Drawn That Way

by Elissa Sussman

  We all obliged. When it was silent again, Bryan rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “Of course, with every new venture, there are the inevitable wrinkles.”

  I was certain that Bryan was referring to me. I also knew that most people in the audience were aware that he was referring to me. I imagined myself as a literal wrinkle in Bryan’s big book of expectations, just lying there, crinkling the smooth paper around me.

  “I thought it would behoove all of us to take a moment to discuss the purpose of this internship—and the heart of animation in general. Because believe it or not, they are one and the same.”

  I saw a few people around me taking out their notebooks, pencils poised above blank pages. A week ago, I would have done the same.

  “Here at BB Gun Films, we’re a family,” Bryan said. “Even though we aren’t working on the same movies at the same time, we’re all working toward a shared goal. We’re here to make art. We’re here to make something special—something that will inspire an entire generation of thinkers and dreamers.” He gestured out toward the audience. “Just as our previous films have inspired you.”

  I glanced over at Sloane, who was staring straight ahead. Her face was impassive.

  “It’s important to remember that,” Bryan said. “It’s important to remember that we’re all part of a larger process—that no matter our role in it—each of us are valuable to the development of everything we make.”

  He looked out into the crowd, and I stared at my feet. For once in my life, I didn’t want Bryan to notice me. Didn’t want him to see me.

  “We’re a team,” he said. “We have to work together. Animation isn’t a place for self-importance. It isn’t about the individual. It’s about the group. If you’re worried about getting credit, you’re worrying about the wrong thing. Worry about what you’re creating—what you’re putting out into the world. Worry about the collective accomplishment.”

  If yesterday’s lecture hadn’t made it clear enough, Bryan was telling me—telling everyone—that all that mattered was the final product.

  “Real artists make art for art’s sake,” he said. “They don’t do it to satisfy their wallets or their egos. They do it to satisfy this.” He put his fist against his heart. “Because that’s where real art comes from.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Stick around for a minute,” Sloane said, as the lights came back on in the theater.

  I did, sinking down even lower in my seat as Nick and his buddies came up the aisle. He noticed me but pretended not to.

  “I’m glad Bryan cleared that up,” he said loudly as he passed. “I wouldn’t want to be on a team where people couldn’t collaborate.”

  I curled my fingers around the arms of my chair.

  “I feel like my job as director is to make sure the best movie gets made, not cater to individual egos,” he said. “No one likes a diva.”

  The other guys laughed. I stared down at the floor.

  Finally, the theater emptied out and it was just me and Sloane.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened yesterday?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Hayley, you know you can talk to me, right?”

  I released my grip on the armrests. “It’s fine,” I said. “I overreacted, and I wasn’t being a team player. I’ll do better.”

  Sloane opened her mouth, and then closed it again. I felt terrible. My behavior was a reflection on her. The last thing I wanted was for Bryan—or anyone at BB Gun Films—to think that Sloane was a bad mentor. I needed to do better. If not for myself, then for her.

  “They told me you’d be working with Bear now,” Sloane said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Maybe that will be a better fit,” Sloane said.

  “I think so.” I turned toward her. “This won’t happen again, Sloane. I promise.”

  She patted my arm. “I know it won’t,” she said.

  * * *

  Even though I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be working with Zoe anymore, everyone else on Bear’s team seemed nice. We did some introductions and I finally got to see exactly what Bear had pitched to his father.

  It wasn’t nearly as boring as Nick’s Jack and the Beanstalk story was, but it was almost as chaotic in terms of plot and concept. Still, there was potential. This time, I did my best to swallow my concerns—knowing that if I wasn’t careful, my jealousy would get the better of me again.

  At least I got to see Bear’s artwork for the first time.

  “Wow,” I said.

  We were huddled around his sketchbook, the rest of the story team working on individual sequences. Bear’s project had enough of a through line that they could assign out sections, even though they still needed help tying them together. Already my brain had started spinning, thinking of ways to make the jumble of ideas work.

  “Yeah?” He was sitting close to me, his knee pressed against mine. I was a little self-conscious that people would notice, but Bear didn’t seem to mind. Or care.

  “These are really good,” I said.

  They were good. He might not have put together the most comprehensive pitch, but his work was incredible. I looked at it and felt something. Felt a sense of wonder at what could be accomplished with paper and pencil. It was a good feeling.

  His work was simple, but effective. He didn’t use a lot of color, or go over his final drawings with smoother line, but it didn’t matter. It was still evocative. They were rough sketches, most drawn in charcoal. There were often smudges on the edge of the page. With just a few lines he was able to capture an emotion—a feeling. There was a tactical quality to them that I really loved.

  “I’m glad you like them,” Bear said.

  I noticed there were quite a lot of drawings of fish and anemones and seals and other marine life.

  “I like going to the Long Beach Aquarium,” Bear said when I lingered on a page full of sleek, twisting otters. “Plenty of inspiration there.”

