Eliza and Her Monsters(54)

“Mathletes is for nerds.”

“Sull, there’s something you should know.”

“Don’t say it.”

“You are a nerd.”

“I’m not a nerd. Eliza’s a nerd.”

“Actually, I think Eliza’s a geek. I’ve seen her grades. Compared to us, she’s horrible at school.”

“You’re a nerd for knowing the difference.”

“That’s fine.”

Sully makes no sound, but I can feel him fuming in the darkness. I didn’t know Church could get under Sully’s skin so easily. I didn’t know Sully liked math. I didn’t know either of them were that good at school. I didn’t know Church already knew he was good at singing . . . or that he was interested in musical theater.

I’ve been living with them their whole lives, but until right now, they’ve felt like strangers.

I let my eyes flutter open for only a moment. I lie facing Church; he stares back at me. I close my eyes again. Pretend I saw nothing. Pretend I’m still asleep.

Sully brings up soccer again, trying to revive the conversation, but Church stops responding. Then Sully stops too, and rolls over with a grunt. The tent goes quiet. I wish I had a bowl of hard-boiled eggs. My fingers long for my phone, my computer, my pen, my something. There is so much nothing out here I can’t fathom it. Nothing but dirt and campfire smell and s’mores made with stale graham crackers. Nothing but my brothers, who suddenly look much less like twins.

I don’t sleep well that night.

In all likelihood, my phone would’ve died before the end of the camping trip. That doesn’t make tromping through the backwoods any easier. On the first day we hike over some fairly impressive hills, because Indiana couldn’t manage a mountain or two. I nearly choke on my own spasming lung. Sully and Church make fun of me. On the morning of the second day we visit a few caves, and at least Mom and Dad let me opt out of those—no way will you get me inside somewhere so tight and dark and confined. I don’t care if they’re not actually going spelunking, I’ve seen enough horror movies to know what kind of backward urban legends hang out in caves.

I sit outside the cave and draw Amity and Damien in the dirt with a stick. Neither of them had parents around to tell them what to do or where to go. Someone asked me that once, actually, why so many of the characters don’t have parents. Amity was separated from her family. Faren was an orphan of Nocturne Island. Damien’s and Rory’s parents both died in their early teens. Not all of them were horrible people, either—it wasn’t like I was taking out some subconscious aggression on my own parents. They were just absent.

I don’t know why. Maybe it was something subconscious.

Of course it was. All art is subconscious.

I dig the end of the stick too hard into the dirt, and the tip breaks off. I chuck it across the clearing and find a new one.

I wonder what the fandom is doing. I wonder what Emmy and Max are doing. Emmy’s probably dealing with that asshole calculus professor, and Max is no doubt trying to get his girlfriend back. Or maybe they’re not—maybe Emmy is eating Starburst and watching Dog Days reruns, and Max has dealt with the girlfriend situation and has moved on to more exciting ventures, like rearranging his Power Rangers action figure collection. I’ll be able to find out tomorrow, when Mom and Dad give me my freaking phone back.

Amity and Damien face the same direction, attacking some unknown enemy, so across from them I draw a long-necked sunset riser rearing up, jaw open and fangs extended. The scale is wrong at first, so I wipe it out with my shoe and stand up to draw the sea monster to its true size.

I miss Wallace. I miss Max and Emmy and the fandom too, but I would miss Wallace even if I had my phone and could talk to him. I miss sitting next to him at Murphy’s, boxed against the wall by his big body. I miss the way he dips both ends of his sushi rolls in soy sauce when we go out to eat. I miss how he brushes hair off his forehead with the end of his pen when he’s in the middle of writing—because it’s grown out since October, and he actually has to do that now.

God, it hasn’t even been four days since I last saw him. This is ridiculous. I go to bed thinking about him; I wake up thinking about him. I want to draw him, but I haven’t tried it yet. I used to only feel this way about Monstrous Sea. It’s not like he’s taken that away, either—I still love Monstrous Sea. I’m still obsessed with it. And that makes sense, right? Because I created it. Who isn’t obsessed with the things they create, they love? Ideas are the asexual reproduction of the mind. You don’t have to share them with anyone else.

But Wallace . . . I share Wallace with a lot of people. Wallace isn’t mine any more than I’m his, but I want him. I want to hold him, I want to be near him, I want to crawl inside his mind and live there until I understand the way he works. I want him to be happy.

I wonder what he’d think of this picture I drew in the dirt. He’d probably say it’s good, but I forgot the sunset riser’s horns.

I add in the sunset riser’s horns.

My family exits the cave. Church and Sully charge into the trees, yelling something about the lake. Dad hurries after them, calling at them not to run in the woods. Mom comes last, and her gaze passes over my drawing before I manage to swipe my foot through the middle. Big, arcing foot swipe. Damn giant sea monster.