Drawn That Way

by Elissa Sussman

  As if he and I didn’t share a perfectionist, ambitious streak. Even before he went to college, he was the all-nighter king, working as long as he had to in order to be prepared. To get things right. All my best tricks had come from him—caffeine, cold water on the face, blasting dissonant music.

  Despite everything, I actually enjoyed drawing Nick’s characters. His angular, graphic style was completely different from my own, but I liked a challenge. If I could capture Jack, then maybe I could understand him. Maybe I could answer the question I’d been asking—why did he want to get to the top of the Stalk?

  I started at his feet and drew upward—legs planted, arms akimbo. His posture was confident—his smile, eager. It was a good drawing, but it didn’t accomplish what I wanted it to. It didn’t add anything to the story, to the character. It was a basic, boring hero pose.

  At the back of the stairwell were two stories of glass that revealed a sunny bank of trees during the day. But now, at night, it acted like an enormous mirror. Extremely useful as I sketched and stared, contorting my features into ridiculous expressions, trying to find the right one.

  I was doing something halfway between a smolder and a squint when I realized I wasn’t the only reflection in the glass. I shrieked, flinging my pencil out of my hands.

  It clacked down the steps before landing between Bear’s feet. He bent to pick it up.

  “Jesus,” I said. I could feel my heart racing beneath my palm.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  He lifted his chin, clearly trying to see what I was working on. I wasn’t sure why, but I handed my sketchbook over. He looked down at it. At my drawing.

  “It’s not done,” I said.

  “Do you want some help?” he asked.

  I nodded before I could think any better of it. He returned the sketchbook to me and took a few steps back. His head was turned away and he was looking out at the darkness—at the mirror of us.

  “What does he want?” Bear asked.

  He was talking about Jack.

  “We don’t know,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

  “What do you think he wants?”

  I thought for a moment, trying to imagine what I would do if Nick’s story was my own.

  “I think he wants to prove himself,” I said.

  Bear nodded. “What’s stopping him?”

  Mr. Bigsworth, I thought, though I couldn’t bear to say the cheesy name out loud.

  “Everyone,” I said.

  “He doesn’t look like anyone is stopping him.”

  He was right. The pose I’d drawn was a confident one, with Jack wearing a cocky smile. And that was the problem. There was no conflict in the drawing—because there was no real conflict in the story. Jack wanted to climb the Stalk; Jack climbed the Stalk.

  “Contrasts,” Bear said. “Contrasts are interesting.”

  My pitch had been all about contrasts. Miriam’s smallness was juxtaposed against her big feelings, her strength, while the golem was enormous in size, but delicate and childlike in all other ways.

  Maybe I needed to find the contrast in Nick’s story. In Jack.

  We sat there for a while, saying nothing, the stairwell a world of its own. A place where me and Bear were just… me and Bear.

  “You’ll figure it out,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  The whole thing was weird and surreal but also a little nice, too. Sally was ignoring me; Nick waved off all my ideas—Bear was the first person in a while who had just listened to me. Paid attention to what I was trying to say. And responded in kind.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and continued up the stairs away from me. I waited until the door swung closed before I turned back to my sketchbook. I tried again.

  This time, I made Jack’s expression confident, but his pose was more reserved. His hands tightened into fists at his side, his foot scuffing the ground. Whatever he wanted, he wasn’t sure he could get it. Or he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

  The drawing wasn’t perfect, but now it had something it hadn’t had before.

  * * *

  By Monday morning, I had some sketches and ten pages of a trim, fairly strong script. Even though the drawing itself still wasn’t right, I’d discovered how to fix the story. I felt better about myself. It had been like solving a puzzle, and once I figured out the right pieces, the whole thing had come together in a way that thrilled me. It made me feel creative and useful again. This was proof that I could put my own ego aside and help other people. That I could be an asset to a project.

  Bear had helped, though I had a feeling I couldn’t just go up to him and tell him that. That moment in the stairwell had seemed like an anomaly. Something that we’d both be better off pretending didn’t happen.

  “Good weekend?” Nick dropped into the seat next to me.

  The shuttle was practically empty.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You?”

  “It was okay,” he said. “Karl and I watched a bunch of Tarantino films. You know, for inspiration.”

  I had no idea how Quentin Tarantino movies related to Nick’s version of Jack and the Beanstalk, but I’d given up trying to decipher his creative process. Instead, I tried to focus on my feeling of accomplishment and usefulness—my hand resting on my bag where the treatment was.

  Bear got on the shuttle. He looked at Nick and then at me, lifting his chin slightly in acknowledgment. I returned the gesture, watching as he took a seat toward the front.

  Then, all of a sudden, I felt Nick’s arm coming up and around, his fingers brushing my shoulder. It was weird. Bear turned away.

  “I’m glad you’re on my team,” Nick said. His voice was just a little louder than usual.

  “Uh, thanks,” I said.

  “You’re good at keeping all of us on track,” Nick said. “Taking care of the team, you know? Motivating us.”

  He made me sound like I was their mom rather than someone contributing in any creative way. Still, it was nice to hear that I was an asset.

  “It’s very inspiring,” he said. He patted my shoulder awkwardly.

