Drawn That Way

by Elissa Sussman

  “Let’s talk about you,” she said. “What do you love about animation?”

  My brain seemed to sputter and stall. What did I love about animation?

  How could I even begin to answer that? It seemed easier to say what I didn’t love about animation than the other way around. This definitely felt like a test. The panic must have shown on my face, because Sloane laughed.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to lob the big questions at you right away. Maybe I should start.”

  I nodded.

  “You’ve seen Mulan, right?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.” Sloane held out her hands and closed her eyes. “You know that scene in Mulan when she’s bathing in the river? When she jumps in the water and throws her head back?”

  I knew exactly what she was talking about.

  “I remember when I saw that—and I saw the way her hair was animated, how it flicked up and against her face—something inside of me went, wow.” Sloane opened her eyes. “It wasn’t just the rarity of seeing an Asian face in an American movie—though that was really cool—it was how beautifully observed that moment was. How it made her feel real to me.

  “That’s what I love about animation,” Sloane said. “The power of those small things. How they can make a character come to life. And knowing that someone made that moment out of nothing—out of pencil and paper—was pretty inspiring. It made me want to do the same.” She looked at me, and I knew that she was expecting me to say something equally insightful.

  “It’s like what Bryan says in his CalTED Talk,” I said. “Animation is all about the details.” Bryan had said that animators were observers.

  Sloane smiled. It wasn’t quite as broad as the smile she’d given me earlier, so for a moment, I thought that I had disappointed her.

  “That’s very true,” she said.

  I wanted to say more. Wanted to say that I loved animation because it made me feel things. That I loved it because I could lose myself in it—watching and making it. That I loved it because it was, at its core, the closest thing to magic that I’d ever known.

  But even though all of those things were on the tip on my tongue, I found myself holding back because it was too much to say it out loud. Too raw. Too real. Too intense.

  It also felt a little childish—thinking of animation as a kind of magic. When Bryan spoke about the work, it was how the process took over—a free-fall feeling. It didn’t feel like that—at least not yet. For me, it was all about taking what I saw in my mind and making it come to life. It wasn’t about losing control; it was about regaining it. Drawing something over and over again until it fit the image I had in my head. Harnessing something inside of myself.

  I worried a little that I was doing it wrong, and I didn’t want Sloane to think I was silly or immature.

  Thankfully she didn’t press any further. Instead, she pushed her plate aside. “I think we’re going to make a good team,” she said, and smiled.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I’d never been a good sleeper, but even if I had been, there was no way I would have gotten a decent night’s sleep. I texted with Julie and Samantha while Sally went through her nighttime routine. She reminded me a little bit of a hummingbird, flitting around, always moving.

  She turned off the light and I stared at the ceiling. There were curtains on our windows but they were thin and gauzy, and lights from the quad outside drew interesting and wavy shapes on the ceiling. Or maybe they were straight shapes and the tiles above were wavy.

  Those were the kind of things that got my mind spinning. Things that splintered off into ideas so random and strange that sometimes I’d have to retrace my own thoughts to remember how I got there in the first place.

  A lot of good ideas came from that kind of thinking. Lots of good drawings.

  At home, if a really great one hit me, I’d get out of bed and draw. I wouldn’t be able to do that here—at the risk of waking Sally—and the thought of forgetting something brilliant because I couldn’t make a note of it made me a little panicky.

  I tried to breathe through it. Zach had said that meditation would be good for me. I told him that he should take his own advice. He was the only person I knew whose obsession with work matched my own.

  Sloane and I had talked for almost two hours—through her massive salad and then a towering pile of ice cream upon which she had added whipped cream, cherries, and a spoonful of mochi to. I’d ended up talking so much during dinner that it took me twice as long to finish my meal, and even then, I’d left a lot of it on my plate.

