The Art of Us

by Hilaria Alexander

  I knew how expensive it was because we’d bought it while we were shopping together. In the corner opposite from the door, there was a small charcoal-gray sectional paired with a large cobalt-blue area rug with a geometric pattern.

  “Hey, Lena. Please take a seat,” Marty said, motioning to the empty spot next to Amos.

  “What’s this about? What’s he doing here?”

  “Lena, be nice. Amos is here to talk about something you two did together, something that could be really, really good for us. I’m really excited to talk to you about it.”

  This couldn’t possibly have anything to do with our sketches…could it?

  “What is it, Marty?”

  “Amos showed me what you two have been working on. I was taken aback, I admit. It’s really good. It’s obviously neither of your styles, but it looks so much like the original, so much like Ishikawa’s work, I almost can’t tell the difference,” he said with an honest laugh, a smile stretching across his face. He grinned at me like a proud big brother, even though there was merely one year of age difference between us.

  “Okay…well, thanks. Glad you like it. If that’s all you have to say, I’ll go back to my desk now.” I didn’t even glance at Amos. I didn’t understand why he’d had to go say something to Marty. I thought it was just between him and me, thought it was just our little thing. I thought he was doing it for me.

  Amos remained silent at my side, but as soon as I stood up, Marty told me to sit down again.

  “I’m not finished, Lena. See, Amos told me a few days ago about you two writing Aiko fanfiction and I was…impressed, for lack of a better word. I also wanted to try something out, so I convinced Amos to post what you guys had done so far.”

  “Post where?” I asked as a bad feeling made my stomach sink.

  “Online, obviously—on our site,” Marty said with an easygoing smile.

  “I can’t believe you did this to me. Those drawings were supposed to stay between the two of us,” I fired back, looking in Amos’ direction. He looked slightly remorseful, while Marty ignored my icy words and handed me a tablet, making me look at a Facebook post from Paz Media that had been shared almost ten thousand times in roughly thirty-six hours.

  That was…unprecedented.

  I knew all too well that our posts weren’t usually that popular—not even close.

  “How did I miss this? How did I not see this post?” I asked.

  “I blocked you,” Marty replied.

  “You blocked me?”

  “Yes, from seeing anything from our page. It was an experiment, you see, and I’m quite pleased with it.”

  “Marty, this doesn’t make any sense at all. Why would you post this online? Why would you hide it from me?”

  “Because we knew you would react like this.”

  “We, huh?” I said, narrowing my eyes, glancing at Amos and then glaring at Marty.

  I can’t believe you hid this from me, I wanted to say to both of them.

  Marty’s blue eyes grew softer, almost pleading, but I felt betrayed. I scrolled through the comments.

  There were a few mean ones, but most of them were positive, asking for more material, saying how much they would love to read more. Many people commented saying Aiko was one of their favorite manga and wondering if we knew when it’d be making a comeback.

  “Look at the comments. Look at how many times the post has been shared—and there’s more,” Marty said. He paused, and I raised my eyebrows in anticipation, waiting for whatever else he needed to tell me. “We had a two hundred percent increase in traffic on our website. You know that the more traffic we draw, the more we can sell and promote our comics.”

  “So, what’s your point?” I snapped.

  “My point is…I want you two to keep doing this.”

  “No,” I said firmly.

  “Lena,” Amos chided.

  “No, Amos. This was not something for public consumption. This was just something you were helping me with…a passion project of sorts. I have no intention of putting up with the backlash from Ishikawa’s fans.”

  “Who says there will be backlash? The majority seemed pretty thrilled,” Amos said. I shook my head and closed my eyes. When I reopened them, I glared at Marty.

  “How would you even get away with putting this up on the website?”

  “You classify it as fanfiction and make no profit from it.”

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this, Marty. Besides, what are we talking about here? You want us to concentrate on working on fanfiction and put our other work aside?”

  “No, I’m asking you to keep doing it just like you have been—for yourself, with the only purpose of giving this story the ending it deserves. God knows we might never get one from Ishikawa herself. Try to get me a few pages every week. You two work together on it during your spare time and we’ll see where it goes. There are people who make a pretty penny out of what started as fanfiction. Take all those ladies writing Twilight fanfiction, for example—many of them turned their fan tributes into lucrative careers.”

  “Yeah, but that wouldn’t be the case here, since we are clearly trying to imitate Ishikawa’s style. So, the only one benefiting from all this would be you.”

  “Which would mean that you, my dear, would get to keep your job. You know we have to try to be one step ahead of the market—two, if possible.”

  “What do you know about Twilight fanfiction turned into novels, anyway?” I asked in a teasing tone.

  “Please, Lena. I’m in the publishing business. I might deal with comics, but studying the industry trends is my job. So, do you two agree? Do we have a deal?” Marty asked, his eyes dancing between Amos and me.

  I turned to him. He was resting his forearms on his knees, fingers laced together, and he looked at me sheepishly, almost as if he was afraid of me.

  “You’re okay with this?”

  “If you are,” he replied in a gentle tone.

  “Why? You know why it matters to me, but what does it matter to you?”

