Grim anthology

“Well, Fig, guess what? You’re getting yourself some fine-ass boots.”

* * *

Over the past week, Eli has learned to entertain me. When he’s downstairs with his mother, he sets me on the windowsill or in front of his aquarium so I have something to watch. He leaves on the radio, which teaches me about current events and the latest musical trends.

When he leaves the house he brings me with him, buried deep in his messenger bag to school, or tucked into his guitar case to band practice, which double as makeout sessions with his girlfriend, Vanessa. He hasn’t gotten up the nerve to introduce me to anyone yet, so I have influence on nobody but him.

Just before history class on my third day of school, a girl behind Eli whispers his name. His chair creaks as he turns to her.

“Sorry about your dad,” she says. “I heard on the news.”

I expect him to growl “It doesn’t matter” or “whatever,” as he has to every other sympathizer. Instead he just says, “Thanks, Lyra.”

“I know what it’s like. I mean, I don’t have a famous father, but—”

“Semifamous.”

“Well. Anyway, I never knew my mom. She left right after I was born.”

He shifts in his chair again, perhaps turning all the way round. “That probably sucks more than not knowing your dad.”

“If they left, they probably weren’t worth knowing, right? At least, that’s what I tell myself every birthday.”

“Seriously. I never got a birthday or Christmas card. Just some child-support money in a bank account, but not as much as you’d think. Not with two other sons to take care of.” Eli lowers his voice until I can barely hear it. “When he died, he left the oldest one a house and the middle one a car.”

“What did you get?”

He pauses for a long moment. If I had breath, I would hold it. But he finally says, “Nothing.”

The bell rings and the teacher clops across the floor in what sound like platform heels. I can feel the vibrations from here.

She begins the lecture, on the French Revolution, a topic I know well, since I’ve heard it in classrooms ever since a few years after the event itself. The facts remain the same, but the perspective changes as the centuries pass.

I wish you’d bring me out in class just once, I tell Eli. You’d get much better grades, or at least I could keep the teacher from calling on you.

He gives the bag a slight kick to shut me up. Since I feel no pain, it doesn’t work.

For the record, girls think I’m cute.

No response.

Perhaps you could bring me out at band practice today, when you see what’s-her-name. The one who treats you like an imbecile. She’d find it charming, you carrying a tiny stuffed cat with a feather hat and silver boots in your guitar case.

No response.

Tap the bag once for no, twice for yes.

Eli gives a heavy sigh, shifts his feet beneath the desk next to my bag. For a long moment, nothing happens. Then finally, I feel a single tap. Followed by another.

* * *

“Oh, my God, he’s adorbs!” Vanessa squeezes my belly and shakes me from side to side, making my hat’s feather flop against my head. “Where did you get him?”

I appreciate that she refers to me as “him” instead of “it,” but her tone is a bit patronizing. She’s a year older than Eli, a fact she points out as often as possible.

Sitting on the basement couch with his arm around Vanessa’s shoulders, Eli says, “My father left him to me as a good-luck charm. Isn’t that hilarious?”

“Aww.” She strokes his cheek with the backs of her black-lacquered fingernails, then kisses him softly. “Are you sad you never got to meet him?”

“Not really,” he replies, but gives me a nervous glance.

Liar.

Eli opens his mouth to tell me to shut up, but catches himself in time.

Vanessa tugs my shirtsleeve. “Did he come dressed like this?”

“Of course. Where would I get doll clothes?”

I don’t bother repeating my call of “liar.”

“Eli, come on.” Behind me, Jules, the drummer, taps his sticks together.

Eli reaches for me, then pulls his hand back. “Take good care of him, okay?”

“I will.” Vanessa kisses me right between the eyes. My opinion of her is softening somewhat.

Eli takes his guitar and joins Jules and the other boy, Tyler, who fancies himself a lead singer but often seems more fascinated with his collection of unusual instruments.

As they play, Vanessa dances me atop her bare knee in time to the music. During a slow ballad, she rests me on her shoulder, my feet tucked into her long blond hair streaked with green and blue. At the end of each song, she waves me in the air, cheering with exaggerated enthusiasm. The boys scowl at her silliness, but it’s the most fun I’ve had since I reawakened.

The tunes are intricate for a songwriter of Eli’s age, but sadly, he’s the only one who seems capable of playing them. When they take a break, I seize the opportunity to speak to him.

You should go solo. You’re too good for these poseurs.