  My stomach rumbled a little under my hand, and my mind began to replay the conversation I’d had with Sloane, helpfully reminding me of all the embarrassing moments, like when a bite of meat loaf had fallen out of my mouth while I was talking. Or when I’d called a character from the BB Gun film The Ultimate Guide to the Universe “Michael” instead of Matthew. I knew those mistakes would replay in my brain for the next several days, at least.

  Sloane was nice, though. She’d been working at BB Gun Films for almost five years in the story department. Before that she’d worked at a few other studios, but she’d been like me—a fan of Bryan Beckett and his work.

  “Is it everything you imagined it would be?” I’d asked her.

  She’d thought about that for a long time. “I don’t remember what I imagined it would be,” she’d said.

  * * *

  When my alarm went off the next morning, there was a chai latte sitting on my desk with a Post-it. Sally had told me that she’d already scoped out the nearest coffee place and had offered to get me something after her run.

  Today. It begins! was written in curly handwriting, complete with a sketch of MoMo, the sparrow narrator of A Boy Named Bear. The quote was one of his catchphrases.

  Plucking the Post-it off of my latte, I examined the drawing with a critical eye. It was good—not great. I reminded myself that she had probably drawn it quickly, which would account for MoMo’s deflated stomach. He should be twice as puffy and fluffy.

  I imagined that Sally would be open to that kind of feedback if we were working together on one of the shorts. Even though I had no idea how the teams would be determined, I’d already mentally drafted her onto mine. We swapped portfolios last night. Quick drawing of MoMo notwithstanding, she was extremely talented. Talented enough that I was glad we wouldn’t be competing for the director slot. I shouldn’t have been surprised—everyone in the program was here because they’d earned it.

  Everyone except Bear. I wondered if he’d even had to submit a portfolio.

  “Thanks for the tea,” I said when Sally came back, her face flushed and ponytail damp.

  “No problem,” she said. “I was so excited, I was up even before my alarm went off. I ran into Jeannette, though. She’s trying to keep in shape for soccer. The campus is so pretty in the morning—all empty and quiet. If you ever feel like getting up early, we could go for a run together. Or even just a walk if you don’t feel like running. There’s something really great about getting up before everyone else—like the whole world belongs to you. I get my best ideas when I’m running.”

  I nodded, still half asleep. Bryan always said that he got his best ideas when he was sitting at his desk with his notebook.

  “The blank page challenges me,” he’d said in his CalTED Talk. “I like to be challenged.”

  I felt exactly the same way.

  Sally puttered around as I went through my morning routine—throwing on my clothes and twisting my hair into its usual knot. I checked my phone but the only text I had was from Zach. It was a Violet Beauregarde GIF and I ignored it.

  I carefully packed my supplies—my best pencils and erasers tucked into their case and a special-edition BB Gun sketchbook. They were almost twice as much as the sketchbooks I used to use, but Bryan had designed them himself. Animation Stew had declared it the Tesla of sketchbooks. I’d saved and bought four.

  By the time we headed down
to the front of the building, the caffeine had fully integrated into my system and I was eager and awake. Emily and Jeannette waved to us from the last row and pretty soon the six of us had taken over the back of the shuttle.

  “I couldn’t sleep, I was so excited.” Caitlin draped her elbows over the back of my seat. She was wearing all black again, her hair pulled back in a ponytail that revealed that the sides of her head were shaved.

  “My dreams were all animated,” Rachel said. Her look was a total contrast to her roommate’s, all pastel colors and rows of neat little buttons down the front of her shirt and skirt.

  “What do you guys think of the dorms?” Sally asked.

  “They’re nice,” Emily said. “But I was thinking of getting a plant or two to spruce things up. I cannot abide a room without greenery.”

  Everyone laughed at the dramatic turn of phrase.

  “Just don’t turn it into a jungle,” Jeannette said.

  “Have you guys thought about what you’re going to do for your director pitch?” I asked.

  Rachel shook her head, ponytail flapping. “No idea. But we have until Friday, right?”