  AMOS

  “Of course it matters to me. It’s a challenge. No one else has dared to do something like this. You know as well as I do that there are millions of fans out there who have been waiting to read what happens next, just like you have. Think about all the readers out there who have been wondering what’s going to happen to the two Aikos, wondering if they’ll ever find each other again.”

  Those were all valid reasons, reasons I believed in, but there was part of me that knew it was much more than that.

  I needed to do it because I wanted to get closer to her. I wanted to get to know her better, and this seemed to be the only way, but there was something else, too. I knew something tormented her, something she hadn’t talked to me about yet.

  She didn’t trust me, and ever since the wedding, she didn’t seem to like me much anymore. I could see the disdain on her face every time we crossed paths.

  It hadn’t been like that before, and I wanted to go back to what we had. I wanted to explore the spark we had now that Olivia wasn’t in the picture anymore.

  Yes, we’d broken up the night of Marty and Violet’s wedding.

  Part of me wanted to tell Lena, but the other part thought it would only make things worse. I needed her to trust me, needed her to open up to me.

  I feared if I told her about Olivia, she’d run away like she had before.

  She didn’t do relationships, and since I had just gotten out of one myself, it didn’t seem like a great idea to pursue her right away.

  “Fine, I heard what you have to say, but I need to speak to Marty alone about this, please,” she said. Her blue eyes were ice cold and reproachful.

  I knew arguing was pointless, so I gave her the privacy she asked for.

  “I hope you change your mind about this, Lena,” I said as I passed her on my way out.

  “Go fuck yourself, Amos,” she muttered under her breath.

  LENA

  “You need to let this
stupid idea go. Besides, I was just about to tell you I had an idea for an amazing new story before you dumped this pile of shit on me. Here’s my pitch: two world-famous pop singers are engaged in an endless feud that’s already gone on for ten years, but there’s a catch: they have only been pretending for the media. In real life, they are good friends. The comic explores how they are able to manipulate the press and never let anyone find out.”

  Marty’s eyes lit up with interest, and for a minute there I thought I’d be able to distract him from the stupid fanfiction project, but I was out of luck. He was persistent about it, once again listing all the reasons it would be beneficial for all of us.

  In the next hour, Marty and I had a long heart-to-heart conversation—well, it was more an argument than a conversation. By the time five o’clock rolled around, we still couldn’t agree, and Violet suggested we go bowling to ease the tension.

  I agreed, even though I was shit at bowling; with how the day had turned out, throwing some heavy balls around sounded like a really good idea.

  Surprisingly, Violet beat both Marty and me, and somehow we convinced her to pay for our dinner.

  We had ramen at a place on Ankeny Street, and it was so good that it reminded me of ramen I’d had back when I was in Japan.

  It reminded me of the very first apartment Maggie and I had lived in, right across from one of the many ramen places that colored the streets of Tokyo.

  I still remembered the ramen chef from the store on our street.

  I had watched him go through the motions of his day so many times, and I was in awe of the whole process.

  I regretted never going there. When we first arrived, we were having trouble getting money out of the local ATM machines—no one had told us that only a foreign bank’s ATM would give us cash. For weeks, we had to save up the cash we had on us so we could make rent, and we would barely have one or two hundred yen a day for food.

  This went on until we got a part-time job at a restaurant, and around the same time we found out that a certain American bank in Omotesando would allow us to get money out of our bank accounts.

  Marty was trying to be extra nice to soften the blow he’d inflicted, and after dinner we ended up back at their place, slouched on their couch, re-watching Master of None. We particularly loved the black-and-white episode inspired by The Bicycle Thief where Aziz Ansari’s character, Dev, said the Italian word allora at least twenty times. We laughed and laughed as we downed beer after beer and passed a joint around.

  A while later, we were on one of the later episodes, and I started drawing connections between myself and the characters on the show.

  I wished I could have been the kind of girl who wasn’t afraid to love someone.

  I wished I could have gone back to the time when Amos and I had a chance.

  Amos could have loved me back, but I had let that chance slip through my fingers.

  He said he liked you, I told myself. Whatever he said didn’t matter, though, because ever since the wedding, he hadn’t been around.

  I had been hoping, waiting for a sign, but his silence had to mean he and Olivia had patched things up.

  I had to forget about him once and for all, but how was I supposed to do that now that Marty wanted us to work together?

  I couldn’t have him, and I shouldn’t have even been thinking about having him.

  I stood up suddenly, feeling a bit dizzy.

  “It’s late. I think I’m going to go home,” I said.

  “Are you sure you’re okay to ride your bike? Shouldn’t you call an Uber, instead?” Marty asked.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll ride slow. I promise, Pop.” I raised three fingers up, Boy Scout style.

  “Pffff!” Violet chimed in, a bit high. “You were not, nor will you ever be, a Boy Scout.”

  “Duh!” I shrugged and shook my head, but she didn’t even look at me. In fact, she looked a moment away from falling asleep.

  “Can I come in an hour late tomorrow, boss?” I turned around to Marty.

