Eliza and Her Monsters(55)

“Are you still upset with us for taking your phone?” Mom asks. Softly, like I might bite her face off.

I shrug. I’m not allowed to say no to her, and I’m not going to lie to make her feel better.

“We don’t do things like that to punish you, you know.”

I’ve already turned to the trees to follow Dad.

“Eliza, I’m trying to talk to you.”

I stop and turn back to face her. She puts her hands on her hips.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says.

“Like what?” I say.

“Like I’m wasting your time. I brought you into this world, the least you can do is listen to me for two minutes.”

“Fine, I’m listening.”

She covers her face with her hands. Smooths back the flyaway strands of her hair. A smear of dirt arcs over her left temple.

“Sometimes . . .” She sighs. Sighing means she wants to launch into what she believes to be a long, heartfelt conversation, and at the end of it, if I don’t agree with her, then I’m an ungrateful child.

“Sometimes,” she says again, “we don’t know what to do with you. Your brothers are easy. They want to play sports and video games and eat a lot of food. They tell us about school and their friends. They’re like your dad and I used to be when we were younger. We never had the internet in high school. We didn’t have smartphones. Even if we did, I don’t think we’d use them as much as you do. Oh—sorry, that sounded terrible. You just spend so much time online, we never know if you’re okay or not. We don’t know what’s going on with you. You’re so quiet, and you spend so much time on your own—when Wallace started coming over, it was a real relief.

“What I’m trying to say is that we don’t feel like we know you anymore. We don’t know what you want.”

She stops and stares and waits.

I say, “Monstrous Sea,” because no other words come to me.

She nods. “And we’re proud of you for that. But . . . is that it?”

I shrug.

“There’s more to life than stories, Eliza.”

She says it like it’s simple. She says it like I have a choice.

There’s the frustration again, hot and ready, and there’s frustration’s best friend, anger, and there are my hands balling into fists and my stomach twisting in a knot and my jaw clenching so hard my molars squeal in protest. Mom takes a step back and then a step forward. She might try to hug me. I don’t want anyone touching me right now.

“I’m going to the lake,” I say, and turn again.

This time she doesn’t stop me.

Sully and Church and Dad are already at the edge of the lake with the fishing supplies. It’s got to be too cold for fish. They’re fishing anyway. Mom goes to join them.

I sit on an outcropping of rock above the lake and try to be angry, but I can’t hold the feeling. I need erupting volcanoes, hurricanes, massive earthquakes. Were I working on Monstrous Sea right now, Orcus’s monsters would bleed from the page in the search for flesh. I need vindication. I do not need little birds twittering over a wide expanse of shimmering lake and a light wind ruffling my hair.

Nature defies my anger. Nature defies every emotion I have. I can’t complain to nature, or appeal to it, or rage at it.

Nature doesn’t care about me.





Monstrous Sea Private Message


6:43 p.m. 21 - Mar -17

MirkerLurker: Finally crawled my way out of hell.

rainmaker: Haha come on, camping’s not that bad. Dirt! Fresh air! CAMPFIRES!

MirkerLurker: I’m convinced there’s something wrong with you. No one should love campfires this much.

rainmaker: Campfires are crackly happiness. So how was it?

MirkerLurker: My parents found out I had my phone and took it away. Wouldn’t let me bring my sketchbook or anything. How big of an issue is it if I have a freaking sketchbook with me?

MirkerLurker: Sorry. I know I shouldn’t be complaining about this. It was only a few days. But they do this kind of stuff constantly, and I don’t understand why they can’t let up.

rainmaker: I think they want to spend time with you. You do have a tendency to zone out when you’re working.

MirkerLurker: So? So do you.

rainmaker: When I say “zone out” I mean I have to shove you out of your seat to get your attention. It’s not exactly normal. I get where they’re coming from—didn’t you say you almost missed Christmas because you were working on something?

MirkerLurker: Well, yeah, but I had to get stuff done. It was really important.

rainmaker: Maybe they have a point. It’s not good to get so intense about things so often. Maybe you should see someone about it.

MirkerLurker: That’s cute. You’re telling me I should see someone.

rainmaker: Real nice, Eliza. I’m trying to help.

MirkerLurker: I didn’t ask for help.

rainmaker: You didn’t have to.

6:55 p.m. 21 - Mar -15

rainmaker: Are you ignoring me now?

7:03 p.m. 21 - Mar - 15

rainmaker: Fine.





CHAPTER 30


On Monday, I stand at my locker and imagine the floor shaking as Wallace stalks down the hallway toward me, parting a sea of students who scramble to get out of his way. He doesn’t look angry. He never looks angry at school. He just looks impassive. Irish Spring wafts over me when he stops two feet away and thrusts a piece of paper under my nose. On it is a single line of his machine-print handwriting.