Fiction Feature

Together

by Cheyenne Zhang

May 2018

He drew in his sketchbook. He drew in his sketchbook, the brand new glossy black one that his dad had gotten him for Christmas even though he’d asked for the newest speediest set of toy cars that made vroom vroom noises as they sped around the track. He drew in his sketchbook even though he’d told his dad ten million times that no, he did not want to draw, and he didn’t want to be an artist even though art was Dad’s favorite thing in the entire world it wasn’t his thing and sorry Dad he just didn’t really like art. He drew in his sketchbook with a cracked, dirty number two pencil that he had picked up off the ground in his classroom when he’d discovered when he opened it for snack time that Dad had stuffed the sketchbook into his backpack and that okay fine he had nothing else to do right then so why not? He drew in his sketchbook, little doodles and lines and circles at first, but as time went on, his lines became straighter and straighter, his circles rounder and rounder, his strokes surer and surer. He drew in his sketchbook, cats and dogs and monsters and aliens and tyrannosaurus rexes. He drew in his sketchbook, the characters from his favorite books and movies and shows and video games, sometimes recreating them exactly as they appeared and sometimes taking the creative liberties to give them new accessories or physical features or putting them in places they didn’t belong. He drew in his sketchbook, Harry Potter at the beach, Indiana Jones walking a dog, Luke Skywalker with extra lightsabers. He drew in his sketchbook everything that passed through his mind, but he made sure that he never showed it to anyone.

He drew in his sketchbook, waiting in the faded red chairs in the lobby for his mom and dad to come out of counseling which they had started going to recently because the yells and screams in the house had become so loud that the rest of the neighborhood could hear and the next-door-neighbor had called and complained and when he found out why there was such a racket he had sympathized and sighed and suggested this man, this man who was “fantastic, just fantastic, did wonders for my daughter and her husband.” He drew in his sketchbook, fat raindrops and thunderstorms and sad faces and dark clouds, burning fires and angry monsters. He drew in his sketchbook while his mom ignored him and his dad yelled at him, burying himself in the world of his pages and shutting everything else out. He drew in his sketchbook sitting on the school bus on the way to school, caricatures of the mean boys who always sat in the back and kicked his seat and hit him on the head and screamed in his ear and pinched his cheeks. He drew in his sketchbook, miniature versions of his teachers with fire coming out of their mouths, with mustaches and unibrows and curly pig tails. He drew in his sketchbook at home, too, but whenever his dad asked to see he would slam it closed and say that he hadn’t been drawing that art was stupid and run to the other room. He drew in his sketchbook, hiding under his blanket with a flashlight as the yells and screams in his parents’ bedroom escalated through the night, scrawling ghosts and demons and monsters in broad strokes and angry slashes across the paper. He drew in his sketchbook, little figures of his classmates, hearts and sparkles around the pretty girl with the pigtails who sat in front of him in class. He drew in his sketchbook, a broken heart and sad faces after he pulled on her pigtails and she’d turned around and glared and snapped at him and told him to get his hands off of her and mind his own business when all he’d meant to do was to touch them and see what they felt like. He’d never touched a girl’s hair before. He drew in his sketchbook rough versions of his dad’s works, copied his beautiful landscapes and sunsets and oceans, but couldn’t get the colors quite right with his set of Crayola colored pencils. He drew in his sketchbook, using the brand new 64-set of Prismacolor pencils that he’d borrowed (stole) from his dad’s studio, finally able to get the same bright lights and dark shadows, the same deep, luscious greens and soft blues. He drew in his sketchbook, no longer able to convince his dad that he didn’t draw and when he asked to see, he showed his dad the pirates and superheroes and aliens but never what really mattered, never the ghosts that haunted his dreams, the demons that chased him in and out of sleep. He drew in his sketchbook while his parents were talking with their lawyer, a big man with big hands and a big head and a big mouth and who always wore a suit and showed papers to his parents talking about “assets” and “splitting” and “custody.” He drew in his sketchbook when his mom told him that she would be moving out and that she wouldn’t be going far, just down the street, but that she and dad didn’t love each other anymore and that everything would be okay he would split his time between them she would still be his mom and he would still be his dad they just would have to live in different houses and see each other at different times. He drew in his sketchbook, a quaint depiction of his mom’s new house with the tulips in the front and the swing on the porch and the small rooms and the smell of “new” everywhere inside and out. He drew in his sketchbook, his imaginary friends who would make the loneliness go away, the loneliness even though he had two parents, two houses, two rooms, two lives.