Eli doesn’t glare at me. Instead the corner of his mouth tugs into a sad frown. He knows I’m right, but he loves his friends.

Also the band name, Trending Frenzy? What does that even mean?

“Long story,” he says under his breath.

After the break, it takes Trending Frenzy a full hour to rehearse three more songs. Tyler keeps trying to change the key to take it up to his singing range and make it easier to play, but it sounds like crap when they do that. Even Tyler recognizes this truth, once I’ve sent this mental message to him ten or eleven times.

Eventually Vanessa gets bored and lies down on the couch, cuddling me close. She presses me to her chest, blocking my eyes and ears. It’s just as well—Eli is growing tired of my running commentary, and the band’s playing is growing ever unruly. I let myself zone out to the sound of Vanessa’s slow, rhythmic heartbeat.

“That’s all I can take,” Eli says finally. “I’m gonna grab a soda. You guys want anything?”

They grumble a response I can’t hear, then his footsteps ascend the staircase over my head.

“Lucky cat,” says a soft voice close to the couch.

Vanessa stirs, then gives a low laugh. “Jules. Where’s Eli?”

“Upstairs. Tyler’s in the bathroom.” He leans in, and her heart starts to race. “So I thought I’d come do this.”

Uh-oh.

They kiss, loud and wet, and her hand leaves me to move to him. I’m flipped on my back, looking up at their chins. Their mouths move like they’re starving.

Then Jules’s hand displaces me. For a moment I teeter on the edge of the sofa, long enough to see him reach down her shirt. Then his elbow tips me off the side, and I tumble onto the floor. I focus on the frayed brown fabric of the couch skirt and think to Vanessa with all my might, What about Eli?

She pulls away from Jules. “I can’t do this to him. His dad just died.”

“So? He didn’t even know the guy. He makes fun of that stupid ‘Ready, Set, Dance’ song all the time.” Jules leans in again, making a slurping sound against what I assume is Vanessa’s neck.

“Stop.” She pushes him away, and this time he relents, letting both hands fall onto his knees. “Eli’s been different since it happened,” she says. “If you can’t see that, you’re a shitty friend.”

“I’ve been hooking up with you for a month. I’m already a shitty friend.”

Down the basement hallway, a door opens, letting out the liquid sound of a flushing toilet. Jules hurries to stand up and move away from the couch. “Hey, Ty, wanna play some Ping-Pong? Loser buys pizza.”

“Nah, I gotta get out of here before I stab Eli with one of your drumsticks. One more ‘Why can’t you sing it the way I wrote it?’ and I’m going solo.”

“If you do that, then Eli’ll go solo, too. I don’t want to see you guys competing.”

“Plus, you’ll be out of a gig, right?”

“You think that’s all I care about?” Jules laughs. “You wound me, man. I’ll see you Friday.”

Vanessa calls goodbye to him as he goes up the stairs. Then she picks me up from the floor. “Aww, sorry, little guy.” She dusts off my tail and the front of my shirt. “Ty, you need a roadie to carry out your million instruments?”

“Very funny, but no. I’m leaving my guitar here. Eli said he’d adjust the bridge for me. Intonation is totally out of whack.”

He’s the talented one.

“He’s the talented one, you know,” Vanessa says.

“And you’re the slutty one,” Tyler answers. “Eli finds out about you and Jules, that’s the end of the band.”

“Why do you care? You just said you wanted to—”

“Shh.”

Eli is coming down the stairs. “You’re leaving?” he asks Tyler, his voice devoid of disappointment.

“Yep. Friday practice still on?”

I wouldn’t commit if I were you.

Eli commits, despite my warning. Ah, well, I suppose band breakups, like all breakups, are best done in person.

Vanessa sets me on the coffee table in front of the couch, propped up against a stack of books. Then she straightens my clothes and gives me an indulgent smile.

You don’t deserve him.

Her smile fades, then she moves over to give Eli room on the couch. He picks up Tyler’s Fender and starts to tune it, but keeps glancing between Vanessa and me.

I’m not the one you should be jealous of.

She slides her hand up his thigh. “I have to leave in about half an hour, so...can you do that later?”

Eli sets Tyler’s guitar aside, then pulls her into his arms, kissing her, tangling his fingers in her hair. I wonder if her heart is beating as fast as it did when Jules kissed her.

I clear my throat, figuratively. I’m sitting right here. Do you mind?

