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Micah’s number stares up at me from the page, accusingly, so I quickly flip past it to my more recent sketches. I’ve been picking up where we left off in the cafeteria, working to bring his main character to life. I don’t know anything about comics, but Micah’s passion and vision has totally sucked me in. It sounded like there’s a whole series he’s working on, but his main character is a teenage boy blessed (or cursed?) with a nefarious genetic mutation. He was experimented on by the government and now has the ability to switch between designations at will. I’m still not entirely clear what kind of special ability that translates to, but his mission is to take down the evil government agencies that created him.
I’ve drawn out a few different options based on the description Micah gave me. Young, dangerous, and driven, but still a little nerdy. I’m not sure how much his physical body changes along with his designation, but I went ahead and mocked up alpha, beta, and omega versions. I even started playing around with different color schemes. Are all comic-book heroes supposed to have some sort of crime-fighting suit? A cape doesn’t feel right, but I don’t know if Micah had anything in mind for his character’s clothes.
I go to start another sketch, but then stop. I’m being ridiculous. I’m eighteen, almost nineteen, now. There’s no reason for me to be hiding from a cute boy like I’m back in middle school.
Time to put on your big-girl panties, Espy.
I grab my phone and start snapping pictures, then I flip back through my sketch pad until I find Micah’s number. I agonize over what to say. Do I explain? Apologize? Pretend I’ve been sick? Blame Lincoln?
I eventually decide onnone of the above. Instead I select two of my favorite sketches and hit send before I have the chance to change my mind.
Jiminy Cricket. My heart’s beating harder than it was during my workout earlier. How pathetic.
I leap up from the couch and go to the kitchen to get a cookie. Distracting myself with sugar sounds like the perfect idea. When there’s no response after five minutes, I grab another one.
I’ve basically gone out of my mind when I finally hear the ping. Nearly forty-five minutes after I sent my text! I try to be cool, ignoring it while I finish reading the paragraph I was on in my SAT prep book, but that only buys me a few seconds. I hold my breath as I unlock the screen, letting it out in a rush when I see Micah’s number staring back at me from my inbox. I click on the message with a slightly shaky hand.
M: Hi :-)
Hi.Hi?What am I supposed to do with that? Before I can spiral too far, another message comes through.
M: I’m glad you texted.
M: I was beginning to think you were just a figment of my imagination.
That makes me smile.
E: Who says I’m not?
M: Not a chance. My brain is incapable of thinking up those drawings. You have an incredible talent, Espy.
I blush, thankful he can’t actually see me turning red through the phone.
E: Those are just some options. You don’t have to use them or anything.
M: Too late, they’re mine. Verbal claim. It’s binding, ask any lawyer ;-)
M: Do you have any more?
I bite my lip. Will he think I’m crazy if I show him how many sketches I’ve actually done? Taking a deep breath, I send over the other pictures I took. There are twenty-one in total.
I wait, expecting a reply, but it doesn’t come. I check my phone, wondering if I somehow lost service. Nope. I close my messaging app then open it again. I stand up, sit down, then stand up again. I grab a glass of water.
What happened?
I’ve just convinced myself he hates them when my phone rings, making me jump.Caramba!It’s him.
“H-hello?” I try not to sound as nervous as I feel, but I doubt I succeed.
“Esperanza Middle-Name Alvarez. These. Are. Amazing. Holy shit!” His voice is warm and excited, and I immediately feel at ease.
“Iliana.”
“Iliana?”
“My middle name,” I clarify, grinning.
“Right. Sure. Don’t try to distract me. Your drawings are like ... like ... I don’t even have words. Where were you five years ago when teenage me thought it was a good idea to enter one of my comics in the local ‘new authors’ competition and the judges put it in the eight-to-ten-year-old category?”
