“Because I’m not going to UT.”
“And where do you think you’re going?”
Tru shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. Maybe UCLA or USC. They have great film schools.”
“Absolutely not,” his father roared, dropping the veneer. “You are not going to college in California.”
He said it like the very word tasted bad.
“I’m also looking at Northwestern,” Tru said, “and the University of Chicago.”
Tru liked this game. With every non-Texas college he named, the deeper the shade of red his father’s face turned.
Maybe the guy would do them all a favor and blow a gasket.
“No son of mine is applying to colleges outside the state of Texas.”
Tru rolled his chair back an inch. “Well, since I seem to be your only son, and I’m planning to apply to all those colleges”—he folded his arms behind his head—“then it seems you’re wrong.”
And really, shouldn’t his father have been happy he was planning to apply to colleges at all? Until recently, his only plan had been to move to L.A. and start scrapping for work in the film industry. This was a step up.
His father stepped closer and leaned down until they were practically nose to nose.
“No,” he said, his voice barely more than a growl, “you’re wrong. You will attend UT as I did, as your grandfather did, as generations of Dorseys have done since the founding of that great institution.”
Tru snickered. He was no more going to attend the University of Texas at Austin than his father, the venerated and image-conscious district attorney, would drop trou on the courthouse steps and dance a drunken jig.
“And you will major in what I tell you to major in,” his father spat out, straightening back up to his full height and waving a dismissive hand at the editing software open on Tru’s computer. “Your mother may believe that attending an arts high school will benefit your academic performance, but I am not convinced. No more of this movie-making nonsense if you expect me to pay for your education.”
Rage boiled through him.
Tru wanted to push to his feet, to show his father they stood at the same height, that he couldn’t physically intimidate his son anymore. His father hadn’t laid a hand on him since the altercation after the dinner party with Sloane and her mom a few months ago. Maybe the fact that his father had actually left a visible mark that time, an ugly bruise on Tru’s face, had scared him.
But still, Tru couldn’t quite overcome the fear. Couldn’t quite muster up enough courage to stand up to his father, face to face.
So he did what he always did. He shrugged. He pretended like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t care what his father thought or what his father expected him to do.
The only difference this time was that Tru thought it might actually be true. He was partway through his senior year. If he didn’t screw up big time, he would actually graduate with a non-humiliating transcript and might actually get into one of the schools on his list. A school with a decent film program.
He would find a way to pay for it. Without his father’s help. He would make it on his own.
“I’m going to call McDaniel back,” his father said, “and get you out of this mess.”
He turned on his heel and stormed out the door.
Tru’s hands shook with the aftermath of the confrontation. He only knew one thing that could chase those shakes away. As soon as his father went to bed, Tru would pay a visit to the liquor cabinet.
Chapter Three
I wake up with a start on Saturday morning with a pounding noise echoing through my room. At first I think it’s Tru, back at my window. But when I glance at the clock and see that it’s barely seven in the morning, I know it can’t be him. I texted him around midnight to see if he wanted to come over and spend some quality time on my roof, our not-so-secret code for making out under the stars—and he never replied. Which could only mean he was wasted.
No way is he awake and up for climbing buildings at this hour.
As my brain fog clears, I identify the pounding as coming from my actual bedroom door.
I drag myself out of bed, unlock the door—I learned that lesson the first time Mom almost caught Tru in my room—and yank it open.
Mom is standing there, hand raised to knock again, with a weird expression on her face. It might be my sleep-deprived brain playing tricks on me, but I think she might look…apologetic.
That is never a good sign.
“What’s wrong?” I demand.
“Sloane, honey,” she says, her voice way too soft for this to be good news, “I just got a call from your dad.”
My heart jolts in my chest.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. “Is Dylan okay?”
A million thoughts race through my mind. Accidents. Illnesses. Injuries. Yet another reason to hate being halfway across the country from the male half of our family.
Yet another reason to feel guilty for being the cause of our split. And for not hating it anymore.
“No, no, everyone’s fine,” she says. “It’s just…”
My heart sinks even lower. “What?”
“Your father has a big deal that he has to close before the new year.”
I shrug my shoulders as if to say, So? Dad always has a big deal to close.
“It’s on the West coast.”
I stare at her, silently waiting for her to explain exactly why this is something worthy of giving me her I’m-so-sorry face.
She walks into my room and sits down in my desk chair before finishing. She doesn’t even comment on the fact that half of my stuff is still in boxes.
Mom passing on an opportunity to nag me about unpacking? This is going to be really bad.
“He has to fly out there the day after Christmas. He thinks it will be easier on everyone if he flies out from here.”
“From here?” I echo. “As in from Austin?”
“Yes.”
“The day after Christmas?”
She nods.
My stomach turns upside-down. “Mom…”
“The good news is that Dylan will get to stay here with us for the rest of winter break.”
“No.”
She can’t be doing this to me, Dad can’t be doing this to me. I don’t deserve this. I’ve been counting on this. I’ve been counting the days.
