said. “We both know you tricked me into that.”
Charlie’s grin came back. “You were hilarious.”
“That was dangerous.”
“And amazing.” He shook his head. “And weird. And so fucked up.”
“Listen, I need you to keep that between us.”
“I mean, you were like, ‘I’m joyful, guys, I feel joyful. ’ ”
“Charlie. I’m asking as a favor.”
“You’re a trip, man.” He went back to the notebook in his lap. “Don’t worry about it. That’s not my style.”
Anders stood for a moment, watching the boy work. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said finally. “I know you tricked me but—it was wrong. So, I don’t know, sorry.”
Charlie squinted at him. “Nobody’s blaming you, dude.”
“Yeah, well.” The boy is hurt, he kept hearing in Howard’s sad bassoon of a voice. The boy is hurt. “I hope you get better.”
From the elevated platform of his bed, Charlie seemed to acknowledge, with a flick of his head, that so much of what people say when others are sick is for themselves. They get religious and apologetic; they’re overcome with the people they believe they should be. He didn’t know what he was looking for from the kid—forgiveness? absolution? a confirmation of his total innocence?—but in any case, the boy didn’t look up.
“What are you working on?”
“Just a thing.”
“Can I see?”
He handed him a sketchbook with a fake leather cover that had peeled down to the cardboard. Inside there were pages of drawings; it was a comic book, some frames no bigger than stamps, others filling a full spread, torn out, and glued over. In the grand tradition of so many comics, the opening image was a view from outer space, the Earth a glowing mass with a tiny pod hurtling away from it.
“Are you making a superhero thing?”
Charlie sighed and rubbed his forehead. “It’s a graphic novel.”
The following page was a rendering of the inside of the capsule, a huge control panel and a tiny window and, strapped to a table in the back, unable to touch any of it, a little dog covered in sensors.
“It’s about Laika.”
“That’s sweet.”
“You know what, man?” said Charlie, reaching for the sketchbook. “Forget it.”
“Hang on,” said Anders. “This is good.”
“You know what the scientist in charge of that project said about it forty years later? He was one of those Soviet guys with a goatee and a lab coat, and he said, ‘Nothing that we learned on that mission could justify the loss of that beautiful animal.’ ”
“Really?”
“Google it. Laika was a stray and the scientists became really close to her. They, like, raised her.”
Anders looked back at the page, the dog strapped down to that table. “That’s heartbreaking.”
“I know, ” he said. “That’s why there are a billion books about her. They lied and said she crashed in the ocean but she really burned alive in the atmosphere. But in my book, Laika’s still floating out there and Oleg—that’s the scientist—is old now and living in post-Soviet Russia, all poor and shit, and one day he turns on the old equipment and hears Laika’s heartbeat.” Charlie raised his eyebrows. “She’s still out there, waiting for him.”
Despite being the sort of people who had little interest in the arts, the sort of people who couldn’t enter a museum without whispering, I mean, I could do that, Sophie and Mitchell had somehow produced two of the most creative kids Anders knew, kids who had built their independence by retreating into the parts of themselves their parents least understood.
“So what happens?”
Charlie shrugged. “That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m gestating.”
“Wouldn’t he try to rescue her?”
Charlie smiled. “Maybe. Or, I don’t know. Maybe it’s not that kind of book.”
The door opened then and Sophie came into the room with a tall Starbucks cup and a pair of sunglasses on her head. “Charles Ashby, what did we
Charlie’s grin came back. “You were hilarious.”
“That was dangerous.”
“And amazing.” He shook his head. “And weird. And so fucked up.”
“Listen, I need you to keep that between us.”
“I mean, you were like, ‘I’m joyful, guys, I feel joyful. ’ ”
“Charlie. I’m asking as a favor.”
“You’re a trip, man.” He went back to the notebook in his lap. “Don’t worry about it. That’s not my style.”
Anders stood for a moment, watching the boy work. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said finally. “I know you tricked me but—it was wrong. So, I don’t know, sorry.”
Charlie squinted at him. “Nobody’s blaming you, dude.”
“Yeah, well.” The boy is hurt, he kept hearing in Howard’s sad bassoon of a voice. The boy is hurt. “I hope you get better.”
From the elevated platform of his bed, Charlie seemed to acknowledge, with a flick of his head, that so much of what people say when others are sick is for themselves. They get religious and apologetic; they’re overcome with the people they believe they should be. He didn’t know what he was looking for from the kid—forgiveness? absolution? a confirmation of his total innocence?—but in any case, the boy didn’t look up.
“What are you working on?”
“Just a thing.”
“Can I see?”
He handed him a sketchbook with a fake leather cover that had peeled down to the cardboard. Inside there were pages of drawings; it was a comic book, some frames no bigger than stamps, others filling a full spread, torn out, and glued over. In the grand tradition of so many comics, the opening image was a view from outer space, the Earth a glowing mass with a tiny pod hurtling away from it.
“Are you making a superhero thing?”
Charlie sighed and rubbed his forehead. “It’s a graphic novel.”
The following page was a rendering of the inside of the capsule, a huge control panel and a tiny window and, strapped to a table in the back, unable to touch any of it, a little dog covered in sensors.
“It’s about Laika.”
“That’s sweet.”
“You know what, man?” said Charlie, reaching for the sketchbook. “Forget it.”
“Hang on,” said Anders. “This is good.”
“You know what the scientist in charge of that project said about it forty years later? He was one of those Soviet guys with a goatee and a lab coat, and he said, ‘Nothing that we learned on that mission could justify the loss of that beautiful animal.’ ”
“Really?”
“Google it. Laika was a stray and the scientists became really close to her. They, like, raised her.”
Anders looked back at the page, the dog strapped down to that table. “That’s heartbreaking.”
“I know, ” he said. “That’s why there are a billion books about her. They lied and said she crashed in the ocean but she really burned alive in the atmosphere. But in my book, Laika’s still floating out there and Oleg—that’s the scientist—is old now and living in post-Soviet Russia, all poor and shit, and one day he turns on the old equipment and hears Laika’s heartbeat.” Charlie raised his eyebrows. “She’s still out there, waiting for him.”
Despite being the sort of people who had little interest in the arts, the sort of people who couldn’t enter a museum without whispering, I mean, I could do that, Sophie and Mitchell had somehow produced two of the most creative kids Anders knew, kids who had built their independence by retreating into the parts of themselves their parents least understood.
“So what happens?”
Charlie shrugged. “That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m gestating.”
“Wouldn’t he try to rescue her?”
Charlie smiled. “Maybe. Or, I don’t know. Maybe it’s not that kind of book.”
The door opened then and Sophie came into the room with a tall Starbucks cup and a pair of sunglasses on her head. “Charles Ashby, what did we
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