Page 39 of The Beta Test

Is that what I am? For months now I’ve been juggling a half dozen balls in the air, and I thought I could avoid dropping any of them if everything was planned neatly enough. If I cared hard enough, I’d succeed. Now it feels like maybe I was juggling bombs instead, and two of them just exploded in my face.

My chest feels tight, like someone cinched a strap around it. I blink hard and the room swims. I won’t cry.

What. just. happened.

First period, Monday morning—the start of another week. The emotional fog from the weekend still looms heavily over my head. Learning to conjugate a new verb feels impossible, so I zone out and doodle my feelings in a notebook instead. The class drones on, but the sounds of badly-pronounced Spanish barely penetrate my eardrums. My pencil scratches over the page as I draw.

The past couple of days have been… confusing. Normally, I have a plan for everything. But this time I completely shut down after Analiese left, even shutting off my phone and tablet. I guess Analiese was right. I am a coward. I couldn’t even face talking to Jenna. All the problems I created still exist.

Not to be too dramatic, but my life is a complete dumpster fire at the moment. Jenna is probably mad at me. Analiese, once again, thinks I’m terrible. And the icing on the craptastic cake—yesterday I learned my dad won’t be returning for Thanksgiving after all.

The news hit like a sucker punch. My mom told Hunter and me about how Dad is staying for reshoots, and the team can’t put it off until after the holidays because they would lose too much money booking the locations longer. Or something. She made it all sound very necessary and unavoidable, but I’m not buying it. Maybe Dad is trying to avoid his relationship issues with Mom. All I know is it hurts. I miss him. Hunter misses him.

My head tilts to the side as I study my sketch. Dimly, I note that the class has moved on to some other exercise, maybe practicing greetings. I don’t know. All I know is that this literal drawing of my life is the only thing that matters right now.

I add some pretty sophisticated shading to my burning dumpster doodle, then start drawing my body, dressed in a Valley Prep uniform, popping out of the inferno with a look of agony. A dialog bubble extends above my head with my favorite word, “Braden….!”

My love. My future.

The phone call with Braden on Friday night—the last good thing before everything went sideways on Saturday—is the only bright moment I have to carry me through.

A smile tugs at my lips as I sketch a figure of Braden racing towards my burning dumpster fire life astride a stallion, determined to save me from myself. For good measure, I add a crown to his stately head. My prince.

The day seems oddly amorphous. I float from class to class, barely registering anything that happens in each one. If homework is assigned or quizzes are mentioned, I wouldn’t know. Am I dissociating? Maybe. I remember reading about that one time and it seems like it could apply here.

All I do all morning is work on my doodle. I’m not sure it can be classified as a doodle anymore. There’s a sky and animals and grass. There’s even a dog running alongside Braden, as if it’s his little sidekick. Perhaps named something noble like Valor. I’m not sure why the dumpster would be in a field but it just feels right.

A sudden tap on my shoulder pulls me back into reality. I glance up to see Jake leaning over my desk in the now near-empty calculus classroom, squinting at my notebook. The bell for lunch must have already rung.

“Hey, Avery. Uh… what are you working on there?”

His brow furrows adorably in confusion as his blue eyes scan the page. I notice for the first time that one of his eyes is slightly smaller than the other, but the flaw somehow makes him seem friendlier. Then I feel annoyed that I’m having pleasant thoughts about anything or anyone when it feels like my whole world is crashing down.

I shift my notebook away. My emotional doodling isn’t for public viewing—it’s catharsis. But it’s obvious by the look on his face he already got a pretty good look at it, and for some reason the idea of Jake thinking I’ve lost my marbles bothers me. It’s also clear he isn’t going to let the issue go—the tiny smirk on his face has been Jake’s tell for mischievous behavior since forever.

Maybe I can bore him out of being interested in it. Jake used to get very bored very easily when we were younger. If Jenna and I talked about fashion for more than thirty seconds, Jake would abandon all hope of getting us to play with him.

“I’m employing several layered artistic principles we’ve learned in art class. For instance, the detail and shading techniques are being used here to ground the piece in realism, while simultaneously juxtaposing the abstract emotional landscape. I’m working through several themes, such as the chaotic nature of life and the complicated relationship between transformation and destruction.”

I pause to see if he’s glazing over yet. No such luck. He is still watching me with raised eyebrows, clearly enjoying this. Maybe older Jake needs more than 30 seconds to get bored.

“And, of course,” I continue, leaning in like I’m about to drop a major intellectual bomb, “the choice of a simple pencil drawing over the backdrop of a common lined notebook paper speaks to the reduction of the human experience to its most essential and common form, to convey how we often feel like faceless participants in our own lives. But despite that reduction, you can see there’s still a heroic struggle, which I’ve embodied in the figures overcoming the flames of life.”

He clicks his tongue and snaps his fingers. “Those are flames! Got it.”

During my monologue, my grip on the notebook must have waned. Quick as lightning, Jake snatches it and holds it aloft, his towering height making it difficult to grab it back while seated at my desk. I growl in frustration, which amuses him—as evidenced by the appearance of a dimple.

Then he grows contemplative. His free hand rubs his chin in mock concentration as he studies the notebook.

“Ah, yes, flames. And a stick figure with wiggly long hair yelling 'Braden!'—so that must be you. Which means the guy with the triangle on his head and some kind of blob next to him is... Braden? Is that a sword or a toothpick? And what is he riding?”

I gasp. He doesn’t stop.

“Now I’m trying to interpret the… raft? boat? bench?… you’re sitting on, and why it’s burning, or why you’re yelling. I have to say, I’m drawing a blank. I’m sure there’s a deep and astute connection you can craft for me.”

I stand, grab the arm holding my notebook aloft, and yank it back down to eye level—and for the first time all morning, I see the drawing I've been obsessing over instead of paying attention in class. Instead of me or my emotional turmoil, I see it for what it really is.

It’s terrible.