Combustion

nebula: five

Mr. Russell let out a low whistle. We had just finished an in-class essay, and most of us were feeling the effects of not writing throughout the entire summer. Aaron was massaging his forearm and repeatedly clenched and unclenched his hand, presumably to work some feeling back into his muscles.

Mr. Russell had been flipping through the papers, skimming to see if we had gleaned any insight on the snippet of prose we were to be analyzing. He squinted his eyes at one paper. "Some of you guys need to work on your penmanship. I'm not even sure this paper is written in English."

He held the essay up to the light, as if that could give the paper some clarity. "I don't even think this person signed his or her full name. It just has the letter M."

I think some of us were probably laughing at Mr. Russell's theatrics, because it didn't seem possible for the handwriting to be as bad as he made it out to be. I was probably laughing a little bit, because I knew he wasn't talking about me. If he was talking about me, I think I would have turned an unpleasant shade of red and shrunk very low in my seat. I don't think I have the finesse to feign innocence.

You cleared your throat, and leaned forward on your desk, elegantly propping up your head with one hand. "I'm Em." I'm pretty sure you were smiling devilishly, and I know you found all of this hilarious. "I have terrible handwriting most of the time," you admitted.

"Most of the time," Russell echoed.

"Well, yeah. I was in a rush. There's a time limit, and I was so excited to write this essay."

Mr. Russell squinted at you in disbelief. "You're joking, right?" I think he was confused. I was confused, too, because nobody likes writing essays. Or at least, nobody admits to liking essays.

"No," you shrugged, because you didn't care. "I was quite inspired. Had to write it all down before I forgot. I promise that it's a brilliant essay."

I believed you. I could still hear your voice: Go ten thousand miles an hour or not at all. You were inclined to make this essay your best or ensure that it would be your worst. And I can see you, sitting there, reading that passage and loving it. I can see you ripping it apart and fashioning it all back together with a handful of your hellfire. You would be spilling with inspiration, and your essay would be both analytically advanced and stylistically you. It wouldn't be trying too hard. It would be breathing on paper.

Mr. Russell didn't suffer from the same illusions as me, which was probably a good thing. "I might believe you if I could read a single word on this paper." He looks at the page again. "I'll try to read through this, but you might need to decipher it or rewrite it entirely if you want a grade."

"Okay, I don't mind. I could've written more if I hadn't run out of time." You were still looking at Mr. Russell, and I think it's probably bad that I never once thought you were bluffing. 

I saw you so vividly that everything else blurred in the background. I think you saw everything that way. Everything was so in focus. You knew how you felt. You knew how to articulate it. It was powerful in such a normal way. You could seize the fruit from the highest branches, and it would look effortless. You were a joker, a philosopher, a dreamer, and a fighter all at once. You were a tempest, jagged lightning, smooth sailing, a wildfire, and all the natural unreals. For some reason I could see that in you. For some reason, you could see that in everything. You could write the best essay and tailor your own future, but the only thing you lacked was time.You were color in a black and white world. By watching you, I realized that people, the world, everything in general is not monochrome. There are facets and treasure coves. It seems wrong to call it grey area, because it's more than that. It's taking contradictions and burning them together in a way that somehow makes sense. You made opposites nonexistent and the nonsensical understandable. And I'm still wondering how you could be so impossibly remarkable and so incredibly real all at the same time. You made emotions their own separate entities. You were everything all at once.

It's also really strange, because I think all this description makes you seem extravagant and otherworldly. But you weren't like that at all. You were real and natural, and I think to me that made you even more amazing.You did not go seeking unusual thrills, but you would make the ordinary exhilarating. I guess that's why I liked spending time with you. You made me feel like there was an infinity under my surface, that even I, the unassuming, quiet, and uneasy John could ravage the world like you.

I thought it was weird that you called yourself Em. Em seemed quiet and unassuming and much too normal. It did not hold the sapphire quality of Emory. Emory seemed more powerful. It seemed bigger, like it could burn you if you weren't careful enough. Emory feels like the way a meteor tail rips apart the inky black night and fills it with something unimaginable.

I guess the next event isn't all too much related to the in-class essay incident. I was just curious as to why you had slaughtered your name so much. Was Emory too big for you? Was it so big that you had cut your name down to one letter? "Why do you go by Em?" We were alone for some reason. I don't know why. I can't remember why, I just know we were alone and I loved that.

"Why do you go by John?" You laughed. "I was given a name, and I can choose what to do with it."

"Is something wrong with Emory?"You shrugged. "Only my parents call me that. It's three syllables long, and it means trouble."

"So Emory is too big of a name?"

You looked me in the eye. "Too small. Em is a mystery. My name is just another art. Em is workable, and I can mold it to whatever I want it to be. It's traditional and modern and timeless. I like that."

I liked that you just sign your name with the letter M. It feels like a beginning. Em is an uncompleted thought that is begging to be finished. You could fashion whatever ending you wished.

"I am forever a work in progress." I am still writing about you.