  “Artists!” he shouted dramatically, waving his hands around, eyes closed and face pulled in a half-grimace. “I have a company to run. Do you think I can show up late?” he said in a wannabe-Italian accent, nose scrunched up.

  I replied with an expression of disgust.

  “Is that your DeNiro?”

  He kept nodding, trying to imitate the actor, still waving his right hand around.

  “It’s terrible! Good grief! I’m out of here! Ciao!” I said, mimicking Dev’s accent.

  “Lena, wait! Am I forgiven for today? Are you going to be okay with this?”

  “I guess so. Don’t force it, Marty. Give me some time to get used to the idea.”

  “Sure. Whatever you need,” he mumbled in a pseudo-Italian accent. When I turned around, he looked as if he was ready to pass out on the couch next to Violet.

  It was much too late, and they were two grown adults who should have been taking their asses to bed.

  “Go to bed, you two!” I told them before closing the door behind me.

  I stepped outside Marty and Violet’s apartment building and walked into the street, smelling the scents the rain had brought out. I could smell the grass, the asphalt, and something else in the air. I put on my helmet and mounted my bike.

  I started pedaling through the misty evening. It was a perfect Portland night. It was late on a weekday, which meant things were eerily quiet on every road and neighborhood I passed with my sleek road bike. I could only hear the occasional car passing by and the swoosh of my tires hitting the water that had accumulated on the asphalt.

  I rode by my favorite bookstore, Powell’s City of Books on West Burnside Street, regretting the fact that it was too late and I didn’t have time to stop. I kept riding, wide-awake despite the drinking and smoking. The chilly air hitting my cheeks kept me on high alert.

  There was something I loved so much about riding around town at night, and especially in this kind of weather. It was a cathartic experience, one that could only be made better by a light, misty rain coming down like a shower to cleanse me of my worries.

  I wished rain could wash away everything—my past, my guilt, my sins.

  It never worked.

  LENA

  For the next few months, Paz Media was the talk of the town.

  Or, more accurately and more fortuitously, it was the talk of the entire internet.

  The traffic to our website had increased of a whopping four hundred percent.

  Everyone loved fanfiction, apparently. There were Ishikawa fans all over the world that were as starved as I was for a conclusion to the manga.

  I couldn’t deny that part of me was happy about the buzz, even though I had been reluctant at first. It’s always exciting when someone appreciates what you do.

  Paz Media’s Facebook page, my page, and Amos’ all skyrocketed in number of likes, and we found ourselves gaining quite a few readers.

  As more fans started getting word about the free Aiko fanfiction published on our site, the media took note. Buzzfeed and HuffPost articles followed, and suddenly I found my name tagged and retweeted more times than I really cared for.

  I was just waiting for the backlash and impending doom.

  These days, everyone had a problem with everything.

  Everyone had an opinion about everything.

  I was just waiting for the moment someone would rip both me and Amos to shreds. Strangely enough, besides a few snarky comments from some of our peers, it didn’t happen.

  Paz Media, in the meanwhile, was making bank off this marketing strategy. My sales of Switch reached record numbers.

  Once again, my boss had been right. Damn him.

  When I agreed to do this, I had specific requests. I demanded I be the one leading the project. It had been a risk, because more than anything I was afraid of the backlash and didn’t want my career to be tarnished by it.

  Still, it seemed stupid to let the guy I had a crush on take charge. I wasn’t going
to be second-in-command, especially not for something I had started before Amos meddled in my business.

  However, I had been naïve. I thought publishing fanfiction to the website was the end of it. I never could have imagined what came next.

  The Japanese publisher was equally desperate to give Aiko an ending, and after months of our names floating around the web, they contacted Marty about bringing us on board to work alongside Ishikawa to finish the manga.

  It was the most unbelievable thing I had ever heard.

  I refused to believe it. I just couldn’t fathom it.

  “Why are you going along with this, Marty? You know just as much as I do that it sounds insane,” I rebuked.

  “Do you realize what this means for our company, Lena?”

  “Your company.”

  “Yours, too. It’s the place where you work. Do you know how much traffic on the site has increased since we started posting your fanfiction?”

  “No American—no Westerner is allowed to draw manga. It’s like a huge taboo. You know as well as I do how much it’s frowned upon. We’re going to get murdered by our peers.”

  “Or they are all going to think you’re insane for passing up one of the biggest opportunities of your life,” he said with a shrug. The corner of his mouth tilted up, giving me what he probably intended as a reassuring smile. How could he be so calm? He knew as much as I did that this situation was borderline sci-fi.

  “Why is Ishikawa even going along with this? How is she okay with any of it? She hasn’t published one page of Aiko in the last eight years, and they’ve obviously been waiting for her to get back to work. If they wanted her to finish the manga so bad, why didn’t they hire Japanese artists to finish it?”

  “I don’t know what the terms are. Maybe she hadn’t signed off on the rights that allowed them to use other people to tell her story. I have no idea. As crazy as this sounds, I honestly don’t care. How many times does something like this happen?” he asked, looking at me expectantly.

  “Never. It has never happened before.”

  “Exactly, which is why we can’t say no. It’s a huge deal. Just think about what it would mean for us, for Paz Media.”