Eliza and Her Monsters

by Francesca Zappia

  “We have a transfer student new to the school today,” she says, smiling, and steps sideways. Behind her is a boy a little taller than me, football-player big, wearing jeans and a Westcliff High T-shirt. He hasn’t even been here a day, and he’s already got the school spirit. He scrubs a hand through his short dark hair and glances at me, expression blank, like he doesn’t quite see me there. My stomach turns. He is exactly the kind of person I try to avoid—I like being invisible, not having someone look at me like I should be.

  “This is Wallace,” Mrs. Grier says. “I thought you could give him a few tips about the school and help him with his schedule before we leave homeroom.”

  I shrug. I’m not going to say no to her. “No” usually makes more problems than it solves. Mrs. Grier smiles.

  “Great! Wallace, this is Eliza. You can go ahead and sit next to her.”

  Wallace follows me to my seat in the back of the room. He moves slow, sits slow, and looks around like he’s still asleep. He glances at me again, and when I don’t say anything, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts going through texts.

  I didn’t want to say anything to him, anyway. The school isn’t that confusing—I’m sure he’s smart enough to figure it out on his own.

  I curl up my legs in the desk chair, set my sketchbook against them so no one can see the inside, and begin work on the next Monstrous Sea page. I forget Wallace. I forget Mrs. Grier. I forget this whole school.

  I’m gone.

  I get through the day the way I always do: by disappearing so well the teachers never see me, and by resisting the temptation to check the Monstrous Sea forums on my phone. I’ve heard it’s much easier to get through school when you have friends to talk to, but all my friends are online. I used to have offline friends. Or at least I thought I did. Growing up, I had friends in school and in my neighborhood, but never good friends. Never friends who invited me to sleepovers or movies. I got invited to a couple of birthday parties, but sometimes I think that was because my mom badgered other moms. I was a weird kid then, and I’m weird now. Except now neither I nor any of my classmates is under the delusion that we have to interact with each other on a more than superficial basis.

  Dad likes to say thinking I’m weird is normal. “Well, Eggs, you’re just going to have to trust me when I say that’s a thing a lot of kids your age think.” Maybe he’s right. All I know is, last year Casey Miller saw me walking behind her in the hallway and actually squealed in fear before she skipped away. She halfheartedly apologized a second later, of course, but it was a packed hallway during passing period—who gets scared by another student behind them? I know a week before that, I walked into gym late because of particularly nasty period cramps and scored my entire class ten minutes of stair laps that to this day have earned me the sort of looks that should be reserved for murderers. I know a few months before that, Manny Rodriguez invited some of his swimmer friends to cut me in the lunch line, only to have them refuse because they were afraid I’d call down a demon on them.

  Is that the kind of person I seem like? A cultist? A religious fanatic? Am I so weird I should be the bad guy of the week on a prime-time television crime show?

  My parents wonder why I don’t have more friends, and this is why: because I don’t want to be friends with these people. Even the nice ones think I’m weird; I can see it in their faces when they get paired with me for projects. I’m the person you pray the teacher doesn’t call for your group. Not because I’m a terrible student, or because I make you do all the work, but because I dress like a homeless person and I never talk. When I was really little, it was endearing. Now it’s strange.

  I should have grown out of it.

  I should want to be social.

  I should desire friends I can see with my eyes and touch with my hands.

  But I don’t want to be friends with people who have already decided I’m too weird to live. Maybe if they knew who I am and what I’ve made, maybe then they wouldn’t think I was so weird. Maybe then the weird would just be eccentric. But the only person I can be in this school is Eliza Mirk, and Eliza Mirk is barely a footnote in anyone’s life. Including mine.

  By the seventh-period bell, I have a whole new page of Monstrous Sea ready for inking, but my mind is on the page at home I still have to finish. New pages go up on Friday nights, always, like TV shows or sporting events. My readers like consistency. I like giving it to them.

  I toss the books I don’t need back into my locker and make my way to the parking lot, sticking close to the walls and shrinking until I barely feel myself there. Most people are already in their cars, clogging the lot. I make my way out the school’s front doors, digging through my bag for my keys.

