Page 2 of Drawn Together

Two

Word of the day: Lacuna

Definition: a blank space, or a missing part

Turns out, I didn’t need that muffin to get started on this commission piece. Half of a dried out chocolate croissant and a can of diet coke are equally effective.

I have been saying over and over today that the encounter doesn’t matter—that it’s no big deal. My mom's voice rings in my ears, reminding me: You can’t control others, Flora, only you.

I’ve had my fair share of opportunities to unknowingly scare people off.

That lady who was sleeping on the Staten Island Ferry that I accidentally woke up by humming too loud?

No biggie, I get it. The homeless man snarling at me when I gave him my lunch?

Fair. The friends I have attempted to make at my part-time job as a bookseller by telling them my life story? Understandable.

I never even had time to use my personality to deter him. He saw only the back of my curl-covered head and snatched the perfect opportunity out from in front of me.

Maybe it was a fun story that the universe wanted me to tell someday.

Like, it knows that this book commission is going to be an instant bestseller, and I’ll get famous as the children's book illustrator who conquered the hardest job to date. When all the hundreds of adoring fans finally calm down to let the interviewer ask me just one question, Flora, how did you do it? I’ll say something like, It was all because of that grumpy man who stole my muffin.

They’ll laugh, I’ll laugh, and I’ll accept whatever award there is for big-time illustrators—maybe they’ll start making one just for me. I’ll go home and relax into my silk sheets on my gold linen bed and drift off to sleep with my rich husband next to me, our show dog lying at my feet.

A jump-start into my new future. Maybe that’s all that was.

Regardless, there is no time to dwell. My fingers curl around the digital pen in my hands, the ergonomic grip helping steady the lines of the checkerboard I’m working on.

My usual style is a bit more...cozy than is required for this piece.

Woodland creatures wearing beanies in their hollow tree houses, huddled by warm fires under checkered blankets, with miniature cups of tea tucked into their tiny paws.

I’m not stuck in one archetype, though. I can also do woodland creatures in top hats.

Needless to say, I was more than shocked when the scheduling department of Ashford and Elm Publishing reached out that they were searching for an illustrator to commission a new release by the Cedric Brooks.

You have read Cedric Brooks, right? The lifetime classic creator of The Clockmaker’s Shadow , where a boy inherits a broken pocket watch that ticks only when someone is about to disappear, leading him to a village trapped in time.

Or the one about the mute boy sent to live with relatives in a seaside mansion where he hears whispers in a language only he understands—and it turns out to be echoes from the past that wants him back.

He is, without a doubt, the number one children's book author across the board.

The guy has been tossing out classics left and right for almost fifty years.

All his books are targeted for age groups eight to twelve years old, and they are these gorgeous masterpieces of intricate details and dark themes.

His style is gothic and enchanting, and somehow, it just works.

There’s so much to pull apart in his books.

Every line means something else, and every illustration below the lines proves the point even further.

I mean, I am still drooling over the one he released for his twentieth anniversary, End of Orchard Lane —one of his most underrated.

It’s about a street where every fall, children vanish near the old orchard, and when a new neighbor hears voices calling from the apple trees, she answers back.

The lore and the foreshadowing are delicious.

There’s this scene where she walks down the lane on a foggy morning, and the trees have grown so thick that they arch over the path, forming a tunnel of tangled branches.

And if you look closely at the illustration, you’ll see old shoes, backpacks, and toys half-buried in the roots, suggesting other children once walked this path and never returned.

Glorious work, really.

The last illustrator who worked with him apparently retired, and when she did so, everyone assumed he was going to retire with her—they were a kind of package deal—but he is still kicking it at like eighty-something-years-old.

People say he’s a total nutcase—I think he has to be to write the stuff he does.

And somehow, the lady in charge of finding him a new illustrator for his next release, Threadbare , thought I—the portfolio full of bunnies and baby porcupines in scarves—would be a good fit for this eccentric old man.

To be fair, I was not their first choice.

According to his agent, Cedric Brooks has broken the hearts and souls of numerous illustrators—seven, to be exact— prior to me.