  There were also lots of sketches of mountain faces—craggy peaks and jagged walls. There were people in some of them, climbing those rocks with bare hands, their flexing, tensing back muscles captured in Bear’s quick-and-dirty style.

  Between this and soccer, it was clear where he had gotten his muscles from. Bear was wearing his usual snug T-shirt today, and I couldn’t resist glancing over to check out his biceps. His very, very nice biceps.

  He flexed. I blushed.

  “You should come with me sometime,” he said. “It’s fun.”

  “I don’t think I’d describe a possible plummet to my death as fun.”

  “It’s totally safe.” His fingertips traced my knuckles. “You really clear your head when you’re up there. All you can focus on are the rocks and your path upward.” He looked at me. “And I’d never let you fall.”

  I got goose bumps, but the nice, tingly kind.

  “These are great.” I turned my attention back to the drawings. “Very visceral.”

  “That’s the word my mom used too.”

  I thought of the photo of the two of them in ski goggles. It seemed like his mom was just as outdoorsy and athletic as Bear was. I tried to imagine Bryan hitting the slopes or climbing a rock face, but I couldn’t picture him anywhere that wasn’t BB Gun Films.

  “Well, your mom has a good eye,” I said. “And vocabulary.”

  “I think she’d agree.”

  I flipped to the beginning of his sketchbook and began to look through his drawings again. He really hadn’t done much preparation for his pitch, and it was clear why it had been untitled when it was announced. It was more a collection of feelings than a specific story.

  “What if we didn’t have a plot?” I asked, an idea coming to me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if it’s more of an emotional piece, rather than an intellectual one.”

  I turned to where he’d drawn a girl looking out the window. It was mostly dark lines and smeared swaths of charcoal,
but because of that it was the negative space that stood out. The pale line of her neck, the curve of her ear.

  “You could do something like Fantasia,” I said. “Pick some music—three or four songs that fit the ideas you already have—and have your animators work to that.”

  Bear looked at me. “That’s brilliant,” he said.

  “Is it? It’s just an idea.”

  “A great one,” he said. “I would have never thought of it. You’re—you’re very inspiring.”

  My smile faltered.

  That’s what Bryan had told me my strength was. Maybe he was right. Maybe what I was good at was encouraging other people to do their best work. I felt slightly nauseous at the thought.

  “What is it?” Bear asked.

  “Nothing.” I turned back to his sketches. “Why don’t you make a list of songs, and we can go from there.”

  “Why don’t you come over tonight, and we can make a list together?” he asked.

  Thankfully he did it quietly enough that no one heard. And gave me a grin that made my heart do a little flip.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  I didn’t need to think about it all. I definitely planned on going to his room tonight.

  “Oh, I see,” he said, and poked me with the eraser end of his pencil. “Playing hard-to-get.”

  “Shut up,” I said, doing a bad job hiding my smile. “We have work to do.”

  * * *

  “This could work for the second sequence,” I told Bear as we lay on his bed hours later.

  We were on our backs, barely fitting side by side. His leg was dangling off the edge of the mattress, while my hip was pressed up against the wall.

  “You know, I wasn’t actually thinking we’d listen to music when I asked you to come to my room,” he said.

  “I know,” I said. “But this is a good song option.”

  I’d fully intended to go to Bear’s room to make out with him, but during dinner, I’d come up with several ideas for songs, and I wanted to play them for him before I forgot.

  I looked up at the pictures he had above his bed. There were a few more of friends, but it was mostly photos of his pets—a yellow mutt with a round ruff of a neck and a small black cat that seemed to enjoy sleeping near or on top of the dog. I’d always wanted a pet, but my parents said the house was too small.

  “What are their names?” I pointed up at a photo of the two of them sleeping with their heads pressed together.

  “Howl and Calcifer.”

  I turned my head toward him. “You really do love Howl’s Moving Castle,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I said it was my favorite movie.”

  “Spirited Away is better,” I said.

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, before shifting up onto his side. “Hey.”

  I looked up at him. He was extremely cute. “Hey.”

  He lowered his lips to mine, his hand on my hip. I reached up, threading my hands through his hair. Even though I’d been eager to share my music ideas with Bear, I was definitely more interested in doing other things now.

  I liked kissing him. Liked touching him.

  It made everything else fade away. I could focus on the little things—the way his thumb was stroking my stomach, the way his tongue felt against that spot behind my ear, the way his feet tangled up with mine at the foot of the bed.

  His hand moved upward, where he dragged his fingers along the line of my chin. It felt really good. Covering his hand with mine, I directed him downward to the buttons of my shirt. He didn’t need much more encouragement, undoing one at a time. So. Very. Slowly.

  By the time my shirt was completely unbuttoned and pulled free of my pants, I was eager to go further. It would be my first time going this far, but I wanted this. And I trusted Bear.

  How could I not? He’d named his dog Howl.

  “Hayley.” His voice was hot in my ear. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, hoping that he was going to ask if he could take off my bra.

  The answer was definitely yes.