  That kid Wallace sits on one of the benches on the front walk, phone in one hand and screen turned up like he’s waiting for a message, a pen in the other hand so he can write on the sheaf of papers on the binder in his lap. Still looks like he’s falling asleep. He might need a ride home. Or maybe he’s just smart and knows it’s better to wait until the parking lot clears out to try to leave. I stop outside the doors and watch him for a moment. I could offer him a ride, but that would be strange. Eliza Mirk does not offer rides, and no one asks her for them.

  When he starts to look up, I turn away and hurry out to my car.

  CHAPTER 4

  Apocalypse_Cow: are you working on the next page right now?

  MirkerLurker: No—finished one earlier. Now sitting in the car going to my brothers’ soccer game. Only have my sketchbook.

  emmersmacks: Bummer

  emmersmacks: Hey did you get my care package

  MirkerLurker: No! You sent another one? You didn’t have to do that, Em!

  emmersmacks: :DDD I love sending stuff to you guys!! Besides this ones got good stuff in it

  Apocalypse_Cow: when do they not have good stuff in them?

  Apocalypse_Cow: also where’s MY care package???

  emmersmacks: Oh calm down youre getting one too dummy

  emmersmacks: E youre going to be around for the Dog Days livewatch right

  MirkerLurker: Duh. The day I miss Dog Days is the day I eat my own foot.

  Apocalypse_Cow: *takes screenshot*

  Apocalypse_Cow: let it be known on this day that if eliza ever misses dog days, she will eat her own foot.

  emmersmacks: Masterminds would love that one

  emmersmacks: Creator of Monstrous Sea eats own foot over teen soap opera

  Apocalypse_Cow: tacky teen soap opera.

  MirkerLurker: Tacky teen soap opera? Yes. Wildly entertaining? Also yes.

  emmersmacks: Amen

  “Are you texting your boyfriend again?” Sully nudges up against my side, putting his chin on my shoulder. At his words, Church pulls away from the car window on my other side and leans in too. I slam my phone facedown on the sketchbook in my lap.

  “Stop reading over my shoulder,” I snap. “And it’s not my boyfriend. It’s just Max and Emmy.”

  “Oh, just Max and Emmy,” Sully says, making air quotes. “Sure.” Church snickers and copies the air quotes a second later.

  “Be nice back there,” Mom chirps from the passenger seat. Dad makes a sound of agreement.

  We pull into the parking lot of the gym where Sully and Church play indoor soccer. The half-hour drive went fast thanks to Max and Emmy, but I don’t look at the phone again until the two nightmares climb out of the car. Then I follow Mom and Dad into the building, with my nose in the phone.

  Apocalypse_Cow: but seriously tho, dog days is the worst

  emmersmacks: Not worse than the second season when Chris got with Ben

  Apocalypse_Cow: chris got with jason in the second season, not ben

  emmersmacks: Says the guy who doesnt watch Dog Days

  Apocalypse_Cow: . . .

  emmersmacks: Ah how the mighty have fallen

  I snicker. Dad looks over his shoulder at me. “What’s so funny, Eggs?”

  I turn off the phone and pres
s it to my sketchbook again. Annoyance pings over my humor, little dark spots in the lightness. “Nothing.”

  Until I’m sure neither Mom or Dad are looking back again, I keep the phone down and my eyes up. This gym is more like a warehouse than anything. A big empty room with movable walls as dividers between different courts. Volleyball, basketball, tennis. The place is huge. In the center is a walled-in soccer field with bleachers and everything. I take a picture and send it to the chat.

  MirkerLurker: This place is actual hell.

  emmersmacks: My sister hangs out at one of those gyms

  emmersmacks: They make me want to shower

  Apocalypse_Cow: that is weirdly specific, ems. sorry for your luck, e.

  MirkerLurker: When I die here, bury me with my art.

