The Novel: A Short Story

For as long as I’ve known him, Titus has always been a storyteller. I met him when we were both ten. I had just moved into town, and we were in the same class at school. On the first day of school he was late to class. When Mrs. Jackson asked for an explanation, he spun a yarn so long she finally just told him to take his seat without punishing him at all.

The first time I actually met him was at the park. Mrs. Keller had given us a writing assignment and I hadn’t the faintest idea how to write a story. So I just sat there on the bench with my notebook on my lap, and my pen resting idly in my hand.

“I know you.” He said. I didn’t see him approach, but there he was. “You’re the new girl.”

“My name’s Helen.”

“Mine’s Titus. Watcha’ doin’?”

“Writing that assignment.”

“Doesn’t look like it. That notepad’s as blank as the look on your face.”

“It’s ‘cause I can’t write.” I said in frustration.

“What? How can you be in the same grade as me and not write?”

“I can write, I just can’t write stories.”

“Really? Comes second nature to me.”

“Then why don’t you tell me a story and I’ll write it down.”

“That would be cheating.”

“No, I’ll make my own changes.”

“Alright then…” He began, and then he told the most amazing tale I had ever heard. I was enthralled, and he was enthralled with his own tale. Titus couldn’t sit still while he told a story. His arms were flying all over the place as he described how big the dinosaur was. Then he stretched out his arms and ran in wide circles as he told me how we escaped from it in an airplane. His stories were exciting from beginning to end, but the best part was always the end. No matter what kind of story it was, the ending always made you feel like he had thrown a lasso around your heart and tugged it just a little.

We were fast friends from then on. There was nothing I loved more than to listen to his stories. As we got older he got better about putting his stories onto paper. Even when I wasn’t with him I was reading his stories when I sat alone. His stories still fascinated me, but by the time we were sixteen I found that he was fascinating me as much as his stories were.

One day we were in the park again and he was telling me an exciting story about swashbuckling adventure. He still couldn’t sit still while he told his stories. He had to dance around the tree I leaned against, swinging a stick as if it were a sword. I watched as he tamed a wild stallion, fought off pirates, and finally rescued the princess. That’s when I let out a yelp of surprise as he suddenly grabbed me around the waist and pulled me close to him. My heart was beating fast, but his story had stopped. He just held me and looked into my eyes.

“Well?” I asked, almost breathless. “What happens next?”

“I don’t know.” He said. He suddenly flushed with embarrassment, but didn’t let go of me. “They say you should write what you know, and, well…”

That’s when I kissed him. It was my first kiss, and his too. It wasn’t a lingering kiss, but the moment seemed to last forever to my mind.

“So then,” I asked again. “What happens next?”

“Well, then he kissed her, and it felt like butterflies all through his heart.”

We both laughed a little, and then he offered to walk me home.

“Titus, when you’re a famous writer we’ll still be friends, right?” I asked.

“Of course, Helen.” He said, smiling.

Four years later, Titus had his first published work in a magazine. He was ecstatic, and I was happy for him. However, after that I began to see less of him. He devoted more and more time to writing, and less time to sharing his stories with me. One day I asked him what he’d been writing.

“It’s a novel, Helen, my first one.” He said it with much pride.

“May I read it?”

“Not till it’s done.”

“Well, what’s it about?”

“That’s a secret.” He said with a sly look in his eyes.

I found that I was growing jealous. I used to think he loved me, but now I knew he loved writing more. Sometimes weeks would go by and I wouldn’t hear from him. In those lonely stretches I would remember what he had said, that you write what you know, and sometimes I would think that all the time he had spent with me was just experiences that would help with his writing. I began to resent opening up my heart to him.

Finally, his novel was published. I hadn’t heard from him in two months at that point. On the day of the book’s release all of his other friends were standing in line when the bookstores opened. I refused to pay it any attention. His novel got rave reviews. He was heralded as a break-out author. I no longer wondered why he didn’t call me anymore. Obviously, he had moved on to better things.

Then one day, I heard that he’d been sick. He had been for months. He had struggled through the publishing process. The doctor’s didn’t know if he would ever fully recover. I felt compelled to call him, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead I went to the bookstore. I bought his novel and I went to the park to read it.

I read it all in a single sitting. It was amazing. To everyone else I’m sure it was just a great story, but to my eyes each chapter was like a love letter written directly from him to me.

“Remember the bench in the park? Remember the tree? Remember our first kiss? Remember how I walked you home?”

Those were the kinds of things his story said to me.

I went over to his house right away. It had grown dark already. When I knocked on the front door his mother answered.

“Titus is in bed right now, but he might not be asleep. If he isn’t, I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

She took me back to his bedroom. Sure enough, he looked as sick as a dog, but he was awake and he smiled when he saw me there.

“Helen.” He said. “What are you doing here?”

“I read your book.” I said as I sat down on the edge of his bed.

“You did. What did you think of it?”

“I loved it.” I gently squeezed his hand.

“I’m glad.”