Eli opens one eye to look at me, then extends his middle finger ever so slightly in my direction, below her arm, where she couldn’t see it even if her eyes were open.

There’s something you should know about her before you—

She tears off his T-shirt, then Eli leans back to lie on the sofa, pulling her on top of him. Things progress faster.

This is your last chance before I blurt out a hard truth. Trust me, you don’t want to hear it in front of her. I’m warning you.

Her sweater comes off, then the camisole beneath it.

Vanessa’s been cheating on you with Jules.

Eli’s hands go still on her bare waist, his thumb tracing beneath the edge of her bra. She doesn’t notice at first, too busy kissing or maybe biting his neck.

“Stop,” he whispers.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, her blond hair hanging like a veil between us, so I can’t see his face.

“It’s not— I—um. I just remembered I have to be somewhere.”

“Now? Where?”

Coward. Don’t drag this out. I saw them kissing. More than kissing. You know I’m telling the truth, don’t you? You’ve suspected for a while.

“I just— I need you to go. I’ll call you later. I’m sorry.”

Why are you apologizing to her?

Vanessa doesn’t budge. “I don’t understand.” She clutches his arm harder, her voice taut with fear.

I turn my attention to her. He knows about you and Jules. Go now. Now!

Vanessa lifts her head, like she’s hearing her name shouted from far away. “Okay. But call me?”

“I will,” he says. “Promise.”

She grabs her sweater from the back of the couch and yanks it over her head. “I guess I’ll be early for work instead of late for once. My boss’ll die of surprise.” Vanessa picks up her bag, leans over for a quick kiss, then runs up the stairs.

Eli lies there on his back for a second, hands covering his face. The black tattoo on his upper arm twitches, a bare tree with birds rising from its branches.

Sorry.

He lets his hands fall to his side with a thud. “Sorry? Do you know what you just interrupted? Or are all figments celibate?”

It depends on the imagination that sustains us. I’ve taken some interesting forms in the past. For instance—

“I don’t want to know.” Eli taps his fingers against his ribs. “What do I do?”

Break up with her. What choice do you have?

“I could pretend I don’t know. Then everything stays the same. Otherwise I lose her and Jules. Tyler, too, probably, because I’ll have to break up the band. They’re my only friends.”

I doubt that’s true, and if it is, then you need to make better friends.

“I know.” Eli turns on his side to face me. “But even bad friends are better than being alone.”

He suddenly looks years younger. I have to make him feel better. It’s what I do.

I promise you this, Eli, right here and now: you’ll never be alone again.

* * *

After dinner, Eli paces his bedroom floor, clutching his Magic 8 Ball. “Should I break up with Vanessa and the band?” He flips the ball. “‘Outlook good.’ Does that mean yes or no?”

That sounds definitively yes.

“But not as definitive as Yes.” He shakes the ball hard and repeats the question. “‘Reply hazy, try again.’ You know what? I don’t trust this for big decisions. I’ll ask the cookie.” He sets down the ball and shoves his hand into his jar of fortune-cookie fortunes, a jar that looks like a giant ceramic Oreo.

He reads the first slip. “‘The secret to good friends is no secret to you.’ I don’t know what that means.”

It means time to man up and clear your life of douchebags.

He tilts his head at me. “You’re starting to sound less proper.”

And you’re starting to sound less smart. End it now.

After another half hour of my cajoling, Eli breaks up with Vanessa via text. She doesn’t reply. No begging, crying, threatening. Deep down she knows why he’s ended it, because I told her. She’ll chalk it up to intuition.

At bedtime, rather than setting me on the nightstand or in his guitar case, Eli takes off my hat and boots, wraps me in the blue silk cami Vanessa left behind and holds me close as he lies down to sleep. I fit perfectly under his chin.

This is something new, this...cuddling. Even when I belonged to women, I was in unhuggable forms, such as a crystal elephant or a carved wooden Woman of Willendorf fertility statue. Maybe if I’d ever been a child’s figment, I’d have experienced this closeness, this neediness. For the first time, I’m more than an advisor and miracle worker. I’m a friend.

Eli sleeps fitfully, and soon I tumble out of his arms and onto the floor. I’ve never spoken to him in his sleep, but he needs settling.

Wake up and write. You’ll feel better.

He comes awake with a sharp breath, then without a word, slips out of bed and crosses to his desk, the direction I’m facing. He lifts his Magic 8 Ball from atop a stack of notebooks, takes the top pad, then sets down the worthless prediction device.

