“We’re going to finish today’s lesson with a little writing exercise,” I started. “I want each of you to look around at your peers and pick a person. I’ll give you all twenty minutes to come up with a short story about that person’s life. Come up with an interesting backstory. When you’re character building in your own projects, you need to give more than just physical descriptions. Remember to give context into their lives so that their motivations and actions become clear to the reader.”
A boy with bright red hair and green eyes in the front row raised his hand. “Can I set their backstory in space?”
I chuckled, “Of course. The important thing to remember is that the only limit is the extent of your imagination.”
“The only limit…” mumbled one of the soccer moms in the middle row as she copied my words in pencil onto the workbook in front of her, “is the extent of your imagination. Good stuff. I’m putting that on my blog.”
I glanced down at my wristwatch just as Lara took a seat in the far back corner. She plucked a blue pen from her green apron and slipped open the fresh workbook in front of her on the table. I couldn’t help but smile. It looked like the three empty seats were really only two. Lara raised her hand, a mischievous grin upon her plump lips.
“Will we be graded?” she giggled.
“No,” I laughed. “No grades. You’ll hand them in after and I’ll give them back to you next week with feedback. You all have twenty minutes starting now.”
The sound of mad scribbling filled the room, along with the crinkling of paper and the occasional cough. I placed my palms against the table before me, scanning my workshop’s students. They were a diverse bunch, varying in age and ethnicity. It was really nice to know that the art of writing in an era of never-ending content feeds wasn’t dead. I firmly believed that writing was a wonderful endeavor to pursue. Writing could be an escape, an outlet for pent up creativity and the chance to develop one’s unique voice. No two authors wrote the same, no two authors shared the same perspective. And most importantly, it didn’t matter what walk of life you came from. As long as you could get your thoughts down onto the page, you could be a writer. It was an accessible art form for all to produce and consume.
Some of my students wrote slower than others. I always found people’s expressions interesting when they were concentrating hard. Some people’s faces were blank, all the focus carrying in their eyes. Some of my students pressed their lips together in thin lines or chewed on the ends of their pens. What caught my eye was the way Lara looked. While everyone else looked like they were wracking their brains to come up with content, Lara was smiling. It was a beautiful smile, bright and cheerful and completely at ease. Most of the other students had only managed a paragraph or two, but Lara was already on her second page. I wanted to know which student she was writing about. Out of all the assignments that I’d be receiving, I was probably the most interested in hers. Since she was an English literature student, I was expecting something phenomenal.
Twenty minutes passed by in a flash. I had everyone drop their writing utensils and pass their papers forward. Since Lara was in the far back, her assignment was the last to reach me. I admired her penmanship for a moment. Her E’s and L’s looped in a similar manner, but the rest of her letters were tight and small. Her words were ridiculously straight, almost like the font off a printed document. She hadn’t bothered to give her piece a title, choosing instead to get right into the nitty-gritty of the task. The second my workshop students handed in their work, they packed up their things and left the way they came, some of them thanking me for taking the time to lead the class. The group of young boys came up to me individually to ask for a signed copy of the first book of The Last Remembering, which they’d purchased some time prior to Ramen Books closing.
Everyone eventually cleared out, leaving only myself and Lara behind to clean up for the day. She immediately got to work breaking down plastic tables and chairs, leaning them up against a bare wall to her right to deal with in the morning. I packed up my own materials, placing her assignment on top to read the second I got home after picking Clarissa up from daycare.
“How did you like it?” I asked.
“I thought it was a lot of fun,” she replied with a sweet smile. “You’re a great teacher.”
“You think so? I was worried I was boring. The older gentleman next to you looked about ready to doze off.”
Lara giggled, voice light and carefree. “No, that’s just Mr. Porter. Both of his eyes are lazy, that’s all. He comes in every so often to browse through the second-hand section. He really likes hunting for deals.”
She reminded me so much of Sandy when I’d first met her. We’d both been young, in the prime of our lives, two struggling writers starving for our art. Perhaps Lara was putting up a front. Maybe she was just pretending to be nice, pretending to be interested in my class because she had some ulterior motive. Sandy had wanted my money, a roof over her head and three-square meals a day. The second she caught wind of my book’s success, Sandy had made sure to dig her claws into me. Back then, I truly believed she loved me. But now, I realized it was all for personal gain. Maybe Lara was no different.
I had to bite hard on the inside of my cheek to snap me back to reality. I wasn’t talking to Sandy. Lara was an entirely different person. It wasn’t fair of me to make judgements about someone just because they reminded me of my traitorous bitch of an ex-wife.
“Will you be back next week?” I asked, the words flowing out of my mouth before I had the chance to think.
Lara laughed, “I work here, silly. Of course, I’ll be back.”
“Good. That’s good.”
“You know,” she started slowly, “there’s a bar a couple blocks from here. Do you maybe want to grab a drink with me? Maybe we can read everyone’s backstory pieces together.”
I almost said yes. It sounded like a wonderful idea. There was just something about Lara that had me holding my breath, anticipating every word she spoke just for the thrill of hearing her speak. But the joy of being asked out for drinks was just as easily drowned out by a cold dread. Sandy had asked me out the same way all those years ago. She’d been confident, kind. I’d allowed myself to go with her to the local pub, unwittingly walking right into a trap that would ultimately waste almost fifteen years of my life. I just wasn’t ready to take the leap yet, scars too fresh.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I really need to get home.”
Lara’s smile faltered ever so slightly, shoulders slumping a little. But she shook her head and the smile returned, a bit dimmer, but still polite. “That’s okay,” she spoke softly. “I’m sure you’re busy. I’ll see you next week, then.”
I nodded once, swallowing at the dry lump that had lodged itself in my throat. I genuinely felt bad for turning her down. Lara seemed really nice, and there was no denying that we clicked. But I didn’t know if I was ready. My feet felt like lead and my tongue felt absurdly bloated in my mouth. I was afraid to take the leap, still gun shy after what happened between me and Sandy. “Right,” I mumbled. “See you next week.”
3
Lara
Memories tended to be a weird thing. I could never seem to remember any of my cousin’s birthdays, or any of the Christmas’ spent at my aunt and uncle’s house when I was ten. But my asking Chuck out for drinks and promptly being
turned down –that I remembered in excruciating detail. I cringed every time I heard my words replay in my head. I’d sounded so keen, so stupidly enthusiastic. I wasn’t exactly known for being smooth, but holy cow had I sounded young and dumb. Maybe I’d been reading the signs all wrong. I could have sworn Chuck had been checking me out the entire class. I thought I’d saw him staring at me, smiling at me in a way he didn’t the other students. I thought maybe he liked me, which was the only reason I spent the whole workshop gathering up the strength to ask only to be turned down. At least Chuck had been gentle about it. I didn’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t been so polite. It was a good thing he left shortly after, because I could have sworn my head was seconds away from exploding with embarrassment.
It was a Saturday, which meant I had a day off from both college and the bookstore. It was one of those rare occasions where I had absolutely nothing to do. I’d already done a huge load of laundry earlier that morning, folded every item, and tucked them neatly away in my dresser. All of the dishes had been scrubbed, pre-rinsed, and were now enjoying a hot steamy bath in my apartment’s tiny countertop dishwasher. I’d already finished my schoolwork and had even managed to find a spare hour or two to get ahead in next week’s assigned readings. Without any chores to keep me occupied, I could only let my mind wander and replay Chuck’s rejection over and over like a broken record in my mind. I tried to assure myself that it wasn’t that bad. People got rejected all the time. Sometimes two people just weren’t meant to be, and that was totally fine. Cool. Snazzy.