“Sloane—”
“New York is Christmas,” I plead, not even caring that I’m whining like a baby. “Christmas is New York.”
It’s probably a sign of how bad she actually feels that she doesn’t give me a lecture. Instead, she gives me the saddest smile in the history of sad smiles. “He’s already booked the tickets.”
“What about our tickets?” I ask.
She shakes her head sadly.
For several long moments I can’t even think. This cannot be happening.
I pace to the window and stare out over the roof. But I don’t see our yard, I see flashes of images from Christmases past. Like some mental version of A Christmas Carol.
The tree lighting at Rockefeller Center.
The Rockettes at Radio City.
The holiday windows on Fifth Avenue.
“What about the Nutcracker?” I ask. “We have tickets.”
Mom joins me at the window. “I’m sad about that, too, but we can get tickets to Ballet Austin. I’ve heard really good things about their production.”
“Ballet Austin.” I try hard not to roll my eyes. “That’s hardly the same. The New York City Ballet is an institution. It’s iconic.” I shrug her hand off my shoulder. “It’s a tradition.”
“This can be a new tradition.”
My eyes go blurry as I stare out the window. I whisper, “New York is Christmas.”
“I know,” Mom says with a sigh, rubbing a hand over my shoulder. “I know. We just have to make the best of a less-than-ideal situation.”
Part of me wants to stomp my feet and throw a tantrum. The only thing that stops me is knowing
it wouldn’t do any good.
I mean, I’ve always known that, when it comes to Dad, business comes first. Period. I’ve just never had to deal with any serious repercussions from that fact.
“Your father has made up his mind,” Mom says as she turns away and starts for the door. “At least we still get to have Christmas as a family. That’s all I want.”
She’s gone before I can even respond.
What would I say anyway? No, Christmas in New York is more important than Christmas with my family. That’s not true. As much as it would probably shock everyone I know, including myself, if I had to choose between being in New York alone and being with Mom, Dad, and Dylan in Austin, I would pick Austin every time.
Mom is right. Getting to spend the holidays together is way more important than where we spend them.
Christmas isn’t New York. Christmas is family.
Going from living in the same house for seventeen years to not seeing my dad or my baby brother for almost four months has been rough. We were all supposed to meet for Thanksgiving at Nana Whitaker’s in Indiana, but at the last minute Dad had to work and the whole thing got called off.
Mom had been furious then, so I know she probably didn’t let Dad get away without a fight.
But we’ll make the best of the situation. I’ll make the best of the situation. I’m sure all of us would rather be in New York, but if we’re going to have Christmas in Austin, then I’m going to make it the best Christmas I can.
I’ll start making plans as soon as I get this week’s issue of Graphic Grrl done and posted. Can’t disappoint the fans. Then, I’m doubling down on holiday spirit.
After hours of staring at my computer screen, cleaning up every little line, perfecting every spot of color, and generally making the latest Graphic Grrl strip as perfect as a human can make her, I force myself to push away from the computer. My eyes are starting to cross and my wrist is cramping. It’s definitely time to take a break.
In the latest strip, Graphic Grrl continues her adventures in the dust-colored ghost town of Hillsville—which, ironically, has no hills. After defeating the evil Copperhead Cowboy last time, this issue finds her captured by a gang of cyborg spiders that want to make her their queen.
I’m not sure how she’s going to get out of this one. But luckily I don’t have to figure that out until next week.
A quick run downstairs to grab a snack, and then I’ll be good to go to finish the strip and get it set to post in the morning.
Mom sits at the kitchen table, piles of paperwork spread out on the surface in front of her. She looks lost in her work, so I make a silent beeline for the pantry. She probably won’t even notice I’m here.
After staring blankly into the pantry, the refrigerator, and all of our cupboards, I come away with a can of Cherry Coke, a half-full bag of salt and vinegar chips, and a bowl of peanut butter Oreos. Score.
As I make my way back through the kitchen, I bang my knee against the island in the middle.
Mom looks up from her work.
“Oh, hi,” she says with a smile. “I didn’t hear you come down.”
“Just grabbing a snack.” I show her my haul.
“What are you working on today?”
I swallow hard. “What?”
“You’ve hardly made a peep,” she says. “Homework?”
“Uh, yeah.” I shrug. Since I’m not ready to tell her about Graphic Grrl, I have to fudge the facts a bit. “Seems like everyone wanted to give us one last assignment before break.”
Her attention shifts back to the piles of papers. I assume the conversation is over, so I turn to leave.
“How are things with Tru?”
I freeze. I would almost rather talk to my mom about Graphic Grrl than my love life. Especially my love life with the boy she still only barely tolerates. I lift the bowl to my mouth and grab an Oreo.
“What?” I ask as I turn around, the one word question muffled by my mouth full of cookie.
“Tru,” she says pointedly, her attention shifting fully away from the papers and onto me. “You two have been spending a lot of time together.”
“Phrine.”
Her eyebrows rise up. “What was that?”