  Apocalypse_Cow: songs will be sung. potential mourned. someone will have to notify the fans, of course. as head security admin for the ms forums, i accept this responsibility.

  emmersmacks: When did you start calling yourself Head Security Admin

  emmersmacks: All you do is ban trolls

  “Oh, Eliza, look.” Mom’s hand brushes my shoulder. I look up and find her examining a poster on a board by the gym entrance. Dad and the boys have already taken off toward the soccer field, where the teams warm up for their game. “They’re starting tennis lessons soon. I really think you’d love tennis—it’s a solitary game, and it’s great exercise.”

  “No,” I say, and go back to my phone. She gives up immediately.

  We’ve evolved this process steadily over the years. When I was little and didn’t have a say in the matter, my parents signed me up for every sport under the sun. Little League Baseball. Soccer. Basketball. Volleyball. I hated all of them because I didn’t—don’t—have any coordination and I didn’t—don’t—like to talk, so I didn’t play well, so my teammates wanted me gone. The first time I told my dad I wanted to quit softball, he flipped out and didn’t speak to me for a week. Mom tried to reason me back into it.

  It would build character. It would help me make friends. It would be good exercise.

  I refused. Then I quit all the other sports too. Casting them off was like casting off a set of old, heavy armor. Church and Sully loved sports, so some of the focus fell away from me, but Mom and Dad still tried. If I said no, they kept trying. I kept saying no.

  Now we are at that place where they suggest something and I say no and that’s the end of it.

  I follow Mom to the soccer field and perch beside her at the foot of the bleachers. Dad stands on the sidelines, coach’s clipboard in hand, talking to a group of gangly fourteen-and-under boys in sky-blue uniforms. I take my pencils and eraser out of my pocket and crack open my sketchbook.

  “I wish you wouldn’t take that everywhere,” Mom says. “Why can’t you watch your brothers play?”

  I look up at her, then at the field, then back down at my sketchbook. There’s no answer I can give her that she wants to hear, so I won’t give her one at all.

  We get home in time for Dog Days. I scramble out of the car over a sweaty Church, grab a water bottle from the fridge in my rush to my room, turn on the small TV on the crook of the desk beside the computer, and flip the channels until I find the one I want. The opening credits are starting. I wake up the computer and hurry to the website.

  Monstroussea.com is not only the first place to find all the Monstrous Sea pages I’ve done up to this point, it’s also the link to the largest fan forums for the comic and a chat page where once a week I show up under my pen name to watch Dog Days with the fans. This is the only time LadyConstellation speaks live.

  LadyConstellation: I’M HERE! Nobody worry, I’m here!

  moby66: Yay!

  GirlWho: yayayay

  hustonsproblem: We thought you wouldn’t show up!

  A flood of other comments follows those. Usually there are so many people in the chat I can’t actually reply to any of them. I blurt out things about the show and let them respond. They hold conversations with themselves. Mostly the point is that I’m there, and we’re watching the same thing, and for once no one is talking about Monstrous Sea.

  I love Monstrous Sea as much—probably more—as them, but even I need something simple to talk about every once in a while.

  A private chat comes up on my phone, where I’m still logged in to my MirkerLurker account.

  Apocalypse_Cow: looking forward to this one! will spencer find out jane’s a lesbian and is also dating his ex??

  Max will never admit it to the public, but he loves watching Dog Days as much as the rest of us. Only Emmy and I know, but right now Emmy’s too busy frolicking with the other fans in the main chat.

  I send some senseless emojis to Max and start commenting in main chat through the opening scenes of Dog Days, where Spencer does indeed discover Jane has come out as a lesbian and is now dating his ex-girlfriend Jennifer. I can’t tell if this is mindless plot twisting or if the show is actually trying to make some statement about gay rights. I send that to chat. They love it.

  At the first commercial break, I scan into the computer the new Monstrous Sea page I sketched out in school today and bring it up in Photoshop to start the good line work. My pen display waits for me like a prized stallion ready to launch out of the gate, its screen duplicating the screen of my computer. I pull my smudge guard—an old glove with the thumb, index, and middle fingers cut off—over my right hand, to keep the pen display screen from getting gross, and to let my hand move smoothly across it. Nothing ruins a piece faster than poor hand movement.

