Chapter Three—Annabelle's Gift

"So, what's the name of the book you wrote again?"

Rita put down her soap-sodden dish sponge and turned to me from the sink. Since she had brought up the topic of books, novels and writing, I told her that I had wanted to pursue the career of a writer ever since I was only eleven years old. Rita herself had written books before and was working on more. She was quite enthusiastic when I told her writing interested me, and she showed me some of her own—and geez, was her writing so eloquent, so descriptive and vivid.

I stood behind Rita, tapping my foot on the tiled kitchen floor and squeezing my fingers. "In Defense of the Griffins," I answered. "But I'm going to rewrite the story soon. I want the mythical creatures featured to be more diverse, and griffins don't seem like a good choice for certain elements of the story to me." I wasn't quite sure how to put what I meant into words, as always.

"I see," said Rita, leaving a final plate in the dishwasher next to her and drying her hands. "You know, your story sounds like a good idea. If you develop it a bit more like you want, it could probably become a bestseller."

"Oh, I-I don't know about that." People always told me my writing was utterly superb, but I didn't always believe them. I have always been very self critical, and the black beast of criticism and detestation slowly went from a barely visible ghost of dark haze to a solidified monster that constantly whispered into my big, sensitive ears when I began to pursue the arts. Rita had given me a little boost of confidence, as normal when I received a complement, because I knew that even if I hated my ideas, other people appreciated them.

"I'd certainly love to see how you write," Rita said.

Something I commemorated came to mind. One of my best works was basically a fanfiction story I had to write for English class a few months prior. Of course, it wasn't really a fanfiction, as I was writing it to get a good grade rather than to entertain myself, but I had ended up being recognized as a potent writer after mine was graded. The story was a sort of predicting followup to a point where my class had stopped reading The Cask of Amontillado, and I loved the original story. I thought mine to be horrendous, but others thought different.

"Do you have a computer?" I asked Rita.

"Actually, we do. Come with me." Rita led me into the living room and to a wall by the black stairs, where a small desk with a desktop computer stood. "What do you need it for?"

"I wrote a short story a few months back. It's on the computer, and I could access it if I use my e-mail."

"Hmm, okay." Rita stepped aside and allowed me to type my email in as soon as the computer booted up; I typed with speed and grace, hardly missing a letter I needed. Typing rhythm was one of the main reasons I enjoyed writing in the first place.

After I was logged in, I went on a website where my document sheets had been saved, and I scrolled down, picking a very specific one. I signaled for Rita to read it, and so she did.

Throughout her reading, I could tell she was having mixed emotions in her mind. At times, she squinted at the screen, other times her eyes went as wide as her hips. Some of the longer words I used, I don't recall the meaning; I only remember going on and finding larger synonyms for certain words.

Rita turned when she had read the very last sentence. She looked shocked, with a mild hint of being impressed. "You . . . Wrote that?"

I nodded, putting my hands behind my back.

"I've seen college papers that don't match that writing," said Rita. "How—"

I shrugged. When people ask me how I write in such an eloquent manner, I find it hard to answer. Using large words has never been too bothersome for me, as I even use them in speech, but matching Edgar Allen Poe's precise tone was rather difficult. The entire idea of the assignment was to make an extension and try to match the author's tone, which I suppose I succeeded in, considering it was picked as the best narrative in my class.

"Thanks for . . . Reading it," I mumbled, bringing my hands close.

"Oh, you're welcome. I think you'd be great friends with Lucy, she loves to write."

Why was everyone saying I should be friends with certain siblings? I have a tough time talking to my own siblings.

"Umm . . . Okay." I simply shrugged again and moved away from Rita awkwardly. I wasn't quite sure what to do now, since I'd already spent a decent amount of time with each sibling, and I was too shy to talk to their dad. Lynn Sr. seemed like a very talkative guy, the total opposite of me. Sometimes I do start to grow a small affinity for talking—but only when the conversation is interesting. In my case, an enthralling conversation is pretty rare given my limited interests. And not everything I'm interested in is something I talk about regularly, either. I could have easily told Lynn Sr. that my dad also enjoys cooking and runs a rib business, or that I have so many crazy siblings to talk about as well.