He made it very clear, by putting it in extra bold and italicized lettering, that Cedric Brooks is ‘OTHERWORLDLY PICKY’ and that ‘HE MAY NEVER BE SATISFIED’ which I, personally, took as a challenge.

Should I be scared? It would probably be wise. But no fear here, friends. We have nothing but good times and pure success in front of us. Because, if I can get Cedric Brooks to like my art style? There is no ceiling that can cage me in—I am a free bird, baby.

All this being said, I am having to do a full one-eighty on my usual process of creating a commissioned art piece. My typical prep of a bowl of Cap N’ Crunch and reruns of Gilmore Girls in the background will not cut it for this one. No, I need serious, dark themes going on here.

Which is why all the lights are off and the curtains are fully closed as I work on the couch in my apartment.

I traded in my usual Pumpkin Smores candle for New England Leather—it smells like ginger, musk, and a man who doesn’t believe in true love, but can still rock your world.

I have also traded my cozy reruns for a compilation of the top villain scenes in Disney movies.

I have cycled through the twenty-minute video seven times so far, and I’ve only had to pause it twice to reel my emotions in—Scar and Mufasa really get to me.

Apparently, they’re also getting into my outlining as well. This first draft is just a sample page to send over to Cedric’s agent for them to see if I am even close to what they’re searching for.

The scene required isn’t too absurd: a cramped, quiet bedroom lit only by the glow of a streetlamp outside. Evie, our main character, lies in bed clutching Threadbare, while shadows stretch long across the floor. My usual loose, flowing lines are now harsh, sharp details.

It’s almost a little too scary for a children’s book.

I mean, yes, it’s about an evil seamstress who locks a young girl in her closet, which is actually a secret world.

Even so, this feels like a lot. Too much Scar versus Mufasa, and not enough Hakuna Matata.

So, I take a few moments to add some softer details.

Another teddy bear against the headboard.

A striped throw blanket on the floor where eight-year-old Evie jumped in bed when she heard the scratching in the closet.

A colorful pair of polka-dot slippers I like to think her parents bought her the Christmas before, and a little mug with colorful pens and highlighters sitting on her dresser next to an old can of Sprite.

His last illustrator went all out with the details, so who knows?

Maybe Mr. Brooks would get this draft back and think, you know what?

Little Evie is totally a pink polka-dot kind of girl.

I could inspire him as much as he does me.

It could be the start of a beautiful old man on a bench with a lot of stories kind of friendship.

The door to my apartment opens then slams in a wild rush as my roommate, Lennon, barely makes it inside before getting cut off by the heavy door.

You have to practically run in every time you open the entrance to the apartment, because when the air is on and a neighbor's windows are open, the draft suctions the door closed. My door has cut me off at least five times in the first month I moved it. Sometimes, it would be so tight that I couldn’t even open it, and I’d have to wait until Lennon came home from work to get in.

Lennon mumbles something to herself, reaching for the nearby light switches. The wind from the door slamming brings her sweet scent of lemons and vanilla over to me.

My position—crouched with my shoulders hunched and my iPad lighting up the dark circles under my eyes—is unveiled, and my roommate flinches, which, to be clear, is the most reaction I have gotten out of her in any capacity since I moved in.

She recovers quickly, with only one of her eyebrows slightly twitching up. “Why are you in the dark?”

My eyes are still adjusting to the golden light surrounding us, making her forearm tattoo of a mermaid look more like a seal.

“I am setting the mood.”

Lennon simply blinks at me and goes to her room, shutting the door behind her.

In all fairness, I think Lennon just isn’t a people person.

Or an anything person. The first time I came here after seeing the ad for a fairly affordable two-bedroom apartment close to the city, she didn’t even say anything for the first ten minutes.

Whereas, I said everything in the first ten minutes.

My fingers ran across the filled bookshelves in the living space, which held tiny bowls, trinkets, and polaroids of her and another man—her boyfriend, I assumed—and then, I stopped in my tracks at a Dungeons and Dragons art print in a glass display.

“Oh.” I turned to where Lennon still stood at the door, arms crossed. “Are you a big D&D fan?”

To which she replied, “No,” without further explanation.

