by Anne Zoelle
I looked toward my nightstand and the photo of the two of us that rested on top. I curled my fingers into a fist, then loosened them one digit at a time. I could feel the energy in my skin hum.
I took another deep breath, sat, and unrolled the sketch—clipping the paper to my tabletop easel. Will was crouched defensively in the corner furthest from the slivered opening between the drapes. As soon as he saw me, he jumped up and made large motions with his limbs. The beret was off and stuffed in a back pocket, his dark hair was disheveled, and there was a large tear in the right pinstriped sleeve of his jacket. That hadn't been there earlier. He had been immaculate.
“Are you real?” I couldn't help but whisper.
He replied—a long string of words that were completely silent, but I got the gist of his motions.
“Ok, ok, you are real. And, er, I'm thinking you want out of there?”
Will started pantomiming and doing charades, motioning to me to draw something on the paper.
I looked at the painted walls around my room. Nothing moved there. Ok. I could do this.
He pointed to the tear in his sleeve, then gave me the sign to hurry up. I picked up a pencil, reached forward, and sketched a needle and some thread.
Will looked at me with an expression I could only catalog as contempt bordering on hysteria. He then reached forward, and with his shirtsleeve, wiped clear the lines I had drawn. Unnerved, I set my pencil down.
He motioned to my bag. I glanced down to see the charcoal there. I picked up the thinner of the two pieces—the charcoal pencil. It felt odd in my hand, just as its chunkier counterpart had. Perhaps there was a reason for that.
I redrew the needle and thread with the thin charcoal. One second after I finished, the lines lightened to a dark gray and fell to the ground at Will's feet. There was a gravity field inside my drawing?
Sure. Why not?
Will didn't even bother to look down, so obvious was his distress. He crossed his arms, causing the rip in his sleeve to grow. He seemed to be taking deep breaths. Finally, he poked a finger at the charcoal pencil, then thrust a finger at his own chest.
I poked him with the pencil. The action forced him back a step, his midsection burrowing in with the poke. The drapes rippled behind him, as though the motions had produced a breeze, and the shaded circles drawn on them slowly rotated, as if they were pinwheels affected by the same wind. His eyes widened, and he backed away from the nearest circle.
I blinked, then touched the needle and thread bundle with the pencil tip and focused on moving them. They inched jerkily to the side, the motion becoming smoother as my motions became surer. The charcoal left only a faint trace of gray, and within a few seconds, the farthest point of the line began to disappear, creeping along the rest of the line toward my implement, as if I was drawing with water. I lifted my pencil and the disappearing line caught up and evaporated completely.
I looked at the end of my pencil, then back at the sketch. Will was looking wide-eyed as well. He pulled out his tablet, pushed a button, looked frustrated, and shoved it back into his pinstriped jacket.
He pointed at my pencil, then pointed at himself with one hand, while the other mimicked writing.
“Oh.” I drew him a pencil. As the tip of my charcoal lifted from the paper, the drawn pencil turned a lighter hue and began to fall inside the page. Will caught it before it hit the sketched floor.
He immediately wrote “uoyeraohw” on the invisible wall between us.
I tried to pronounce it. “Uoyeraohw. Hawaiian?”
He crossed out the letters, cheeks turning a shaded gray in embarrassment, then in a very stilted way wrote, “Who are you?” in the other direction, though, the “r” was still backward.
“Ah.” Two way glass. Right. “Write normally. I can read backwards, now that I know what to expect.” I nervously ran a hand through my hair. “I'm Ren.”
“Ren, you okay?” I jumped, but then realized the voice had come through my bedroom door.
“Uh...just video chatting, Dad.”
“Okay.” Feet moved down the hall. It was a testament to how much they wanted to believe I had someone to video chat with.
I examined the drapes for a moment, then nudged the panel on the right so that it overlapped the other. Immediately, some of the tension released from Will, though he still cast it a narrowed glance. He started writing again.
