school. Leaves dance over the empty courts in the chilled breeze. I told Mom I’d pick up Sully and Church after school so I had an excuse to hang out with Wallace. We’re on opposite sides of our bench, turned to face each other.
“I think that’s why they call it a breakthrough. It cracks you open and lets light in.”
He looks up and smiles. “Yeah. Exactly.”
He has dimples. Sweet Jesus, dimples. I want to stick my fingers in them. He looks very cozy in his sweater and coat and knitted hat with the strings hanging down and the little puffball on top. I’m not cold, but I could be warmer.
“Do you ever write your own stuff?” I ask. “Instead of fanfiction?”
“Sometimes,” he says, “but I don’t think it’s as good as my fanfiction. It’s easier with fanfiction. Fanfiction is just playing with someone else’s characters and settings and themes. I don’t worry if it’s any good because it’s fun. But when I try to write something of my own, it’s just . . . constant worry. It never seems good enough.” He picks at his papers. “Do you ever draw anything besides MS fan-art?”
“Sometimes,” I say, and we share another small smile. “Monstrous Sea is all I’m really interested in right now.”
“Could I see some of your pictures? The Monstrous Sea ones, I mean. I glanced at them that one day, but I didn’t get a chance to look.”
I’ve read his fanfiction; it seems unfair not to let him see some of my drawings. The front of my sketchbook, held safely under my hands on my lap, is stuffed with loose-leaf sketches of Monstrous Sea characters and places. It’s concept art, but to Wallace it would look like practice and interpretations. I slide a few of them out, check to make sure none of them are sketches for actual comic pages, and hand them over.
Wallace takes his time. Like everything, his examination is slow and methodical. He scans the picture, lingering on some spots; he slides a finger between that page and the next to separate them, then lifts the top one off; he replaces it carefully on the bottom of the stack, and when all the papers are lined up again, looks at the next one.
“I’m thinking about putting the transcription up on the forums,” he says. “To see what people think.”
“They’d love it.” It won’t be just for me anymore if he does that, but maybe that’s good. Maybe I’ll stop feeling so guilty for not telling him who I am.
He glances up. “You should post these online. You’ve gotten closer to LadyConstellation’s style than anyone I’ve ever seen before. These are amazing.” He turns to the next page. “Oh, wow. I really like this one.”
I sit up on my knees to see over the edge of the paper. It’s a sketch of Kite Waters I did in class the other day because I couldn’t stop thinking about Halloween. Kite wears a torn Alliance uniform, bloodied from battle, holding her saber defiantly at her side.
“You can keep it, if you want,” I say.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not going to do anything with it.”
“Put it up online.”
I ball my hands in my sleeves. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to. It makes me nervous.”
“You shouldn’t have anything to be nervous about—they’re amazing. Everyone will love them.”
I shake my head. He can’t know, of course, that I’m not nervous about people rejecting them, but about someone linking anything I post as MirkerLurker to LadyConstellation. Plus, I don’t know, these pictures are for me. They’re concepts, half-formed thoughts. They’re not polished and ready for the world, and I don’t want anyone to see them. I’m half convinced the only reason Monstrous Sea has done so well is because I’m a stickler for perfect pages. Plot, lines, colors, characters. My fans deserve the best-quality work I can give them. I know that’s not the whole reason, but it’s got to be at least part.
“Okay.” He hands the other pictures back to me and keeps the one of Kite Waters. Smiles at it again. “Thank you. Do you mind if I show this to Cole and Megan and the others? They won’t share it if I ask them not to, but this is just so cool—I have to show it to someone who gets it.”
“Sure, I guess.” If Wallace says they won’t share it, then I believe him. They’re nice people, anyway. Even I can tell that much.
The buses begin