Sketch

Prologue: Woes of an Artist

         Line. Dash.

         My pencil dragged across the page, leaving a smeared trail of lead.

         Arc. Curve.

         Frustrated, I crumpled my drawing of a reindeer and threw it across the room. I missed the wastebasket by at least six inches.

         Christmas.

         I didn’t want to remember the holiday. I didn’t want the anniversary of our parents’ deaths to return. I didn’t feel like crying, or cursing alcohol and careless drivers. Instead I doodled in my room—my drawings were the one thing about me my brothers hated. I used to draw behind them while they were engrossed by the TV, sketching quietly in the dim light behind the recliner so they wouldn’t know.

          “Mallory! We’re going to be late again!”

          Growling with annoyance, I squeezed my eyes shut for a few seconds so the burning would dissipate. I faced my door and hollered from my corner niche, “I’m coming!”

          Leaving my sketchpad on the floor, I dragged myself to my feet. Unsatisfied, I filed it away in my sock drawer. I would work on my best creation yet later, the one I would draw to get into art school. I had yet to even start it but I knew I’d get there one way or another. I just had to be careful about leaving my things lying around.

          Sullenly, I consulted the mirror by the door; it told me I looked horrible—straggly brown hair sticking up in every direction, dull grey eyes surveying a sad, gangly girl of about sixteen. I turned and left, thoroughly depressed.

          “Mallory, will you come on!” my older brother Riley shouted.

         Distantly, I wondered why Conor and Aidan weren’t calling as well. Then I remembered they had to go in early today since it was the first day of holiday break. Both of them worked on the street corners selling hot dogs and pretzels, and, sometimes, if they were positioned near the bookstore, Riley and I could get a free soft pretzel on the way to our workplace.

         Sluggishly, dreading the day to come, I slumped out of my bedroom and down the hallway. The apartment my family shared was cold and empty most of the time, seeing as we were either at school or work. It had large, drafty windows, a cramped kitchen, two shabby bedrooms, and a living room. The last in my description was my favorite place to draw when I had the chance—the window offered a spectacular view of New York City despite our second story living quarters. There was a squishy recliner and a TV in the corner, directly across from the view. Despite the lack of cable, I still enjoyed the half hour or so of peace NBC sometimes offered with its various shows.

         “MALLORY THATCHER!”

         I started involuntarily at the shout and sped up my walk, snatching my coat as I hurried through the freezing living room. When I reached the front hall, Riley was already buttoned up, tapping his foot impatiently. He practically yanked my coat on for me and dragged me out the door, down the steps, onto the street. The silence between us was uneasy in the early morning, and continued to build as we jogged down Tenth Street. It was nearly tangible, like a thick wall looming over us, between us.

         “Do you think we’re late?” I asked quietly, hesitant to break down the barrier.

         Riley grunted, shrugged awkwardly.

         By the time we reached Caiman’s Books, it had started to snow. Glistening white flakes drifted down from the cotton ball-white sky; reluctantly, I stepped over the threshold.

         “You’re late,” Mr. Caiman immediately informed us. He jabbed sharply at the clerk’s desk, jerked his head. “Mallory, get over there. Riley, follow me. Now.”

         I exchanged a quick glance with Riley before he scurried off, his shaggy brown head floating above the bookshelves like some sort of hairy UFO. Sighing, I then wandered over to my desk and sat down, the boredom pouncing on my mind. I hung my coat on the back of my chair and withdrew a stub of a pencil and a few crumpled, unfinished doodles.

         Hardly anyone came into Caiman’s Books. Ever. I was always amazed at how long the business had lasted. The inside seemed threadbare no matter where I turned, whether it was the carpet, the chairs, the faded, outdated window displays. The cash register perched on my desk could have been a hundred years old, and through some miracle, it still coughed and spluttered change into my face instead of holding its heavy, metallic silence like it should have. Half the time, my brain spent hours on end swimming in a stupor, scribbling on blank invoices and order forms, giving them custom-made leaden-lattice masks.

         My surprise sent me crashing to the floor, tangled in my chair, when a strange man stuck his face in mine. Shaken, I knelt beside my desk, collecting the scattered (pretty much ruined) business slips, and gazed dully at the customer. “May I help you?”

         He didn’t reply. The man had wispy blonde hair under a woolen black cap. A scarf was snuggled around his neck, the same fabric and color as his headgear. A long, dark overcoat hid any indication of who he might be. The stranger picked up my pencil and examined it carefully, then slid a form from my fingers.

         I blinked blankly. What is he doing? This has to be the weirdest one yet... I wonder if Riley or Caiman know this guy’s here?

         “Did you draw this?” demanded the man abruptly.

         Bells rang in my ears to the accompaniment of blood beating a distracting rhythm. Warily, I replied, “Yeah, why?”

         The man surveyed me silently for a few moments. To say the least, it unsettled me.

         “Er...” I blinked again, shuffling the papers in my hands to snap him out of his trance. “Sir, I...”

         His head jerked to the side as he smiled. “I apologize, miss. My name is Carlo Inganno. I work for the International Institute of Visual Art, or IIVA. My job is to scout out major cities for artists with potential... I just so happened to be walking by when I spotted you drawing at your desk.”