  “Yeah,” Emily said. “That’s plenty of time.”

  I nodded, but felt a twinge of judgment toward the two of them. If they didn’t have anything, it was definitely not enough time to put together a pitch worthy of BB Gun Films.

  “It would be really cool to work on the same project,” Sally said to me.

  “Your MoMo drawing was really good,” I said.

  She beamed, and I figured I’d save the constructive feedback for another time.

  The shuttle dropped us off inside the gate. Gena was waiting for us like she’d been yesterday, only this time she was armed with a large box overflowing with lanyards.

  Nick and his roommate, Karl, were standing nearby. Both of them were wearing polo shirts—Karl in jeans, and Nick in black pants that were just a little too long for him. In my mind, I pictured the three of us in a row—three variations on Bryan Beckett. I personally thought I looked the least like an exact imitation. I still had my own style.

  “Our IDs.” Nick motioned to the box of lanyards. “My mentor said we’ll get temporary ones for the week and then real ones for the rest of the summer. Like they do with all employees.”

  I kept waiting for the doors of the studio to open and for Bryan Beckett himself to appear. For some reason, every time I imagined it, he was eight feet tall, even though I assumed he was normal height. Maybe a little taller, if Bear was any indication.

  Once we were all gathered, Gena began calling out our names, and passing out IDs. I immediately put the lanyard around my neck and examined the card—it was heavier than I expected, with the BB Gun logo on one side and a bar code on the other.

  “This is your key to getting around the studio,” Gena said. “If you don’t have it, you can’t use the elevator—or the stairs—and even then, there are parts of the building that are restricted.”

  “Is it true we have to turn in our phones every day?” Nick asked.

  “Good question, Mr. Cunningham,” Gena said. “I was just about to discuss that.”

  “Way to come out swinging, man,” someone said.

  I knew immediately it was Bear. There was a huff of laughter, and I glanced over at Nick to see that his neck and cheeks were red. He didn’t look back, just kept his attention focused straight ahead at Gena, ignoring Bear.

  I wasn’t proud of myself, but I’d googled him last night. As Bear Davis. Just to see what I could find.

  “Mr. Cunningham is correct,” Gena said. “You will all be required to surrender your phones at the beginning of every day. Or you can leave them in your dorm room if you’d like.”

  There wasn’t much online—Bryan’s desire for privacy had clearly extended to his son—but I learned that Bear went to a fancy private school in the Valley, not too far from my own public school. He was on the soccer team. There were a few pictures of him. In shorts. Running. Kicking things. Drinking Gatorade.

  I knew of the school and the types of kids who went there. A lot of his classmates were the sons and daughters of actors or musicians. Nothing I’d seen had indicated that Bear wasn’t anything more than a spoiled rich kid with a famous father.

  “We’re going to head inside in a moment,” Gena said. “You’ll be given the standard NDA that all employees sign. Know that if you don’t sign it, you won’t be going any further—in the building or in the program.”

  On that ominous note, we were allowed in. Still, I could feel excitement vibrating from the bottoms of my feet through my hands and up to the top of my head. Today. It begins!

  The lobby was like the ones I’d seen in extremely fancy hotels on TV. The floors were shiny, the ceilings tall. I tried to take in everything at once, from the enormous round desk to the four security guards who sat behind it, their faces bathed in the glow coming from their screens. Everything was white and round and felt like a cross between a spaceship and a museum atrium.

  “You can check your phones here.” Gena gestured to the desk. “If you line up, this will go faster.”

  We scrambled into four untidy lines.

  “It’s like we’re in the beginning of some sci-fi movie,” Sally whispered. “Where they’re going to put a computer chip in the back of our neck or our arm or something and the audience finds out later that we’re all part of some mind-control experiment. Or that this whole thing has been nothing more than a dream.”

  I looked at her.

  “This is intense,” she said.

  I squeezed her arm. “I know.”