I'm Will. Did you create this drawing?
“Yes.” I bit my lip. “I think so.” It hadn't looked at all like this before Mr. Verisetti had interrupted me. But all of the lines had been styled as if by my hand.
Can you remove me, please?
I reached toward the drawing, ready to be sucked inside, but my fingers crumpled into my palm as they hit a solid surface.
Will's shoulders drooped. Then he looked up sharply, motioning to my charcoal, then at the space next to him. I put the tip in the spot indicated. Will tried to grab hold of the pencil, but his hands slid right off, as if there was a thin layer of slick liquid on the charcoal.
Will peered at my fingers, then lifted his pencil to write. Paint?
I rifled through my bag, but the tube of paint from the classroom wasn't inside. I bit my lip. The tube must have fallen out with the rest of my things. I hadn't paid attention to anything else after Will had been sucked into the sketch. I grabbed for a tube of Cadmium Red. No, too much like blood. I picked up yellow instead. But when I set it to the page, the color slid off like I was painting on wax paper.
Unnerved, I wiped the yellow from my desk with a tissue.
Where is the blue stuff?
“I think it fell out of my bag,” I said softly.
Will's shoulders drooped again. He tried to write something, but the paper wasn't all that large, and his writing had filled the wall between us.
I drew an eraser—a really large one. He gamely began erasing.
I chewed on the end of the charcoal pencil and gagged. I wiped my tongue on the back of my hand, then sorted through my messy desk until I found a large plastic top. Christian had bought them for me years ago.
I stared at the top for a moment, then put it on and slowly started chewing the plastic. I drew a square table and straight chair for Will to use. A little moon and three stars took shape on the white wall to the left side of the closed drapes as I doodled absently. “How did your sleeve get slashed?”
Are you sure the paint isn't in your bag? Please concentrate.
I hated being told to concentrate when I was doodling—as if I wasn't actually thinking. The moon brightened on the page.
“I'm sure. What is behind the drapes?” Looking at them made me anxious. “Do you know?”
No. You are the creator of this world. Don't you know?
“No.” My voice fell to a whisper. Not knowing deeply upset me. I took my memory for granted. I remembered every image I had ever seen. Not remembering my own drawing...?
The stars began twinkling.
He crossed his arms, frowning off to the side.
Yeah, join the club. I hated me too.
One of the twinkling stars hardened, then shot toward Will. I pinned it automatically with my pencil, reflexes saving him. Will overturned the table and ducked behind it narrowly avoiding the other two. The crescent moon, however, had other ideas, and winged its way like a boomerang around the table. I quickly pulled down the star I was holding so it fell to the sketch floor and put the tip of my pencil in the path of the boomerang, spinning it around. It rotated and whacked into the sketch wall.
Mouth agape, I stared, pencil still pressed to the page. Will peered over the edge of the table, gave me a wide-eyed look, then righted the table. He removed the stars embedded in the tabletop and examined them.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
He shook his head and wrote—What you feel makes a difference in here. I could feel the change. Like a weather mage manipulating winds. Focus and intent are a large part of magic.
With my pencil pressed to the pa
ge, as he wrote the words, the letters rearranged themselves so that they were written forward for me.
Focus and intent.
I rubbed the back of my neck. Will could feel the change? Was that why he had been frowning? Because he had felt a change in the air?
Since Christian's death, I had become so used to people being disappointed in me, that I interpreted everyone's emotions as dislike now. Depressing.
The circles on the drapes began rotating. I quickly blanked my thoughts, and they stopped. I needed to...change my attitude.
“I need to figure out how things work in there. Are you hungry?” I had scarfed down dinner in five minutes flat, then quickly excused myself saying I was going to study in my room for the rest of the night, but Will hadn't had anything to eat.
Will looked depressed as he wrote. Yes. Thirsty too.
Not good. I had never been great at those pet games where you had to electronically keep them alive. They always took time away from drawing or from helping Christian—passing footballs or deriving equations together.