On the way back to the bed, he accidentally steps on my face. “Sorry, Fig!” Eli picks me up, unwraps the camisole from around my torso and brings both to the bed with him.

Do you need my help?

He shakes his head and pulls the cap off the pen with his teeth. “This is one thing I do best on my own.”

* * *

Pen in one hand, Vanessa’s cami in the other, Eli scribbles furiously for the next four hours, frowning and crossing out as many lines as he writes. Just after 3:00 a.m. he pulls out his guitar and plays a series of chords—softly, so as not to wake his mom.

The next day at school, he returns Vanessa’s shirt, wrinkles ironed out. She takes it without a word, or at least none that I can hear from inside his bag.

In history class, he sets me on the corner of his desk, facing forward. “Good-luck charm for the exam,” he explains to Lyra.

“Let me see.”

He spins me to face him and Lyra. Instead of gushing over my cute widdle boots and hat, she takes a good long look at me. “That expression,” she says finally. “Like the whole world is amazing.”

It’s just the way the manufacturer shaped my eyes. The world is most definitely not amazing.

Eli gives me a skeptical smile.

But maybe she is, I add.

* * *

Friday afternoon, Eli meets Tyler and Jules for burgers at Five Guys before band practice. I’m left in the bag, of course, on the seat of the booth. His so-called friends sit across from him.

“I’m leaving the band,” he tells them when their food’s arrived.

“Aw, man.” Tyler pounds the bottom of a ketchup bottle. “Why now, when we’re finally getting good?”

“I don’t think we’re getting good, but that’s not the main reason. My main reason is that Jules here can’t keep his hands off my girlfriend.”

“What?” Jules stammers. “How do you know?”

“I knew this would happen,” Tyler says. “I told her to knock it off.”

“Wait, how did you know?” Jules asks him.

“I have eyes. Eyes that saw you feeling her up in the school parking lot last week.”

“Tyler, you knew and didn’t tell me?” Eli says. “I thought you were my best friend.”

“I didn’t want to make you mad.”

He didn’t want you to break up the band, I tell Eli. He wanted to do it himself.

“Well, I’m twice as mad now.”

“I can see that.” Tyler pounds the ketchup bottle again. “What is with this stuff? It’s stuck.”

“Eli, I’m sorry, man. I really am.” Jules sounds sincere.

He’s not sorry.

“It’s my fault,” he continues with a full mouth. “You shouldn’t blame Vanessa. I’ll stay away from her, I swear.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“I’m just saying, it’s over with us. So you might as well keep her.”

“Keep her?” Eli’s voice rises above the din of the crowd. “She’s a girl, not a doll!”

Tyler snorts. “Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eli’s voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it.

“You’ve gotten a little too attached to that stuffed cat your loser dad gave you.”

“I’m not attached.”

“Oh, really? Then let me have it for a week.” Tyler sets down the bottle hard on the table. “It’s the least you can do, Mr. I’m Too Talented for My Band.”

“Why would you even want him?” Eli’s voice turns hot with anger again.

“It’s a ‘him’ now? Is he your new best friend? Is that why you don’t need me anymore?”

Jules breaks in. “Take it easy, Ty. Eli didn’t say we weren’t still friends. The band stuff is just business.”

“‘Business’?” Ty says. “This is your fault, Jules! It wasn’t business when you had your hand inside Vanessa’s shirt.”

Eli’s silverware hits the table with a clatter. A fork or knife bounces onto the booth seat beside my bag. “Screw you guys both.”

Suddenly I’m lifted, bag and all. He’s walking fast toward the door, faster than he’s ever headed to class. The corner of his calculus textbook digs into my stomach with every step, and I’m very glad I have no pain nerves.

A door creaks open, and Eli says, “I’m sorry. Excuse me. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, but what...” The girl’s familiar voice fades as Eli keeps going.

We stop suddenly, and a car door handle rattles. Eli curses. He tears open the bag, letting in bright sunlight I can’t blink away.

Your keys aren’t in here. I didn’t hear them jangle.

“Looking for these?” Tyler says behind us.

Now I hear them jangle.

“Give me my keys,” Eli demands.

“I’ll trade you.” Tyler laughs. “The keys for the kitty.”

“Why do you want him so much?”

He doesn’t want me. He wants to destroy me to hurt you, because you hurt him.

