"Whatcha doin?" El said, peering over Will's shoulder. He jumped, twisting around to look at her. She plopped herself down on the couch beside him. She was wearing Mike's Hawkins Middle sweatshirt, and it was much too big for her. The sleeves hung way over her wrists, and the bottom reached past her knees.
El had been back from the Upside Down for a good three months, living at the Byers' house. She was still skinny, but the color had returned to her cheeks and some substance had filled in the gaunt, hollow places in her face. Her bones were no longer so prominent.
She blinked her large, brown eyes at him and frowned, looking at his paper.
"Are . . . are you writing?" She said, choosing her words carefully. His mom, Mrs. Wheeler, and Mr. Clark had been working together to make up for the time she spent at the lab. They weren't sure just what kind of education she had. It turned out, she could read, but at several grade levels below average. Her vocabulary wasn't great, but she was intelligent, and a quick learner. She read every day, now, burrowed under blankets or curled up in a chair on the back porch, a book clutched in her hands. She learned science and math from Mr. Clark, and Mrs. Wheeler helped her with History and English. She learned about Ancient China and the French Revolution and how to put together simple sentences on paper, the nature of verbs and adjectives and all that grammar junk they usually learned in first grade.
"No, I'm drawing."
"Drawing?"
"Yeah. I take my pencil and I draw shapes, and they look like things in real life."
"I used to draw, too. Sometimes. Back . . . back in the bad place." She said, picking up the piece of paper. She held it up, squinting.
"Who is it?"
Will smiled, sheepishly.
"It's you."
"Me?" El said, quietly, gazing at the drawing. She quickly set it down, trying to conceal the trembling that had started in her fingers. She ran her hands through her hair.
"Yep. It's a portrait."
"Portrait?" She repeated, turning the new word over on her tongue. "What's a portrait?"
"It's a drawing of a person."
"It's good."
"Huh?"
"The drawing. It's good."
"Thanks." Will said, staring at his paper.
"Will you teach me? To draw?"
Will looked at her, cocking an eyebrow.
"Really?"
El nodded.
Pretty soon, colored pencils and markers were littered all over the coffee table. El sketched away, tongue pinched between her teeth, attempting to draw the Byers' dog, Rover, from life. The dog lay on the floor beside them. He cocked his head, saliva dripping from his tongue in strings. He wagged his tail and put his head between his paws, happy to keep watch over the youngest inhabitants of the Byers' household.
After she finished, she held it up for Will's inspection. He nodded, encouragingly.
"It's good. It's really good, El."
She beamed at him.
She set her paper aside, picked up a blank one, and started to sketch out a drawing of Mike. She liked Will's portrait, and decided to try one herself. And what better person than Mike, because she knew his face the best. She knew his eyes, dark and kind and safe. She knew his freckles, the constellations that dotted his cheeks, his nose. She knew the slope of his nose, the curve of his brow and lips, the waves of dark hair that fell across his forehead.
Once she finished, she set the portrait aside and picked up another paper. She paused, holding her pencil above the blank page, thinking. She bit her tongue, steeled herself, and touched the tip to the page.
When she finished, she stood up, breathing heavily. A thousand emotions conflicted and collided inside her. Drawing wasn't supposed to make you feel this way. Will glanced at her, then at the paper.
There, on the page was the Demogorgon, claws outstretched, flower-petal maw gaping open. Will sucked in a breath, staring at El.
"El . . ."
"Do you see it, too?" She said, quietly, still staring at her drawing. Will glanced between the drawing and El, and clenched his fists.
"Every night, when I close my eyes." He whispered, taking her wrist. Her eyes filled with tears.
"I'm sorry." She sniffed, mouth twisting into an agonized grimace.
Will shook his head, looking at her.
"It helps, to draw the monsters. Then they're not stuck in your head so much. They're easier to deal with when they're on paper. See?" Will said, pulling his sketchbook towards him. He opened it. El gasped. Hundreds of drawings, mostly the demogorgon. There were other monsters too, all teeth and claws and rolling eyeballs. They spilled over the pages. The whole book was filled with them. She took it on her lap and touched the drawings with her fingertips, turning the pages.
"Will?"
"Hmmm?"
"I'm a monster."
"What? No, you're not, El."
"I am." She said, and burst into tears. Will hugged her, and she clutched his shirt, her body shaking.
"I'm a monster. I . . . I huh-hurt people, W-Will."
She sniffed, staring at Will's portrait.
"No, El. You're not a monster. I didn't draw you because I'm afraid, I drew you because I love you. Because you're my sister. Because you're a good person, see? You don't have to draw monsters. You draw things you like. People you love." He took the sketchbook off of her lap and flipped to the back. There, several pages were completely covered with drawings of beautiful things. A horse, a flower, a sun peaking through clouds. And more portraits, of Jonathan and Joyce, Hopper, Mike, Dustin, and Lucas. Her friends. Her family. El touched the drawings and laughed through her tears, smiling at him.
"You're not a monster." He said, ruffling her hair. And El believed him. Because Will's gentle pencil strokes made her beautiful.
His pencil strokes made her into something more than Experiment 011.