I was mentally rambling again as I wandered. Shoot.

I'd accidentally wandered into a back nook behind the living room, where a door leading out to the Louds' toy-littered backyard, and where a door perpendicular to it on the back wall stood. I wondered where it could possibly have led—perhaps it was a closet? A pantry?

But I couldn't bring myself to open it without permission and fetched Lincoln.

"That's our basement," he said, with a mild tone of intimidation as we approached the door. "It's scary down there. Dark. Unfortunately, it's the only place where we can do our laundry."

"My . . . My clothes are . . . Down there," I said quietly.

Lincoln paled. "Ohhhh geez. You don't want me to—?"

I frowned as well, an even more nervous look appearing on my face.

The white-haired boy sighed in defeat. "Okay. Come on, I'll walk you down there."

To be honest, I felt bad for having brought Lincoln down with me. He was obviously scared, and even I could tell that he was. I clasped his cold hand with my warm one, as we descended down the ever so creaky stairs to find a light switch.

"Wait, here!" Lincoln flipped a switch, and a light above on the ceiling flickered, lighting up the basement. By the stairs were a washing machine and a dryer, both equally inactive, and wooden shelves were placed along the walls. I heard the droplets of leaks plopping down onto what otherwise would have been silence. Overall, the basement wasn't anything very creepy like I'd expected. In fact, the only remotely scary thing was the iron furnace with a vile fume of smoked coal.

Lincoln led me back upstairs after hesitantly turning off the basement light and closing the door, and after I'd retrieved my clothes from yesterday from the drier. "We only go in there by certain means necessary," he said, so seriously that I almost took it as a joke. "Be careful down there. You never know what monster could emerge from the deepest, darkest corners of your very own home."

He made a quick, creepy little gesture with his hands that resembled claws of sorts ripping into my flesh. I shuddered.

"Anyway—we were going to visit Aunty Pam's Ice Cream Parlor later today," he brought up, ruggedly shifting the tone of things. "They're selling a limited-time Sundae Hot Chocolate until January. That's in a couple days. You should come, Aunty Pam's is amazing."

At that point, any sweet thing sounded amazing. Hot chocolate and ice cream? Combined? That was what I was talking about.

I nodded vigorously. I wanted to taste that hot cocoa by any means, and I for sure would.

"Sweet!" Lincoln exclaimed, pumping his fist into the air. I wasn't quite so sure why it was so "sweet" that I was attending their trip to Aunty Pam's, but I do get the same treatment at home despite my asocial tendencies, so why not just go along?

"We're leaving at 4:00 so we don't miss the 5:00 closing time. Cool?"

I nodded.

"Geez. You really don't talk, do you?" Lincoln seemed almost dismayed at my nonverbal communication methods.

"I—I guess—not," I murmured, so quiet that it was nearly inaudible.

"That's ironic." Lincoln beamed, his freckled cheeks glowing with little boy innocence. "You should get dressed. It's nearly 11:00."

I staggered back in shock at the time, as if I had just been stabbed. How could time fly so quickly?

Nodding, I left Lincoln in the kitchen and sprinted back to the second floor of the house to get to the bathroom and change. I got out of the nightgown Leni had given me, and slipped into my confining bra, then my soft white shirt, and then my pants. Just when I was yanking my pants up to my waist, I heard a knock on the bathroom door. It sounded very distinct, not like a soft child's knock, but a knock a young adult had probably picked up over time.

I opened the door and found Lincoln again, beaming with baby Lily in his arms. She only wore a diaper, the rest of her body smooth and bare with baby skin fat she had yet to grow into, and a soft tuft of blonde hair on her head.