  “I actually came up with some ideas this weekend,” I said.

  “Yeah?” He shifted in his seat, turning to face me completely, and thankfully removing his hand. “Lay them on me.”

  “I thought I’d just pitch them to the team,” I said. “Get everyone’s feedback at once.”

  “Come on,” Nick said. “I’m the director. I should get to hear it first. That way we can iron out any issues before we present them.”

  I didn’t like the way he said “we,” but animation was all about collaboration. Still.

  “I’d rather wait,” I said.

  “Don’t be like that.” Nick made a face. “I thought you were a team player, Hayley.”

  I kicked myself for saying anything. There was no way Nick was going to shut up about this and we hadn’t even left the parking lot. Did I want to listen to him plead with me for the ten-minute ride to the studio?

  Reluctantly, I pulled the treatment out of my bag and handed it over. I didn’t give him the sketches, though. Nick didn’t need them for the pitch to make sense and I was feeling strangely protective. I wanted to keep them to myself.

  Up ahead, Bear was staring out the window.

  Somehow, he noticed me and turned back. Like before his gaze shifted from me to Nick and then back to me. Specifically, to my shoulder where Nick’s hand had been. As if it was still there, I shrugged it backward. Bear’s smile was small and brief.

  The girls got on the shuttle and headed to the back, where they usually sat. I kept my gaze down as they passed—it felt worse being ignored when I attempted to get their attention, so I had just started pretending I didn’t notice them or didn’t care. It sucked.

  “No more plants,” Jeannette was saying to Emily. “We have too many.”

  “No such thing as too many plants,” she said.

  “You can’t make me choose,” Rachel said to Caitlin and
Sally. “I can like both Lin-Manuel Miranda’s lyrics and Howard Ashman’s.”

  “Hmm.” Nick made a noise, and I looked over at him.

  He was scanning the script, his eyebrows tilted downward as he read. By the time he was done, his whole face was contorted in a frown. The excitement I’d felt in putting the treatment together faded.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “It’s just some suggestions,” I said. “I thought we could simplify the story—focus on Jack instead of on Mr. Bigsworth, and that would give the short more energy.”

  “This is a totally different film,” Nick said. “You completely rewrote my idea.”

  “Not completely.” I pointed to the script. “I kept the jokes you and Karl liked.”

  “Yeah, and you cut a bunch of great ones. All the good stuff is gone.”

  I didn’t say anything. Nick’s tone—his whole posture—had gone from interested and eager to annoyed and petulant. I started second-guessing the work I’d done. Was it really that bad?

  “I don’t think you should show this to anyone,” he said. “It looks like you’re undermining my authority.”

  His authority? I thought it was the final product that mattered—not who came up with each idea. That’s what Bryan had said. Disheartened, I reached for the script I had written, but Nick held on to it.

  “I’m sure you have another copy,” he said.

  I thought about snatching the paper away from him, but the whole thing just made me tired. Leaning back against the seat, I stared out the window as the shuttle pulled away from the campus.

  * * *

  Zoe was already in the conference room when we arrived. “Did you figure something out this weekend?” she asked Nick. “Something we can share with the rest of the team?”

  He crossed his arms defensively. “Karl and I did some brainstorming.”

  Zoe let out a slow breath before speaking again. “Okay, but do you have something concrete? Gena told me that Bryan is going to be stopping by each production today to see how things are going.”

  “What?” Nick went pale. “When?”

  “I don’t know,” Zoe said. “Could be this morning, could be this afternoon.”

  Nick looked like he was going to be sick. I didn’t blame him—the production was a mess. We didn’t have anything to show Bryan.

  “Where’s Karl?” He looked around, clearly hoping for Karl to magically appear. He hadn’t been on the first shuttle with us that morning.

  “Maybe in the cafeteria,” I said.

  The three other story interns—Germain, Daniel and Chris—had just arrived.

  “Can you go find him?” Nick asked me. “We need him. Like, now.”

  I didn’t move. Was he really telling me to go track down Karl? Like I was his assistant or something?

  “Hayley!” he barked, making me jump. “Be helpful, okay? This is an emergency.”

  If the door had been closed, I would have shoved it open. Instead, I had to settle for walking very, very loudly out of the room.

  Karl wasn’t in the cafeteria. He wasn’t at his mentor’s desk. I did a sweep of the story department, but he was nowhere to be seen. Annoyed that I had just wasted fifteen minutes looking for him, I stormed back into the conference room.

  “I couldn’t find him,” I said, before I was even fully in the door.

  I stopped short. Nick was standing at the end of the table, his drawings displayed on an easel. His eyes, and the eyes of everyone else in the room were turned toward me. Karl was there, but so was Bryan. Fuck.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “We were wondering where you were.” Nick gave Bryan a nervous grin. “Bathroom break, you know.” He made some sort of motion that seemed to imply that maybe I had gotten my period, his hands gesturing down below his hips.

  My face grew hot. Nick had known exactly where I had gone. For a moment, I thought about taking one of the pencils that was stuck in my hair and lobbing it at him. There was a fifty-fifty chance I could get him in the eye. Maybe forty-sixty, because I was so angry. Instead, I sat down at the back of the room where Zoe was taking notes. She patted my leg.