         I stared at him uneasily. “Um, okay. And what did that all mean?”

         Mr. Inganno’s face creased into a warm smile. “It meant,” he explained with surprising patience, “that I am offering you a chance to join our school. I can assure you the board will approve a scholarship after seeing your brilliant creations.” I blushed slightly, averting my eyes. “May I have your name, young lady? I need to file it for the board, so they can contact you later on this week.”

         “Mallory,” I mumbled, still staring at the deteriorating threads binding the carpet. “My name is Mallory Thatcher.”

         Just as the man was about to reply, Riley walked in looking annoyed. He stopped dead in his tracks, vaguely surprised. He shrugged and brushed the hair from his eyes, shuffling over to join us. “I take it Mal’s providing satisfactory assistance?” he asked, quoting the “Employee Policy,” section thirteen, “Interactions with Customers.”

         Mr. Inganno set my pencil down to examine Riley instead. He glanced between my brother and me as if studying a painting of modern art. “I believe I am correct in saying you are siblings?”

         Riley and I shrugged in unison. “Yeah,” I told the man, “this is Riley, my older brother.”

         “Pleasure to meet you, Riley; I am Carlo Inganno of the International Institute of Visual Arts, or IIVA. I have been discussing the possibility of Mallory joining our ranks. She has great talent,” he added, winking at me. I cocked an eyebrow at my brother’s uncertain look behind the man’s back. “Anyway,” Mr. Inganno went on, “would it be possible for me to give her a tour of the school? You may come along if you--”

         “We’re working.” The bluntness of Riley’s reply put the man off for a moment.

         “Aah, yes, of course.” Mr. Inganno turned to look at me again, his faded blue eyes curious. “When do the two of you get off work?”

         Riley mumbled incoherently, so I stated, “We usually get off at four, but we’ll have to let Conor and Aidan know.”

         The curiosity in his eyes intensified. “What about your mother and father?”

         I opened my mouth, but my tongue became clumsy suddenly, and I couldn’t speak correctly. Riley dropped his gaze. He had been particularly close to Dad. “Umm... They... We’re, er, on our own,” I stammered. Vivid flashes of memory were clouding my vision. Bright lights were blinding me as sirens went off in my mind... Sobbing, weeping all around me...

         “Oh. Oh, I see. I am very sorry to hear that, Mallory.” I couldn’t understand the strange glint in the man’s eyes, so I swallowed instead, fighting back the bubbly feeling in my chest. “I will drop by around four o’clock. You may use my cell phone if need be.” Mr. Carlo Inganno smiled once more before nodding, vanishing outside into the whirlwind of white.

         Excitement simmered in the pit of my stomach as I turned to Riley. “Did you hear that? He thinks I have talent; he wants me to join a special art school!” I grabbed my brother and hugged him hard around the neck. “May I please check it out? If I can hit it big, we might get to quit these stupid jobs--”

         “Stupid?” demanded a voice. “Mallory, why didn’t you finish the accounting? Why were you holding a pointless conversation?” Mr. Caiman came into view, apparently angry. He strode over to us and crumpled my doodles. “So you think you can get paid for doing absolutely nothing? If you want to ‘hit it big’ so badly, then you’re fired! Go hit it somewhere else! I am sick and tired of late, slacking employees!” He spun to face Riley, eye twitching. “And you’re fired as well! Out, both of you!”

         I hurriedly seized my coat, glancing back at Riley; he was arguing heatedly with the manager.

         “What do you mean? You can’t possibly be serious! It’s just days before Christmas!”

         “I don’t care! You’ll no doubt find a way to slack even more! Out, out, OUT!”

         I grabbed Riley before he could retort, dragging him out of the store.

         Once outside in the cold, Riley angrily pinned me against the cold brick. “What were you thinking? That was the third job in a month! Mallory, you need to get a grip. You may have the talent, but drawing on our boss’ order forms and talking to strangers simply isn’t smart!” He shoved me into the wall one last time and turned away, sighing in frustration. When he tried to apologize he found he was talking to a brick wall instead.

         “MALLORY!” he screamed after me, but I was already pounding down the street, sprinting in the direction Inganno had gone. Tears froze on my face, and I got a hard elbow to the ribs from an annoyed shopper.

         “Mr. Inganno!” I slid along the curb, sharply turned a corner. “It wasn’t my fault,” I whispered in between choking sobs. “It wasn’t my fault!” I tripped and fell on a pile of shopping bags, but didn’t bother to rise. I just lied there, weeping icicles onto salt-coated cement. Strong, warm, hands gently lifted me to my feet after an icy eternity. My hair was soaked through, snow woven into the stiff strands. My frozen hands had stopped shaking long ago.

         “I see you changed your mind,” murmured the stranger from IIVA. He helped me into a heated car that bore a detailed crest. He smiled and handed me a sweater from the front seat. “Do you need to call your brothers?”

         I looked up, dashing the tears from my lashes. In the rearview mirror, I could see Riley’s frightened face drawing closer, people parting before him, like a shark fin slicing through a sea of swimmers. Determinedly, I looked Mr. Inganno right in the eye.

         “N-no.”

         I was getting my scholarship. I was getting my life’s dream for free... or so I thought.