiction reader. I don’t know how much help I would be.
This is true; I try to stay away from the fanfiction because I don’t want it to accidentally bleed into the story, and then have one of the fans say I plagiarized off them. I would be interested in seeing a prose transcription of the comic, but I don’t actually know how good of a writer Wallace is, and I don’t want to read it and have it be horrible and then I have to pretend to like it so I don’t hurt his feelings. Though Wallace doesn’t look like the type of person to have his feelings hurt easily—or at least he might not show it when he does.
He reads my note, then holds up a finger and puts down the second hamburger to reach into his bag. He pulls out a sheet of paper, covered in writing on both sides. Then he adds to our conversation, and hands both papers back to me.
Read the first page. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to read the rest.
I’m not sure if he understands that reading any of it will make it hard to say no to reading the rest, but I take the page from him anyway and flatten it out on the table in front of me. The breeze nips at the corner of the paper. Spelled out across the top of the page is the title Monstrous Sea: A Transcription of the Comic by LadyConstellation.
And below that, in his printer-precise handwriting:
Amity had two birth days.
This is my story. This is my story in words, something I could never do.
I don’t need to finish the page. I already know I want to read the rest.
Wallace writes, Is it that bad?
“No!” My voice shocks both of us, a sudden sound in the quiet courtyard. Wallace stops with his Drumstick halfway unwrapped. I scramble for the paper and write down, No, it’s really good! How much of this have you done so far?
Just one chapter, he writes.
Are you sure you want to let me read it?
I already typed this chapter up, so it isn’t my only copy. You can mark on it too, if you want.
That wasn’t really what I was asking him, but whatever. He fishes a sheaf of papers out of his bag and hands them over. They’re covered front and back with his handwriting, and small, neat page numbers decorate the top right-hand corners. I slide them inside the front cover of my sketchbook, the safest place I know.
I can have them back to you tomorrow, I write. Is that okay?
He reads that and nods, smiling again.
Just a little.