"You haven't met Lily, have you?" Lincoln asked, setting his sister on the floor and letting her crawl about like a cat. "She's a little bit—um, prone to diaper dirtying."

I gulped.

Lily glimpsed me with big, wide blue eyes. If the term "doe-eyed" could refer to blue eyes instead of just brown eyes, I'd apply it to Lily. She flaunted her one-toothed smile, an airy, repetitive little giggle falling out, and she tugged at my pants.

"You wanna hold her?"

I looked up to Lincoln. He grabbed Lily's plump little waist and held her out to me.

"What?"

Oh, how holding babies made me nervous. They're such fragile little lives and if you were to make one wrong move, like tripping or letting your arms loosen a bit, chances are that the baby could be seriously injured. I'd had some experience in holding babies, given the number of siblings I had, but each time I was scared and apprehensive.

I shakily took Lily into my arms, pressing her against my shoulder in a similar manner to how Santa is depicted slinging his present sack over his own shoulder. But Lily isn't a bag. She's a living, breathing being that I'd endanger by simply letting go without safety precautions underneath me. Lily smiled and exclaimed with pure innocence and joy, I couldn't help but feel a bit like a small child myself.

Grinning a bit, I released Lily to the floor.

"She's . . . Cute," I said in my most polite tone.

"Yeah. She really is. The one sister who actually manages to stop our massive tornado sibling fights."

Sibling fights. Those two words made me cringe.

"How old is she?" I asked.

"Fifteen months," Lincoln answered. "Probably, and hopefully, the last child our mom has. I can't handle another sibling. Heh."

I stood still, because for now, it seemed as though I was like another sibling.

"Oh. No offense or anything."

"N-none taken."

When will this awkward conversation end.

"Well, I'm really happy you wanted to come. I'm surprised you did," Lincoln wrapped up.

"Why?"

"I don't know, you just seem kind of . . . Shy."

I shrugged. I thought he was going to say something about me hating people altogether, but I was very glad he didn't. What's with the stereotype of quiet introverts hating all of humankind?

"I guess I'll leave you alone now. You really don't seem like the kind of person to enjoy small talk," said Lincoln, backing away towards his room. "See you later, Annabelle." With a brief shut of his door, he was out of my right.

I sighed. It came across as no surprise to me that I botched up another social interaction with someone around my age range, but was perfectly okay interacting with an innocent baby. Oddly enough, I wanted to play with Lily after that, get to know her, become one of her best friends. . . . Lily just seemed so pure, so happy around people, able to interact normally. If a baby could do it, why couldn't a teenager?

Bored, I went back downstairs to find something to do. Lana and Lola were watching Penguin Pageants (I can't believe that's a show) on the couch, and Luan was inflating whoopee cushions on the living room floor. Luan smiled at me, braces flashing like diamonds inlaid on her teeth, and I waved back.

Then I saw some crayons scattered along the coffee table, and I gained an idea.

I tapped Luan's shoulder, and she looked up from blowing up a whoopee cushion.

"Do you know, well—how do you find—um—where's the paper?" I asked, knees bending.

"Over there, by the printer," Luan said, pointing to the back corner of the living room by the stairs. A desk with a computer leaned against the wall, with a printer right next to it.

I nodded in thanks to Luan, and retrieved a piece of paper—then, I swiped a random mechanical pencil I found on the desk, and stalked into the dining room. It was completely empty there, so I assumed most of the Louds were in their rooms or disperse amongst the house. I pulled out a random black wooden chair, and began to draw, no particular outcome in mind. . . .

The lead of the pencil twirled and swiped and stroked the paper erratically, randomly going back to resolve the most minuscule shiny silver details on the unfinished art. Shades of gray varied among the piece, sometimes smeared, sometimes just blended well with hundreds of tiny pencil strokes. Circles wouldn't come out in the most flawless way, constant erasing was needed—lengths of lines had to constantly be altered, curves changed from thin to wide.

