Free Agent Angus by K. L. Denman

Chapter One
    I’m not a lucky guy. But today luck has chosen to place me next to the one and only Ella Eckles. It’s like a miracle. We’re standing on the school’s front lawn, at the edge of a crowd of students. The school has been evacuated. A massive stink bomb in the main hall is still smoking.
    I risk a furtive glance at Ella and see that her nose is wrinkled. It’s a strong nose with a shapely profile. It always keeps her black-framed eyeglasses neatly in place. And clearly, it’s a sensitive nose. True, my nose is wrinkling from the stench wafting from the school too. But my belief that Ella’s nose is sensitive isn’t based only on this moment. I know that she’s artistic, and artists are sensitive in many ways.
    Ella is carrying her sketchbook. She draws all the time. Maybe I could ask her what she’s working on. Would that be cool? I think it would. I take a deep breath to prepare myself and almost gag.
    Note to self: Avoid inhaling rude aromas.
    I hear Ella ask, “Are you okay?”
    I look to see who she’s talking to and make direct eye contact with her. She’s asking me if I’m okay.
    I rally my voice and croak, “Yeah. It’s just the…you know…”
    â€œI know. The smell. So disgusting.” Her eyes are warm brown. She’s taller than me but not by much. Our glasses are almost dead level. “You’re Angus, right?”
    â€œYou know my name?” Like an idiot, I say that out loud. Ella’s lips curve into a small smile, and she nods.
    â€œOh. Wow. I know yours too. Ella Eckles. Ha ha.”
    Her smile fades. “You think my name is funny?”
    â€œWhat? No. It’s a beautiful name. Beautiful, like…” Do not say like a fulcrum point. Nor like Topio 3.0, the Ping-Pong-playing robot. I can’t compare her name to things I usually call beautiful. I give up and say, “So. You’re into drawing, huh?”
    â€œYeah.” She hugs her sketchbook to her chest. She sure loves that thing.
    â€œSweet. So what do you draw?”
    She looks down at her foot, prodding the grass. “You’ll think it’s dumb.”
    â€œNo, I won’t,” I say. “Anything you—I mean, I think creating art is, whoa. Incredible.”
    She looks at me again. “Really? You won’t laugh?”
    I shake my head.
    She bites her lip for a second before saying, “I want to be an animator. For film or video games. So I draw everything I see or imagine.”
    â€œWow! An animator. That is so cool.” It really is. I want to say more, but I’m experiencing a brain fart. Nothing comes to me. Think, Angus, think.
    â€œWould you like to see what I’m working on?” she asks.
    I respond with a huge nod.
    She gives me that little smile again and opens her sketchbook. The page is filled with black-ink drawings of faces. All of them wear a different expression. Some are smiling, some frowning, some look surprised. I’m no art expert, but the faces are so realistic, I gasp. “These are fantastic.”
    â€œNo, they’re not. They’re just sketches for an exercise I’m working on.”
    I blink at her. “An exercise?”
    â€œYeah. I’m trying to capture the details that show what people are feeling.” She flips the page over and points out a face that’s maybe—sad? “See this? It’s terrible. I was trying to get the expression of someone lying.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œIt’s hard to pinpoint certain facial cues.” She sighs heavily. “If I can’t master that, I’ll never make it as an animator.”
    I blurt, “Maybe I can help.”
    â€œYou can?” she asks. “How?”
    How? Good question.
    From out of nowhere comes this lie. “I’ve been studying this sort of thing myself. Not for drawing. I suck at drawing. But, see, I plan to be a mentalist. Like those detective