MirkerLurker: I’m pretty sure you don’t have to suddenly have some super-deep relationship with someone as soon as you meet them.
Apocalypse_Cow: are you saying we didn’t have a super-deep relationship as soon as we met?
Apocalypse_Cow: offended.
MirkerLurker: >.>
MirkerLurker: I don’t know how to tell you this, Max, but uhhhh . . .
Apocalypse_Cow: no. the time has passed for all that. i am in a happy, committed relationship, and neither of you can talk me out of it.
MirkerLurker: How is Heather, anyway?
Apocalypse_Cow: well, she got a job with that modeling agency . . .
emmersmacks: -_-
Apocalypse_Cow: she’s teaching sixth grade.
Apocalypse_Cow: but she could be a model if she wanted!
Oh, thank god. A conversation shift.
MirkerLurker: Haven’t you been dating for like five years? Are you going to marry her?
Apocalypse_Cow: dunno
Apocalypse_Cow: if she says yes.
emmersmacks: ASK HER!!
emmersmacks: What are you waiting for???
Apocalypse_Cow: um
MirkerLurker: Leave him alone, Emmy. If he doesn’t want to ask yet, he doesn’t have to ask yet.
emmersmacks: Boo
Apocalypse_Cow: thank you, eliza.
Apocalypse_Cow: now, about that gentleman you spent the afternoon with . . .
MirkerLurker: We just ate lunch together!
Apocalypse_Cow: as you’ve said. however, i intend to get to the truth.
emmersmacks: Whats his name??
MirkerLurker: Wallace.
Apocalypse_Cow: . . .
emmersmacks: . . .
Apocalypse_Cow: . . .
emmersmacks: . . .
Apocalypse_Cow: . . .
emmersmacks: . . .
MirkerLurker: What’s wrong with the name Wallace?
Apocalypse_Cow: it’s, uh.
emmersmacks: Its silly as hell
MirkerLurker: Wallace isn’t a silly name!
Apocalypse_Cow: it makes me think of a cartoon character.
emmersmacks: There are hardcore potheads on campus named Wallace
MirkerLurker: Why do you know the names of hardcore potheads on campus?
emmersmacks: Because theyre friendly
MirkerLurker: I am now concerned about your acquaintanceship with the potheads, but I’m not sure what you want me to do about Wallace’s name.
Apocalypse_Cow: he doesn’t go by Wally or something, does he?
MirkerLurker: He told me Wallace. So that’s what I’m going to call him.
emmersmacks: Are you hanging out with him again
MirkerLurker: I don’t know. Probably. I have to give him his stuff back.
emmersmacks: You better keep us updated
MirkerLurker: On what?
Apocalypse_Cow: I second that.
MirkerLurker: Updated on what?
emmersmacks: I have homework to do
emmersmacks: but when we talk tomorrow there better be some GOOD NEWS
MirkerLurker: GOOD NEWS ON WHAT?!
CHAPTER 10
There is a small monster in my brain that controls my doubt.
The doubt itself is a stupid thing, without sense or feeling, blind and straining at the end of a long chain. The monster, though, is smart. It’s always watching, and when I am completely sure of myself, it unchains the doubt and lets it run wild. Even when I know it’s coming, I can’t stop it.
For example:
I know, when I walk into homeroom and return Wallace’s chapter, that he will probably say thank you—written, of course—and maybe smile a little, and that may be the end of it.
But I feel, standing outside the door, that I will walk in and give Wallace the papers and his eyes will skim over me in indifference because he’s realized he shouldn’t have wasted his time on me. He shouldn’t have asked me to read his work, because we don’t even know each other. Yesterday was a fluke, a bad move on his part. He knows that now. He must. Eliza Mirk is no one, to nobody. They should make that the headline of the Westcliff Star every day. ELIZA MIRK: NO ONE TO NOBODY.
I use my sweatshirt sleeve to wipe my forehead. My freaking eyebrows are sweating, and I can’t even tell Emmy or Max about it. A few people go in the room before me, and I creep inside in their shadows.
Wallace isn’t there yet. I put the pages on his seat and curl up with my sketchbook. I trace the lines on an old drawing, making them too dark and too thick. Wallace arrives a minute later, lumbers in, and grabs the papers before sitting down. He flips through them, stares at the drawing I did in the back over the Doctor Faustus quote. My sketchbook slips out of my hands, and I have to catch it between my legs.
Then Wallace pulls out a new piece of paper. He writes something, then slides it onto my desk.
This picture is really awesome. No comments though?
I close the sketchbook and stop pretending. My writing comes out shaky against the paper.
Just one, but I didn’t want to mess up your nice writing. Gyurhei comes out of the sea to swallow the sun every thousand years, not every hundred.
When he reads this, he covers his face with a hand and shakes his head. I shouldn’t have corrected him. Why did I correct him?
He sends the paper back.
Wow. You are completely right.
Then, below that:
My usual betas wouldn’t have caught that.
Because your usual betas aren’t the creator of the world.
I hesitate for a minute, then write, It was really really good. And shove the paper back at him before my fingers spasm and rip it to pieces.
Thanks! Are you feeling okay? You look pale.
I’m fine—I always look like this.
Like a drowned rat in sweatpants.
Mrs. Grier gets up and starts taking attendance.
Okay then. Lunch again today?
It’s going to be too cold in the courtyard. Wind.
I’ll punch someone for a seat in the cafeteria. I’m good at stuff like that.
After I read this, he makes a show of placing his elbow on his desk and flexing his arm like he’s stretching. His bicep bulges against his shirt sleeve. Then his elbow slips off the desk and he catches himself, glancing around. A laugh escapes me.
Mrs. Grier pauses, looking back with her onion earrings swinging in her ears, and says nothing. She never calls out students for things like this. I clamp my lips shut until she continues reading. Then I write:
I don’t have anything to top that. Sorry.
He smiles and replies, Can’t top genius.
Wallace does find us a table at lunch, but it’s because he gets there early, not because he punches anyone.
The table is at the end of the lunch lines, so after I get my food he’s sitting right there, smiling like he’s proud of what he’s done. His lunch is the same as yesterday: two hamburgers, two orders of fries, two milks. One Drumstick. There are papers on the table across from him, with a note stuck to the front.
Only if you want.
The top page says Chapter Two.
“Really?” I notice too late, again, that I’ve said it out loud. Wallace doesn’t seem to mind, though—he grabs another piece of paper to write on.
New beta?
I don’t have a pen handy. “Yeah. Yes. Definitely.” I know my voice is too quiet now. When he doesn’t speak, it feels like I shouldn’t either, like I’m ruining the atmosphere. I dig in my bag for my pencil, then reach for his paper. He gladly hands it over.
Sorry I keep forgetting to write. You think I’d remember, considering how much time I spend online.