It seemed like a burdensome process that lasted so many minutes, but I was finally done—eventually.

On my paper was a bluebird, with not a single hint of blue on it, only gray pencil lead; I'd done all that with just a single pencil, no paintbrushes, no pens, no markers. Just a single mechanical pencil and a paper and some time. The outcome was beautiful, the legs were proportioned correctly and the eyes of the bird seemed gentle and seed-like, just like a real bird.

I held up my paper for a better view, sort of grinning and nodding. "Oh yes, something of decent quality comes of me," I smiled, eyes lighting up. For once, the more and more I looked at it, it didn't seem to drop in quality. It looked perfect.

Eager, I slid out of the chair and snuck to the living room. More siblings had joined: Lily was stacking building blocks, and Leni was coating her nails with nail polish on the sofa. Luan, Lola and Lana were still there, continuing their normal activities. I nervously pinched the sides of my paper, hands beginning to quiver—Wait, why was I so cold and sweaty—

"What's that?" Lola asked, a certain curious tone in her voice. The other sisters looked up from what they were doing, as if Lola had unintentionally directed their attention to me.

Shoot, I had to show them what I could create now.

I sheepishly sidled across the carpet, nearing the sofa, and flipped my paper around. The other sisters gaped in astonishment, as if my drawing was really that good.

A hand swiped the paper from mine. It was Luan, her eyes shifting around the drawing like a scanning laser. "How could anyone—"

I shrugged simply and stifled a grin. How arrogant people handle compliments easily, I have no clue. They make it look so simple. From where I stood, I watched Leni, hoping she'd approve of the art. I wasn't sure what stuck about her. Perhaps it may have been that I valued the quality of kindness over intelligence, or just the fact that she'd been the most caring, from what I saw. Someone as artistic as her certainly wouldn't like whatever junk I'd just hurled onto the paper.

But I was wrong.

Leni turned her attention to me, and smiled. Oh, that smile, it was just so welcoming, so friendly, not like any smile I'd seen before. I couldn't tell what it was I felt when the sisters positively reacted to the picture. It was like a swelling in my stomach, an embarrassment, a thrill, like the feeling you get when you zip down a hill on a roller coaster. Not that I'd ride another one anytime soon.

From then until around 4:00, I spent the day doodling cartoons on papers, stacking and stacking up until the printer almost ran out. They were unrealistic and rough, like an animatic, but I didn't mind. The drawings expressed energy when they were drawn roughly, or with more lines to spare. Little did I take breaks. Occasionally, somebody would pass by and glance over my shoulder like a stalker, but I'd hardly notice. Even when siblings would heat up their father's leftovers and sat at the table, I refused to speak.

At 4, someone tapped my shoulder. I jumped out of my chair, scattering shuffling papers everywhere and turning to Lincoln.

"We're all ready to go now," he smiled, handing me my shoes and socks, and a spare coat. I slipped them on clumsily, and sprinted to the front door, where every last family member awaited.

"Alright, it's time for hot cocoa!" Lynn Sr. announced with great enthusiasm. The Loud kids erupted into cheers, slipping into coats and filing out the door.

"Most of us had our first ice creams here," said Lincoln, leading me out of the house like a tour guide. "Oh, trust me, it is some special ice cream. It's the best in Royal Woods."

I wasn't sure about Lincoln's description of the desserts at Aunty Pam's, but I took his word for it. Then, I saw one of my worst fears, right in the driveway: kids piling into one car.

I gulped, freezing in place like a cold statue. Lincoln pried on my arm to get me to move, and I was pulled into the van.

"This is Vanzilla," he said, buckling and patting the seat affectionately. "She's the ultimate vehicle of the Loud House, although she's a bit . . . Old, a little damaged . . . But she works well."

Somehow, I fit in the van with enough room to buckle myself in. To be honest, after a while of being away from home, I was pretty excited to go and get hot chocolate, even though the ground was covered in snow and it was almost dark.