MirkerLurker:I am now concerned about your acquaintanceship with the potheads, but I’m not sure what you want me to do about Wallace’s name.
Apocalypse_Cow:he doesn’t go by Wally or something, does he?
MirkerLurker:He told me Wallace. So that’s what I’m going to call him.
emmersmacks:Are you hanging out with him again
MirkerLurker:I don’t know. Probably. I have to give him his stuff back.
emmersmacks:You better keep us updated
MirkerLurker:On what?
Apocalypse_Cow:I second that.
MirkerLurker:Updated on what?
emmersmacks:I have homework to do
emmersmacks:but when we talk tomorrow there better be some GOOD NEWS
MirkerLurker:GOOD NEWS ON WHAT?!
CHAPTER 10
There is a small monster in my brain that controls my doubt.
The doubt itself is a stupid thing, without sense or feeling, blind and straining at the end of a long chain. The monster, though, is smart. It’s always watching, and when I am completely sure of myself, it unchains the doubt and lets it run wild. Even when I know it’s coming, I can’t stop it.
For example:
I know, when I walk into homeroom and return Wallace’s chapter, that he will probably say thank you—written, of course—and maybe smile a little, and that may be the end of it.
But I feel, standing outside the door, that I will walk in and give Wallace the papers and his eyes will skim over me inindifference because he’s realized he shouldn’t have wasted his time on me. He shouldn’t have asked me to read his work, because we don’t even know each other. Yesterday was a fluke, a bad move on his part. He knows that now. He must. Eliza Mirk is no one, to nobody. They should make that the headline of the Westcliff Star every day.ELIZA MIRK:NO ONE TO NOBODY.
I use my sweatshirt sleeve to wipe my forehead. My freaking eyebrows are sweating, and I can’t even tell Emmy or Max about it. A few people go in the room before me, and I creep inside in their shadows.
Wallace isn’t there yet. I put the pages on his seat and curl up with my sketchbook. I trace the lines on an old drawing, making them too dark and too thick. Wallace arrives a minute later, lumbers in, and grabs the papers before sitting down. He flips through them, stares at the drawing I did in the back over theDoctor Faustusquote. My sketchbook slips out of my hands, and I have to catch it between my legs.
Then Wallace pulls out a new piece of paper. He writes something, then slides it onto my desk.
This picture is really awesome. No comments though?
I close the sketchbook and stop pretending. My writing comes out shaky against the paper.
Just one, but I didn’t want to mess up your nice writing. Gyurhei comes out of the sea to swallow the sun every thousand years, not every hundred.
When he reads this, he covers his face with a hand and shakes his head. I shouldn’t have corrected him. Why did I correct him?
He sends the paper back.
Wow. You are completely right.
Then, below that:
My usual betas wouldn’t have caught that.
Because your usual betas aren’t the creator of the world.
