everything I didn't say

twelve

The next morning my classes drag on slow. The nice boy, Chase, that was in some of my classes isn't here and I don't know where he is.

Julie offers me lunch and I graciously take it,  before heading to my creative writing class.

I see Professor Small writing on the board and I take a seat in my regular spot. 

"Today." He says, not turning around. "We're gonna read the works of other students, and then we're gonna discuss what we read as a prompt."

"To be a good writer, you must be able to understand good writing." He explains.

"So, everyone, come pick a notebook." He gestures to the stacks of notebooks from his desk and I walk up and grab the first one I see.

"Read the notebook and then we will choose topics in it to discuss for tomorrow in class." I look to the notebook on my desk.

"The name's have been covered with duct tape, so what you're reading will be anonymous to you. Friday you will choose your favorite part of the notebook, and write about it. It can be an essay, story, article, whatever you would like. Start reading." He instructs so we do.

I open it and it's obviously a girls notebook I've selected, the handwriting proves so.

I flip through the pages, each page with a new title; the topic for that assignment.

They're the same as the ones I have been writing. He hasn't changed his lesson plans in who knows how long.

"How old are these?" I ask out loud.

"Some are two years old, some are three." He smiles at me. 

This girl's thoughts are so jumbled. I have to fight the urge to go in and make corrections to her page. One sentence, she's thinking one way, and the next her opinion has completely changed. 

Her arguments probably came right from Google or Wikipedia. 

I'm only on the fifth topic, but I close the notebook. I really hope she never went on with a career in writing, and that this was just a filler class in her mind.

"Something wrong, Miss Thomas?" Mr. Small walks over to my desk.

"I just didn't want to keep reading, that's all." 

"A lot of these notebooks are of students who were failing my class, I see you happened to pick one of those up." He laughs at me. 

"I don't doubt it." I groan.

"Why don't you try another notebook then?" He gives me the one in his hands.

I thank him and open the new notebook.

I open this one, and it's most likely a boys. The handwriting looks rushed and small, typical boy writing. The topics aren't written at the top, and the pages are for the most part, completely filled. I have a pretty good feeling about this one, so I start reading.

Class ends shortly after, so I take the second notebook home with me.

I'm mesmerized.

The thoughts are so original and genuinely thought out, I feel like I'm reading the thoughts of a genius. This boy, this writer, is so interesting and he probably doesn't even know it.

I'm so excited for discussion tomorrow, and I can talk about how enthralled I am.

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"Did anyone read anything interesting yesterday?" My hand shoots in the air, because I certainly did read something interesting.

He laughs. I look around the room, only two of my classmates have a raised hand.

"Okay, so not many of you." He folds his hands together in his lap. "Those of you without your hand up, what was wrong with what you read?"

I set my hand down and looked around the room.

Different responses were shouted around the room, I caught onto 'boring' and 'stupid' and chuckled to myself.

"Well, this class isn't about reading, it's about writing."

"So, you do not want to ever have someone say that about your work, right?" He raises an eyebrow at the class and we all nod.

"I'm going to make excellent writers out of every single one of you, I promise. I did it for them, I'll do it for you." He smiles.

"The pieces you read were at the beginning of the year, much like right now. Here, in my hand." He gestures to the stack of papers. "I have the final assignments of all the students. We are going to compare them and I want each of you to tell me if you think they improved."

"Peel off the duct tape on the front of your notebooks so you can see the name of the notebook's owner. Then, I'll give you their final assignment."

I take it in my hands and begin picking at the corner of the tape until it sticks up. I grab the corner and begin peeling it back until it's completely off.

I look at the name on my notebook and blink to see if I'm actually reading it right.

Niall Horan

*

*

"Mr. Small?" I raise my hand.

"Yes, Leah."

"There must be a problem here." I point down to my notebook.

"What's that?"

"This says Niall Horan?" I hold up the notebook for him to see.

"That is correct." He nods.

"He doesn't go here, he goes to Garden Grove."

"Yes, now he goes to Garden Grove." He looks back to the stack of papers in his hand and then looks back to me.

"Niall didn't have a final assignment, but I think you and I both know that his writing stayed constant and amazing like it did."

"Why didn't he have a final assignment?" I question, looking back down to the notebook in hand.

"That's for another discussion." He dismisses me and begins passing out the papers as the students call out names. 

Niall went to school here? Why did I never know that? 

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