  Line work is my favorite part of any page. Colors are second, but line work has a subtlety matched by nothing else. Good lines will make or break a picture. Bonus, this page will have some really awesome lines: right now, Amity and Damien are in the middle of the Battle of Sands, where Orcians and Earthens clash for control of the capital city of the desert lands.

  Monstrous Sea involves a lot of elemental-type powers, very anime, so most fights have great lines. Especially when Amity and Damien are there, because they fight with crystals and fog. Angles and curves. Delicious.

  The commercial ends before I get a chance to really do anything. I set down my pen and turn back to the chat to find a few noticeable newcomers among the flock.

  LadyConstellation: I hope no one caused any trouble during that commercial break.

  rainmaker: Define “trouble.”

  Fire_Served_Cold: Trouble: n. def: This guy.

  rainmaker: Smooth.

  Fire_Served_Cold: I try.

  Below that quick exchange come a flurry of excited “rainmaker!!”s and a few “The Angels are here!”

  The Angels they refer to are the group of five fans who took names based on the Angels in Monstrous Sea, the guardians of the planet Orcus. I’ve never really interacted with rainmaker and the other Angels of the fandom, but I’ve seen them around the boards. It’s kind of impossible not to see them around the boards. They’re almost as popular as I am.

  The music on the TV hits a crescendo. I turn in time to see Jane find out she’s pregnant with Spencer’s baby before it cuts to another commercial. They really are going for an issues episode here. Back to main chat.

  LadyConstellation: Another pregnancy?! This show already kept a baby, gave a baby up for adoption, and had an abortion! How will they tackle this problem and still stay relevant to REAL TEEN LIFE?

  rainmaker: Hahahahaha

  The reply pops up immediately, and a strange warm feeling flutters in my chest. Other people laugh, but rainmaker’s response is the one that does it. He’s the most-read fanfic writer for Monstrous Sea. I’ve seen some of his stuff. He’s really funny. Like, really fucking funny. Like, I couldn’t make Monstrous Sea that funny if I tried.

  So him laughing at something I said feels like winning a lottery.

  Then he replies with this:

  rainmaker: PLOT TWIST it was actually Jennifer’s baby. Jane was cheating on Spencer long before this. When the baby is born, they name it J
anifer and live a happy lesbian life in the suburbs and never think about Spencer again.

  I nearly spit water all over my computer screen at “Janifer.” The rest of the threads going on in the chat, all the other voices, fade into the background and my eye only catches rainmaker’s when it appears.

  Fire_Served_Cold: Wait, how did two lesbians have a biological child together?

  rainmaker: Um excuse you no one said it was biologically Jennifer’s. Blood=/=family. Amirite? Anyone?

  LadyConstellation: Sorry, I’m still trying to process “Janifer.”

  rainmaker: Liked that one, did you? ;)

  Oh god, a winky face. The most provocative of all emoticons. A blush creeps over my face and I rub my cheeks to hide it, even though there’s no one here to see. What a confident, cocky bastard. Boys at school never do this to me—I don’t know if it’s because I can see their faces or because they can see mine or what. I only have feelings like this for people I meet online, and honestly, rainmaker’s the first one to drudge them up in a good long while. It’s like in this whole chat, he’s only talking to me. Like two people sitting next to each other on a couch in a crowded party.

  Now, here’s the new issue:

  Do I say anything back?

  My fingers hover over the keyboard. A commercial for acne medication flashes on the TV, then a commercial for the show coming on after Dog Days. I type:

  LadyConstellation: Oh, you know it. ;)

  What a cop-out. At least I got the winky face in there. Maybe it sounds coy enough to make up for the complete lack of cleverness. It’s stupid because that’s what I like about the internet—that it gives you time to think about what you want to say before you say it. But my brain isn’t working right, I’m not sure it’s wise to publicly flirt with someone as LadyConstellation, and I don’t even know who rainmaker is. He could be some forty-year-old living in his parents’ basement with Cheeto dust on his fingers and a collection of vintage Star Wars T-shirts that no longer fit his ever-expanding stomach.