  It calmed me down, but just a little. And only for a minute.

  “Can I continue?” Nick asked, and it was a beat before I realized he was talking to me.

  I glared at him, my fingers itching to grab that pencil.

  “As I was saying,” he said, directing his attention toward Bryan. “We’ve been working hard as a team trying to come up with a way to streamline the story.” He gestured toward Karl. “My head of story and I spent most of the weekend brainstorming. As you said, creativity never takes a break.”

  Bryan had said that. He’d also said that true creativity existed independent of outside influences. If Nick was smart, he wouldn’t mention that he was spending his free time being inspired by Tim Burton and Quentin Tarantino.

  “How exactly will you be streamlining the story?” Bryan asked.

  “Uh, well…” Nick’s eyes scanned the room, though I wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for. “I thought, well, if we focused more on Jack than on Mr. Bigsworth, that would help.”

  His gaze skipped over me. My mouth fell open. Was he serious? Was he actually about to present the ideas I’d come up with this weekend and pass them off as his own? In front of Bryan?

  “Interesting,” Bryan said. “Go on.”

  “Uh, yeah. So… um.” Nick groped outward and I watched as he reached into his bag and pulled out the treatment I had given him on the shuttle. The treatment he claimed had completely ruined his story.

  “There are some ideas here,” he said, looking down at what I had written. “We managed to keep the best jokes, of course, but it’s a more streamlined version of what we originally had.”

  “Let me see.” Bryan reached out, and Nick passed the document over.

  I hadn’t put my name on it. I hadn’t seen the point—after all, I had planned to present it to the story team. I hadn’t expected Nick to literally take it from me and pass it off as his own.

  “This is very good work,” Bryan said.

  I waited, staring daggers at Nick, waiting for him to admit that he hadn’t written it. We’d been butting heads lately, but I couldn’t believe he would do something so blatantly dishonest. But he didn’t say anything. In fact, he completely avoided looking at me.

  “I really like where you’re going with this.” Bryan stood. “Keep it up.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I blurted out. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Hayley!” Zoe said. She grabbed at my arm, but I was already on my feet, pointing an accusing finger at Nick.

  “That was my idea,” I said. “You stole my idea.”

  “Hayley”—Nick’s gaze darted around wildly—“you’re making a scene.”

  “You stole my idea!”

  “We’re a team,” Nick said to the floor. “You’re being hysterical.”

  “And you’re being a fucking liar!” My voice cracked under the strain of my shouting.

  “Excuse me, young lady,” Bryan said. “You need to calm down. Right now.”

  I shut my mouth, my skin hot, my lungs bellowing like I’d been running.

  Everything was silent and tense. All eyes were focused on me, except for Nick, who was too much of a coward to look up.

  “Oh, Hayley,” Zoe said.

  Bryan faced me. He looked disappointed. Angry.

  “Hayley, is it?” he asked. “I think you’d better come with me to my office. Now.”

  At least this time he’d gotten my name right.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When I fantasized about being called into Bryan Beckett’s office, it was always because he was going tell me that I was the most talented young person he’d ever met and would I please, please, please consider taking a job at BB Gun Films after I graduated high school?

  I never imagined that I would be brought there by the man himself, after yelling at another intern
for stealing my idea.

  I was still furious, but by the time we got to his office and he gestured for me to sit, fear had begun to kick in as well. Was I about to be booted from the internship? I had only skimmed the document on employee conduct, but I was pretty sure that calling someone a “fucking liar” was frowned upon.

  Bryan’s assistant closed the door. It was just me and him.

  I’d always wanted to see the inside of his office. Besides the blink-and-you’d-miss-it shot of him behind his desk from our welcome video, none of the interns had been here before. Except for Bear, but that was different. Everything was different for Bear.

  It was exactly as clean as I had imagined. Bryan’s desk was an enormous black piece of marble that seemed to spill over one side. The floor was white. The walls were white. There wasn’t a piece of paper or a pencil or a knickknack anywhere. My chair was round—almost like a ball sawed in two—balancing on a plastic stand. It was white. The leather inside of it was also white and it squeaked when I sat. It was like being inside of a spaceship.

  I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I folded them in my lap, crossing my legs at the ankle. The chair wasn’t comfortable.

  Bryan himself was sitting behind his desk. His chair was enormous—a big, black leather thing that loamed up and around him. The top curved downward, the back itself like a menacing bouncer or bodyguard. It was so quiet the air almost seemed to buzz with the absence of sound.

  “Hayley.” Bryan’s hands were flat on his desk.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, but he shook his head. I pressed my lips tightly together, hoping I could keep my mouth shut. Minutes ticked by. I didn’t move—I was pretty sure any movement I made would be audible thanks to the leather in the chair. My butt began to hurt.

  “I understand where you’re coming from,” Bryan said.

  Out of all the things I’d expected him to say, that hadn’t been one of them.

  “When I started out in animation, all I wanted was to make the projects I was working on better. I had a vision, and most of the time, I found that people I worked for didn’t understand that vision,” Bryan said.

  The pressure in my chest began to loosen.