“Request?”
Chicken. Simple. Cooked. Focus. Concentrate!
The last was underlined twice.
I tried to concentrate very hard as I drew a chicken breast and glass of water. I could almost taste the chicken and feel the cool water on the back of my tongue as I drew. But I forgot to draw a plate, so the chicken just sort of thumped down on the table.
“Er, sorry.” I quickly drew a plate, knife, and fork so that I didn't have to see his expression.
Will’s first bite was tentative, but then he began eating in earnest, nodding appreciatively.
I sat back, relieved.
Relieved, until a giant, spiked tentacle, like a long, flexible branch of a demonic tree, slithered through the drapes, opening them a crack, and wrapped around the chicken and table, crushing it and dragging it away. I stared, mouth agape. Three more tentacles shot through, one toward Will and two toward me, denting the page outward. I thrust away from my desk and fell back in my chair, hitting the floor hard and breaking the charcoal pencil in two. I grabbed the exposed half-piece and scrambled up. Will was using his knife and fork to ward off tentacle one, but the other two were slithering around him menacingly.
“Ren, are you ok?” Mom yelled.
“Fine,” I shouted at the door, trying to block the tentacles with my charcoal tip, while hunching over my desk. It was a lot harder fighting the tentacles than fighting the stars and moon had been. This new threat seemed outside of my control.
“Are you sure?”
An especially malevolent looking tentacle, armed with a spike at its tip, lunged toward Will, who dove to the side. I hurriedly drew a messy rectangular shield in front of him. The creature’s spike dented the shield, then hurtled at it again.
“Yes, Mom!”
I tried to layer shields around Will, boxing him in and the tentacles out. One slipped through.
“It sounded like you fell.” Her voice was closer now.
Red splattered the black-and-white page. Will let out a silent scream that echoed deep within me. God, I couldn't let someone else die. I scribbled a wall between Will and the branch tentacles, shading it quickly with my bare fingers.
“Ren?”
A tentacle slithered over the top.
“No! No, Mom!” I threw it off the wall with my pencil tip and quickly drew and shaded a higher wall. I nearly sobbed. Why hadn't I thought of creating the wall first? I frantically tried to bandage Will as the tentacles continued to batter the wall. “I'm fine!”
Will was leaning weakly against the wall and there was blood dripping to the floor from beneath my poorly applied bandage. I drew him a sword, far too late. And a medical kit. I concentrated very hard on what would be in one as I drew it.
“Are you sure?”
I swallowed my sob. I had had practice. “I'm sure! I just saw something awful on the Internet.”
One of the tentacles battered through.
“Can I get you anything?”
I sliced through the tentacle with my pencil. Black spewed from both ends. Like hissing snakes, the other two rose in outrage, then lunged toward me. They batted against the barrier between us, denting out the paper.
I furiously sliced them. My eye caught on the needle and thread lying in the other corner. I sliced off the tentacles at the barrier of the drapes and quickly sewed the edges together with haphazard penciled stitches. The now-single drape rippled, as something blasted against it from the other side.
I concentrated on retracing the stitches and closing all gaps completely. The single drape went suddenly still.
“Ren?”
Shaking, I stared at the wreckage inside the picture—broken table pieces and shields, sliced tentacle chunks, puddles of blood—and tried to remember what she'd asked me. “No. No, I don't need anything. I'm fine, Mom. I'll be out in a minute,” I called, my voice a little high.
“Ok.” She sounded uncertain.
My fingers were cramping and stained with black, and I realized I was panting.
Will was shakily trying to open the medical kit. I held my free hand over my mouth and drew an already opened one.
“Your Dad is asking me to make a run for ice cream. Sound good?”
That meant she had heard the half-sob. “Yes. Please.” I watched Will sort through the supplies. I drew a bowl of water and some sterile cloths, then fixed the broken arm on his glasses.
“Ok, I'll be back in fifteen minutes, sweetie.”