  He leaned back, his eyes meeting mine. “Would you do your pitch for me?” he asked.

  I stared at him. “What?”

  He propped himself up on his elbow. “Your pitch,” he said. “The one you did for my dad and the brain trust. Would you do it for me?”

  I sat up. “You want me to do that now?” I gestured toward my completely open shirt. “Really?”

  His ears got red. “I’m not in any rush when it comes to—” He mimicked my gesture. “That.”

  It was both sweet and a little disappointing.

  But my disappointment faded quickly, because there was a part of me that kind of wanted to do my pitch for him. To hear what he thought of it. I knew he wasn’t his father—not even close—but maybe there was some Beckett gene in there that would give me insight into why Bryan hadn’t liked my project. Because I had a hard time believing that a company that made movies with talking animals and forest hags couldn’t suspend their disbelief long enough to accept a story with a golem in it. Among other things.

  “You really want to hear my pitch?” I asked.

  “Do you remember it?”

  “Of course I remember it,” I said.

  He smiled.

  Maybe he could give me his honest opinion. Tell me if I was crazy for thinking it was as good as it was. Tell me that yeah, his dad was right, I just didn’t have the kind of talent required for directors. I didn’t want to hear that, but I felt like I needed to.

  “I’ll do my pitch under one condition,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  “You have to take your shirt off,” I said.

  Bear didn’t even hesitate, sitting up, reaching back, and pulling it over his head in one smooth movement. He tossed it at me. Climbing over him, I held his shirt hostage as I buttoned up my own.

  “Hey,” Bear said.

  I held up a hand. “I’m a professional, okay?”

  He faced me, hands on his knees. He had such a good chest.

  But I wasn’t going to let it distract me.

  I tucked in my shirt and closed my eyes. The pitch was there—I’d done it so many times that I knew once I got started, it would all flow out of me. I just had to remember the first sentence. I opened my eyes.

  “This is a story about a girl. And a golem.” It wasn’t quite the same without my drawings there, but I pretended that they were, gesturing toward an imaginary easel, pretending the foam board was actually sitting there.

  “And when Miriam reaches out her hand to the golem, she discovers that he has returned to his original form—his journey over, just as hers is beginning,” I said.

  I was still holding Bear’s shirt in my hand. And just because the whole thing was already a little ridiculous, I bowed. When I lifted my head, I found that Bear was just sitting there, staring at me.

  Immediately my silly mood vanished. He hadn’t liked it. He’d hated it. He’d seen exactly why his father hadn’t given me the director position and now he was second-guessing even wanting to be with me right now. I threw his shirt at him. It hit him in the face.

  “Say something.”

  “Shit, Saffitz.” Bear wadded his shirt into a ball. “That was amazing.”

  “What?”

  He reached out a hand and pulled me toward him until I was standing between his legs. He looked up at me, palms on my hips.

  “That was amazing,” he said.

  I put my hands in his hair. It was soft.

  “You’re just saying that.”

  I felt—and saw—him shake his head.

  “That—” He put his head against my stomach before lifting it again. “That puts my pitch to shame. I mean, I’m actually super embarrassed by what I did.”

  “Do I want to know?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “If I were you, it would really piss me off.”


  I moved out of his grasp and sat back on the bed next to him. He was staring at the other side of the room.

  “My dad is such an idiot,” he said.

  “He just has different standards, I guess.”

  He snorted, putting his head down. “He’s an idiot. Or an asshole. No, he’s both.”

  I didn’t know how to feel. I was relieved that Bear had liked my pitch—it made me feel less crazy, less alone. But it still didn’t make a difference. If anything, it made what I was doing—what Bryan had told me to do, what he told me I was good for—even more painful.

  I was torn between anger at not getting something I felt I deserved and guilt for feeling like I deserved anything. I didn’t know what to do with any of it.

  “I should just make my own short,” I said.

  Bear’s head jerked upward. “Yeah, yeah, you should,” he said.

  “I was joking,” I said.

  But maybe I wasn’t?

  Was it even possible? Bryan had effectively taken away my only chance to distinguish myself from the rest of the interns, but what if I made my own opportunity? The thought was selfish, arrogant, and deeply, deeply tempting.

  Bear was looking at me. I could tell he wanted to talk more about this—I got the sense that he would be on board with anything that might piss his dad off—but my brain hurt. My heart did, too. Just that little bit of hope felt like pressing on a healing bruise. It ached. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to think about anything.

  “You know,” I said, “I came here to listen to music.”

  I didn’t want to listen to music.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I reached back to pull my hair out of its bun.

  “You want to listen to some music?” Bear asked.

  His lips were against mine.

  “I liked that song that you were playing before,” I said.

  “Mmm?” His hands were in my hair. “Which one?”

  “The slow one,” I said.

  I felt him smile. “The slow one. With the drums?” He kissed me between words.

  “Uh-huh.” I curled my fingers around his shoulders. “I think they went ‘bom, bom, bom.’ ”