He drew in his sketchbook, but when he noticed the pigtailed girl peering over his shoulder to try to see what he was doing he closed it quickly, scrambled out of his seat and scurried towards the bathroom. He drew in his sketchbook, a quick drawing of the girl and the tilt of her head and how her eyes had sparkled in the light before tucking the sketchbook away in his backpack, flushing the toilet even though he hadn’t used it, and hurrying back to class. He drew in his sketchbook, making sure the pigtailed girl wasn’t in the room when he did so that she wouldn’t have any chance to be nosy and see what he was doing. He drew in his sketchbook, the tigers and giant pandas and whales and elephants, the endangered species that they had learned about in science class that day. He drew in his sketchbook, and when he took the second to look up and take a stretching break, he noticed the pigtailed girl in front of him drawing pandas and whales too. He drew in his sketchbook, but all the meanwhile peeking at her paper. He drew in his sketchbook, trying out her soft, flowing style. He drew in his sketchbook and she caught him looking at her paper, turned around to see his, and shook her head and began smoothing out his lines and rough edges. He drew in his sketchbook, combining his strokes with hers, but made sure it was still his style, was still what he liked and wanted.

He drew in his sketchbook with her. He drew in his sketchbook with her, trading his pencil back and forth as they, together, created fire-breathing dragons with flowers sprouting out of their backs, castles with long-haired princesses in flowy pink dresses and muscular knights in shining armor to rescue the damsels in distress. He drew in his sketchbook with her the next day, too, continuing their combined story and the characters they created and that came to life on their page. It was nice to draw with someone else, to share with someone else. He drew in his sketchbook with her every day at school after that, sitting on the steps out front or outside the principal’s office or at the swings at recess. He drew in his sketchbook with her during summer break too, sprawled on the field outside the neighborhood pool, him licking a bright red popsicle and her licking a rocket-shaped one, ones that he’d bought with spare change he’d found in his pocket. He drew in his sketchbook with her, lying on the porch swing in front of his mom’s house, watching the sunset, orange and red and pink and yellow streaks across the fading night sky. He drew in his sketchbook with her, finally knowing how it felt to always have someone there for you, to have a best friend through thick and thin. He drew in his sketchbook with her, drew things that he couldn’t say but wanted her to know, and she drew for him too, drew the flower at her mother’s grave, the wine glass in her father’s hand. He drew in his sketchbook with her because even though they went to different middle schools now they still lived in the same neighborhood and she would bike to his house or he would bike to her house and they’d spend the better part of their late afternoons drawing and talking and laughing. He drew in his sketchbook with her, drew himself in a dark cave, drew her stretching her hand out to him and leading him out of the darkness, the loneliness. He drew in his sketchbook with her, his darkest monsters and inner demons, and she drew him rainbows and sunshine and flowers and unicorns and he smiled.

They drew together at his mom’s house, they drew together at his dad’s house, they drew together at the lawyer’s office. They drew together on the sidewalk outside the bar, waiting for her father to come out like he said he would hours ago. They drew together at the police station, at the hospital, at the cemetery. They drew together, sharing more than a drawing, more than a story, but their entire lives, their entire existences. Together, they faced what one could not face alone. Together, they helped each other up when they fell down, pushed each other forward when they stepped back, lent a shoulder to cry on, a friend to rely on. Together, they drew.