I chew and swallow the desert-dry bite of cookie. When I feel like I can form a coherent response, I say, “We’re fine. He’s fine. Everything is fine.”
Tru’s not fine, though. He’s probably drunk or passed out again.
She looks up at me, eyes narrowed like she’s trying to see my thoughts. Only a cruel universe would let her see what I’m actually thinking right now. Mom’s approval of Tru as my significant other is tenuous at best. If she had even a hint of a clue about his drinking problem, I’d be grounded for life and forbidden from ever seeing him again.
She can never find out.
“You’re sure?” she asks.
I nod vigorously, then force myself to slow down in case it’s too vigorously.
“Yep,” I say with as much casual confidence as I can manage. “We’re all good.”
She smiles, like she’s pleased she’s done her motherly duty, and goes back to her papers. I quickly turn and run to the stairs before she can think of another rock-meets-hard-place question to ask.
My heart doesn’t start returning to a normal rate until I’m back in my room with the door shut and locked behind me.
Skated by on that one.
Now that I’m back on my own turf, with a solid barrier between me and any more questions, I can breathe again.
It’s time to get Graphic Grrl done and posted. Time to stop obsessing over every little detail. Time to strap some duct tape over my inner perfectionist’s mouth.
I pop open the can of soda, stuff another Oreo into my mouth, and sit down at my computer to post the strip. Right before I click publish, I notice a typo in the first frame. I open the source file and fix the misspelling, then notice a weird shadow on the lead cyborg spider in the final frame. Just a quick fix…
I’m so focused on my work that I only vaguely notice the bouncing icon in the corner that indicates I have a new email. No time for that, now.
I go back through the process of finalizing the files, save them in the proper format again, and finally upload them to my website. I schedule them to post the next morning. Then I go through the comments on last week’s strip, answer a few questions in the forums, and check my traffic numbers before I close out of my Graphic Grrl profile in my browser.
I try to keep the two parts of my life—Graphic Grrl and Sloane Whitaker—as separate as possible. That makes it easier to keep from slipping up. Graphic Grrl doesn’t intrude on Sloane’s life, and I don’t show up in hers. It’s easier that way.
So I wait until I’ve checked everything off the Graphic Grrl list and logged out of all her accounts before I click into my personal email.
When I read the message sitting there, I’m glad I waited.
There, at the top of my inbox, in bold, I’m-still-unread text, is the subject line I’ve been dreading since the day I posted the first Graphic Grrl comic.
I Know Ur Graphic Grrl
My heart, still in recovery mode after Mom’s inquisition about Tru, sets off at a hummingbird pace.
No, no, no.
Maybe I forgot to click out of Graphic Grrl. She has her own email address, her own inbox. Maybe I’m still in her account.
But when I check the address in the browser tab, it says [email protected].
I mutter a curse that until now I reserved exclusively for cheating boyfriends and parent-forced moves to Texas.
Then, with my heart trying to beat its way out of my throat and my stomach trying to make a dive for my toes, I click on the email.
I know you are Graphic Grrl, Sloane Whitaker. It doesn’t matter how I found out. I just know. And unless you want me to tell the world, be prepared to meet my demands. More soon.
The message is signed Engineering Boy, the character who is Graphic Grrl’s most common enemy in
the strip.
At the very bottom is a link to whoisgraphicgrrl.com.
I am equal parts terrified and curious. But I can’t not click.
When I do, I’m taken to a web page with a simple countdown timer. It’s counting down to seven days from now. Noon on next Sunday. The time the next Graphic Grrl strip should post.
At the bottom it says in bright blue text, I know who Graphic Grrl is. Do you?
My life is literally over.
Chapter Four
I started drawing Graphic Grrl in eighth grade. At the time, it was a form of therapy, a release for all the mounting conflict and frustrations of being the only artist in a family of academic overachievers. Between my mom the high-powered litigator, my dad the high-powered businessman, and my younger brother the certified scientific genius, I felt like a mixture of failure and disappointment.
I didn’t fit in the real world, so I created a fictional world in which I did.
In the world of Graphic Grrl, the artist saves the day. Turning the boring, uninspired, and ugly into the exciting, divine, and beautiful.
Basically saving people like my parents from themselves.
It seemed like the more confident I got with Graphic Grrl, the more confident I got with my art and the more confident I got with myself. If Graphic Grrl could take on Engineering Boy and Legal Laura, then maybe I could stand tall next to my overachieving family.
But Graphic Grrl soon moved way past therapy.
I started publishing her as an experiment, a kind of test for myself to see if I could do it. To see if I could consistently produce a new strip every week, without fail.
It would be good preparation for work in animation.
I never could have dreamed she would get so popular. And not just among artists. She has fans of all types.
Now that she’s as big as she is, the mystery of her creator’s identity has become almost legend.
At first, I kept my identity anonymous out of fear. I didn’t want to put my name on something that could—and probably would—fail. Most comics do. And once something is on the internet, it never goes away. I didn’t want her failure to follow me my entire career.
Falling for the Girl Next Door Page 3