  We were all whispering. We probably didn’t have to, but the last thing I wanted was to say something and have it bounce around the room like an endless echo.

  “Did you know about the NDA?” she asked. “What do you think it says?”

  I shook my head. “All I know is that there were rumors.”

  “Right. I mean, I’m sure it’s standard. They wouldn’t ask us to sign something illegal, right? Are you going to sign it?”

  “Are you not?”

  The idea of getting this far—getting inside the building and then leaving without having seen the rest of the studio, or Bryan Beckett himself—was unfathomable to me.

  Sally didn’t have a chance to answer because it was her turn to hand over her phone. She waited for me to do the same and then we followed the stream of interns through a set of double doors. We stayed close to the other girls.

  The conference room was immediately to our right, but I caught a glimpse of an enormous mural painted on the hallway that veered off to the left. It was colorful and seemed to portray multiple characters from the BB Gun Films universe, including Bear.

  A few years ago, someone online had taken to drawing adult versions of animated characters who we’d only seen as children. They’d all been slightly sexualized—Lilo from Lilo & Stitch as a curvy young woman, wearing a lei and coconut bra. Boo from Monsters, Inc. wore an oversize T-shirt the pattern of Sully’s fur, her black hair in messy pigtails, her legs exposed.

  There had been a grown-up version of Bear as well. Whoever had done the drawings had apparently believed in equal-opportunity objectification, because adult Bear had been drawn in the same outfit he’d worn in the movie, namely a loincloth fashioned out of leaves. Only instead of an appropriately rounded tummy and thin, preadolescent arms, Bear had been given a six-pack, chest hair, and broad, bronzed shoulders. His face had been aged up as well, squaring out his jaw and giving his grin a wicked twist.

  It was one of the images that had come up when I googled him. I’d thought about sending it to Samantha and Julie as a joke of sorts, but now that he was a real person, looking at it had made me feel weird. Like inappropriate weird.

  I took a seat at the conference table, the NDA laid out in front of me. To my side, Sally coughed and gave my leg a jab. I looked up and found that once again, Bear was sitting across from me. He had put his fricking feet up on the table and w
as leaning back, his arms crossed. There was a smile on his face.

  As much as I hated to admit it, whoever had drawn it had done a pretty damn good job imagining what he’d look like grown up. The jaw was there; the grin, too. I could only imagine how accurate the rest of the sketch was. Before I could stop myself, my gaze dropped downward. He was wearing a gray T-shirt and jeans and they all fit him well.

  I hadn’t been able to find any social media accounts for him. Either they were set to private or they were under another name. Or he just didn’t have any.

  “He’s staring,” Sally said.

  “He’s trying to annoy me,” I said, but I said it just as the room had gone silent.

  Everyone heard. Bear touched a finger to his forehead and gestured toward me—tipping an invisible cap. I slid down in my seat and stared at the NDA. Mom would have been able to explain it to me. She probably would advise me not to sign it—just like she’d done with the paperwork that had come with my acceptance letter. But I hadn’t come this far not to.

  Next to me, Sally nibbled on her bottom lip, her pen hovering over the paper. She touched the tip to the NDA, removed it, touched it again, and eventually wrote her name in the same curly handwriting she’d used on the Post-it she’d left on my chai latte.

  Pretty soon, I was the only one who hadn’t signed. I didn’t know why I kept trying to decipher it—I just knew Mom would have been disappointed if I didn’t look over every single word.

  “Ms. Saffitz?” Gena asked. “Do you have any questions?”

  Everyone was looking at me.

  “Sign it, Saffitz,” Bear said. “It’s only a contract with the devil.”

  I noticed that his NDA was still pinned underneath his boot.

  “Bear,” Gena said, patiently, firmly.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I meant a contract with the four-time Academy Award–winning devil.”

  He kicked his feet off the table and grabbed a pen. With a big, dramatic sweep of his arm, he signed the paperwork.