“Ok.” She had to hate the closed door. I blinked back tears. Get yourself together, Ren.
I righted my chair with shaking fingers. “Are you ok?” I could barely whisper it to Will, as I heard Mom's footsteps reluctantly walk away. Will had sorted himself out quickly. I had a feeling that danger wasn't new to him, but being helpless was. His injured left arm was now supported in a sling.
He looked at me in a resigned sort of way, then found his pencil and wrote—Yes.
I couldn't stand the silence anymore. I reached down and drew a megaphone. Will's face was blank for a moment, then his expression brightened and he picked it up. “Good thinki—”
I slammed my charcoal covered hand over him as his voice yelled into the loud speaker.
Words emerged in an incensed muffle. Footsteps creaked downstairs but didn't stop.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
“It is doubtful anyone ordinary can hear me,” he said in a moderately loud monotone. “But you can try and fix the level.”
Electricity was running through me, making me sharper. I connected the megaphone to his lips, funneling the tube down drastically, hoping that would lower the volume. Then I flicked the megaphone away with my smudged fingers. Will rubbed his mouth, but when his voice emerged, it was a normal volume and he didn't need the megaphone to speak.
“Well,”—he looked himself over, tweaking his sling—“this both sucks and is the most exciting thing that has happened to me in weeks. The research potential is astounding. I wish I could take notes.” He looked longingly at his tablet, before shoving it back into his inside pocket. “I'm definitely taking an art magic class as soon as I return to school.”
“You go to a school that teaches magic?” I kept my voice low. If overheard, my parents would assume I was still video chatting, but I didn't want them to hear my actual words.
“Of course.”
“Do they teach you how to resurrect people?”
He looked at me strangely. “Medical majors definitely learn. Hey, can you draw some ibuprofen?”
He swallowed the tablets I drew, then asked for a few more supplies, and even though I had to search the Internet, I very carefully drew everything he requested and kept my thoughts focused. My desire for the items to function seemed to go a long way for them to function properly within the sketch world.
I felt incredibly guilty and responsible. “Um, are you still hungry?”
“No,” he said decisively.
“Right.” I laughed uneasily and collected the smaller piece of the charcoal pencil from the floor, shakily removing the plastic chew cap from the top and sticking it on the other piece. The tip was getting dull, so I sharpened it while trying to pull my thoughts together.
I couldn't keep my eyes away from the bloodstains that had dried to a brown crimson—the only color in the sketch.
I rubbed my free fingers together and forced my gaze to my walls. Dungeons, dragons, magic, and mayhem were included in all stylistic forms. Christian had particularly loved anything pertaining to swords and sorcery, so I had included them in everything. He had been so confident that he had roped in everyone around us—even those who had thought it uncool—to liking the magical. He had been the storyteller. The voice that could lead anyone. Ruling the world with a scepter in hand.
“Witches and wizards, sorcerers and sorceresses,” I whispered.
I thought of Mr. Verisetti's prints in the art room—of the boy reaching to the heavens, and the girl reanimating the dead. My eyes caught the photo of my brother and me, arms slung around each other's shoulders.
“We prefer mage, actually, as it represents both sexes equally.” Will was cleaning up the space, moving debris into a corner with his good arm.
“Oh. I like that. Mages, then.” I attempted to help, but none of my many erasers worked. And Will’s eraser on the inside was equally ineffective. It seemed that if I drew it, it was permanent. I tried to focus on deleting things through “magic,” but that didn't work either. The piece seemed creation specific.
But what had happened to the items removed by the tentacles?
“Maybe I need to buy a magical eraser?”
He shrugged, but nodded. “Could be.”
I suggested lifting the drape and shoving everything behind it, but Will wasn't willing to chance opening them even a little. As I moved everything to the corners, he started fashioning weapons by taking broken table legs and making clubs. The sword I had drawn for him was tucked in his belt, close to his side. He kept touching it.