Eli lunges, and now it’s Jules’s turn to laugh, though more nervously than Tyler did. “We’re just messin’ with you. Come on, our burgers are getting cold. Give Ty the stupid doll for two seconds so he’ll stop being a dick. Or give it to me, whatever.”

Eli drops the bag on the ground. “Haven’t I given you enough? My songs, my time, my girlfriend?”

“Vanessa wasn’t your girlfriend—she was just a regular hookup. You know what she called you? Her favorite charity.”

There’s a smack of bone against bone, and Jules cries out. Then a thud and the sound of denim skidding over blacktop.

Suddenly, I’m pulled out into the brightness. By Tyler.

“How do you like him now, dude?” He rips off my hat and boots. “Nothing better than a naked p—”

Tyler buckles over with an “oof!” He clutches me against his stomach, groaning. Something in bright blue leather—a gloved fist? A booted foot?—flashes past me, up into his chin. Released from his grip, I fall to the pavement, rolling to rest faceup.

Appearing above me are wide blue eyes, like those belonging to the girl on Eli’s ceiling. Lyra scoops me up and stuffs me into her bag. There’s candy in here. Watermelon flavored, I think.

Tyler cries out again, higher-pitched this time.

“Let go of the keys,” Lyra says. Her body rocks forward, and Tyler shrieks louder. “Sorry, does that hurt? You know what would hurt worse? If you didn’t let go of the keys and my foot accidentally broke all your fingers.” She bends over, and the bag on her back rises. “If you ever want to play that stupid ukulele again, you know what to do.”

A sharp jangle, then Lyra says, “Thank you.”

I can’t hear much over the rush and jostle of her bag, which is soon dumped on the floor of Eli’s car (I recognize the smell).

“You okay?” she asks.

Not bad, but—

“I’ll be all right,” Eli answers.

Oh, she wasn’t talking to me. Sorry.

Lyra starts the engine. “I live around the block. We can go to my house and get some ice for your face, then you can bring me back to get my car later.”

“Thanks for rescuing us. I mean, rescuing me. I mean, rescuing Fig.”

“You named your stuffed cat after a fruit?”

Eli pauses. “It’s short for Figment.”

She laughs and backs out of the parking space so fast, a book in her bag smashes my legs. “Interesting, considering he actually exists.”

* * *

I sit on Lyra’s kitchen table, propped against the salt and pepper shakers. Eli holds an ice pack to his bruised left eye and another to his lower lip, where he was lucky not to have the ring pulled out. Popcorn is popping in the microwave.

“Okay, kitty, your turn.” Lyra enters the kitchen with a large plastic bin. “Time for some new clothes.”

Yes! I would pump my fist if I could.

Eli can’t hide his interest as she lifts the lid. “You have a separate compartment for each item of clothing? I’m in awe.”

“I was a little OCD when I was a kid, at least with the stuff that was important to me.” Lyra tucks a lock of her long dark hair behind her ear in a self-conscious gesture. “It’s been years since I even looked at my dolls, much less dressed them up.”

Eli puts down one of his ice packs and pulls out an orange boa. “Isn’t this from one of the Bratz girls?”

“Yeah, I owned, like, ten of those. So you must have a sister, huh?”

He holds the boa up in front of me.

Too much.

“I don’t have a sister,” Eli says without meeting her eyes.

She pauses in her search, then smiles. “You played with dolls? That’s so cool.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but the skin around his visible eye loosens in relief. “That’s one of the advantages to being dad-free: no one to force me to play with trucks or try out for football.” He places the boa back in the bin. “Mom didn’t care, though I think she was confused when I turned out straight.”

Lyra laughs. “I’m glad you turned out— I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with— I mean, I’m glad for my sake. Ugh, can we just pretend I didn’t say any of that?” She lifts a pair of golden slippers. “Fig must have new boots, if nothing else.”

And you thought you’d be alone if you ditched your fake friends. Ask her to hang out.

Eli picks up the other ice pack, but before pressing it to his mouth, he says, “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

* * *

Over the next six months, Eli plays a series of successful solo gigs, he and Lyra get serious, and he graduates magna cum laude. I play a role in all of these fortunate events, but only a developmental one. Mostly it’s his doing. Mostly.

During the summer between high school and college, Eli ramps up his appearance schedule, and after each performance, a music journalist or blogger sits him down for an interview. They ask the expected questions about his one-hit-wonder of a father, how Eli will avoid the same trap of overconfidence, how he’ll stay down-to-earth despite drowning in contract offers, each bigger than the last.