Fly With Me

9- Uh-oh

Nickson life was an unpredictable and busy affair, with everybody going their own separate ways and running this way and that seemingly non-stop. Most of the time, it was only Brandon, Mrs. Nickson, and I in the house; the rest of the family would convene at dinner time after Brandon's younger sisters had come home from school, and Mr. Nickson had come home from work. Brandon did not go to school like his sisters did because he had graduated the year before.

"Well, why don't you go to college then?" I asked one morning as we sat across from each other at the kitchen table, eating cereal.

He shoveled a spoonful of Raisin Bran into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed before answering. "Wanted a year free to explore my options. I hadn't really decided what I wanted to do with myself before I graduated and I didn't just want to go into college and take a bunch of pointless classes, wasting my parents' money."

"I guess that makes sense..." I murmured, looking down.

 It seemed that this boy and I were complete polar opposites. While I had squandered away whatever my parents gave me, he was busy trying to save what his parents were offering him.

 In an effort to distract myself from thoughts of my parents, I spoke again. "But didn't you have at least some idea of what you wanted to do?"

Brandon's ears suddenly tinted slightly pink and he looked down. "I thought about being a writer."

A writer? Why he was blushing about wanting to be a writer? A lot of guys write, and they're pretty successful. "Oh, that's cool. What kind?"

His ears colored an even darker shade of red. "You know Nicholas Sparks?"

All the pieces clicked together then and I found myself fighting back a giggle. "You wanted to write chick lit?"

"Romance novelist," he mumbled, eyes fixed on his cereal bowl. "And yeah, I did." Using his spoon, he pushed little pieces of bran flakes around the edges of his bowl. "That's, uh, that's actually why I wrote your name down the first day we met." He dug in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out the small ratty notebook. "I've got this list of names I could use in novels I write in the future." He flipped through the pages and soon reached a page with a long list of names scrawled messily in a long line. My name, or rather, my pseudonym was at the very bottom of the list.

A few minutes passed by without either of us speaking after Brandon put the small notebook back in his pants' pocket. We both finished our cereal and he collected both my bowl and his own and dumped them in the sink.

"So, uh... why chi--, I mean, why a romance novelist?" I questioned; I began to trace patterns on the wooden table with my forefinger as I tried to keep the conversation going.

He shrugged as he moved back to the table and sat down. "It was something I was good at. I like to capture the... the struggle, the quiet desperation." He wouldn't make eye contact with me as he spoke, but kept his gaze on his hands that were clasped in front of him. "There are so many emotions that I could capture in just one tiny moment that I felt were lacking in other genres." A little spark lit up   his eyes as he finally raised them to look at me. "I tried horror, mysteries, thrillers, humor, but I couldn't make the words... sing. I couldn't make them convey all of the emotion that I wanted them to." Brandon allowed himself a small smile. "But I can do that with romance."

"Oh." Finding no other words to say,  I contented myself with staring at the table. A sudden inspiration hit me, and my head shot up so that I could look at him. "Could I read some of your work?"

He seemed taken aback by my sudden request and stammered for a little bit before finally acquiescing and retrieving a small laptop from his room. He placed the miniature computer on the tabletop and started it up, humming a little tune as he waited for it to power up all the way. When it eventually did, he pulled up the documents and shifted it so that the screen was facing me, saying, "Take your pick."