A Little Something Different

October (Hillary - creative writing classmate)

Hillary- creative writing classmate

“We’re going to be starting on our first long term critiquing assignment,” Call-me-Inga declares one rainy October day. She says it like she is so thrilled, like it’s the best thing to happen since moveable type was invented or whatever English professors get excited about.

“We’re going to be doing a series of simple stories, a thousand words give or take, and then sharing them with a partner over the next few weeks. It will give you both a chance to see how someone else works on these assignments first hand and then we’ll switch around. I think it’s important that we all learn from each other.

I sit up straight and raise my hand not bothering to be called on before speaking. “What topics will we be writing about?”

“I think something simple like a particular childhood memory that stands out to you would be a good place to start. It can be sad, happy, funny, but get it to a thousand words. It doesn’t have to be extremely personal. If you feel like this topic might tap into something like that, come see me in office hours. You don’t have to give any specifics, but we can work something out.”

Truth be told, that’s part of what I respect about Call-me-Inga, even if she can be sort of a tool. She’s realistic about limitations people might have when it comes to topics. Like what if I was abused as a kid and everything about my childhood makes me think of that? Although I feel like if you’re having those kinds of problems you’re probably not in college taking creative writing. You’re probably like in prison making toilet wine.

These are the kinds of thoughts I really need to keep to myself.

I probably don’t want to think too hard about toilet wine, either. One time my roommate and I made a huge tub of punch in a Rubbermaid storage bin and used grape Kool-Aid and all the guys said it looked like toilet wine. But how would frat boys even know what toilet wine looks like?

“Was there something else?” Call-me-Inga asks me. I must have zoned out thinking about toilet wine.

“We can pick partners?”

“Of course. This isn’t kindergarten,” she smiles like she said something super clever and I go back to disliking her even if I do respect her.

I run my hands through my hair and look around at the class. There are an even number of kids so that’s good news. But I don’t want to get stuck with that snooze fest Victor. I’ve had my eye on cutie pie Gabe all semester, so I lean across the empty chair in between us. He kind of looks like this guy my sister dated who drove a motorcycle. He was hot. She was too stupid to hang on to him though.

“Gabe!” I say, like we’re old friends.

He doesn’t respond. I ball up a piece of paper and throw it at him. He jumps and looks over at me. I toss off my most seductive, “come be my creative writing partner” finger wave.

He raises his eyebrows.

“We should work together,” I say, leaning my hand on my chin. I’m almost annoyed at myself for using all my best stuff on this semi-loser in class, but he’s not really a semi-loser. He’s particularly cute when he doesn’t shave and he gets all flustered when he has to talk to the class. If only he would wear cooler shoes. Maybe while we work together on this assignment I can coach him on different footwear. They’re always slip-ons, never anything with laces. And they’re always kind of cheap looking. At least they’re not Crocs.

“So?” I prod.

“Oh,” he glances away. “Um, I guess.” He turns to me and nods.

Score.

We drag our chairs together.

“Before we start, I have to ask. Are you Italian? I love Italian guys.”

“Um. I’m mostly Portuguese and Welsh.”

“South American, even better.”

He gives me a weird look. “You do know that Portugal isn’t in South America, right?”

“Of course silly,” I say, touching his arm. “I was joking!”

Where the eff is Portugal?