I figured the whole thing was a bust, until the next morning when I woke up to a text from the same number from the ad that said, ‘Congrats, she picked you,’ followed by the instructions for moving in.

Since then, Lennon has said about ten words to me outside today’s quick interaction.

As far as roommates go, I really can’t complain, because she’s never even here. Most of the time she’s at work, I guess. Or, she’s at her mysterious boyfriend’s place—who seems to only have her come over late at night. Most people would probably kill to have a roommate like her.

I think my problem is that I had this idea in my head of what things would look like once I moved in, and when the time actually came, that depiction in my head dissipated like cotton candy dipped in water—all bright colors and warm, fuzzy feelings drowned in emptiness.

I force my eyes away from my roommate’s closed door and turn back to sketching the slippers, but before my pen can touch the screen, a notification banner slides down from the top, indicating I have a text from my sister.

Sloane: On a scale of one to ten, how are we feeling about this?

Attached is a mirror selfie where her full outfit fills the frame, the phone covering her pretty face.

My DNA included none of my mother's fashion sense, while my sister got a double dose. In a tiny denim skirt, white baby tee, and a red leather jacket with matching knee-high boots, she looks like every Pinterest board I have saved for outfit inspiration that I will never actually wear. I think I’m the Greek yogurt of fashion—you can add these things on top of me, but when it comes down to it, I am bland.

Me: I feel like I am not the person you should ask that?

Me: Also, it is almost eight o’clock there. Where are you going?

Sloane: I like all opinions, not just people who actually know how to dress.

Sloane: And, it’s Jeremy’s eighteenth birthday!

I have no clue who Jeremy is any more than you do, but it’s not due to a lack of trying.

I have done my best to keep up with Sloane’s friends, but it’s futile.

It would take a blank evidence board with tiny red strings to follow who is who in her stories—there’s no sense in even trying.

My eighteen-year-old sister has had more friends—and let’s be honest, boyfriends—in the last year than I have in my entire twenty-six years on this green Earth.

I am in the middle of typing back a response about my wild night of dry bowls of Cap N’ Crunch—I forgot to get milk—and finishing up this commission, when Lennon bursts out of her room.

Under a large brown jacket, her thin frame is more obvious as she stands at the hallway entrance with both hands at her sides—like someone glued them there and she’s about to ask me for help to unstick them.

Her usually straight blonde hair is curled and thrown into a long, high ponytail.

She’s wearing sunglasses inside, so I can’t see her eyes to know if she is looking at me, but her face is pointing directly my way, so I say, “Hi.”

“Stephan and I have a trivia team.”

I take a solid minute to piece together who Stephan could be.

She’s never said his name before, nor have I seen him, but context clues point to it being her boyfriend.

I’ve never seen the man, and have only once heard his voice in the throes of passion one wall away from my bed frame.

But, I like to imagine he has blonde hair and an enormous nose.

And broad shoulders. He also seems very generous.

“That’s nice.”

“There are usually six of us, but one can’t come.”

“Oh.”

She nods. I nod back. We both stand in silence. A bird chirps outside, and a bicyclist rings their bell. The refrigerator hums and clings as the ice maker…makes ice.

“Well, I hope you still win.”

I think in order for me to do this whole ‘making real friends’ thing, I’m going to have to do a lot less talking and a lot more listening, so I wait for her to expand. She doesn’t. She turns to the baby blue hooks where our keys sit, grabs her set, and marches to the door in silence.

Lennon stops before her fingers reach the handle, then does a full one-eighty to face me.

“Will you come?”

“Come where?”

“To trivia.”

I am completely still, like the longer we sit here, the better answer I can force out. I shouldn’t be in shock—we just talked about her team missing a member—and I am a warm, mostly willing, and partially knowledgeable person.

“So, will you?”

My fingers itch to throw off this blanket and shout at my roommate, who is drastically more notable, that I spent twenty minutes talking to a cartoon hedgehog today and would love nothing more than real human interactions.

Logic seeps its way into my bones, and I, instead, settle for a casual, “That sounds nice.”

“Cool. We’ll leave in ten.”

Before I can respond, she turns on a heel and goes back into her room, shutting the door behind her.