Between the Lines

- 8 -

This. Cannot. End well.  This is the thought that keeps repeating in my brain as she slides her notebook my way. I feel like a hormonal eighth grader when I take it. My chest seems to elevate just because I am touching her notebook.

She’s not Christ! I tell myself. Or Megan Fox. Just a chick. I try to keep my face impassive when I re-read what she wrote. I put my pencil on the line below her last and then, I freeze.

There’s nothing in my mind. NOTHING! I’m still dwelling on touching her notebook and feeling that this totally innocent thing feels…I don’t know…intimate? Is that how this feels? Intimate?

“Lost in thought?” She asks me with a blend of understanding and intrigue.

“Um, lost, anyway,” I answer, and I shudder inside a bit at showing my complete inadequacy at creating.

“See, I don’t think that’s possible. I saw you be creative and improvisational before…”

Shhhiiiiiiit. She remembers that day. At least, I think that’s her reference. It’s the only time that comes to mind that she has ever seen me be anything but lazy. That had started as a pretty good time. She was smiling, I think she almost laughed. I was having fun, then that ass-hat boyfriend of hers stepped in.

Can’t think of that now. Right now I am sitting here in front of her frozen and stupid. I don’t want this paralysis though. I wanna show her that I’m not truly retarded.

But I am retarded. Well, partly…partly retarded. That makes sense in my case, I’m partly retarded. I mean, I can come up with random crap pretty easy if I’m just screwing around. But this…this is serious! It’s my grade, it’s my graduation. It’s – it’s her.

“Um-I-uhhh…” and she thinks I’m an idiot. She HAS to. I know it. She has to think that because I think that!

“Okay. There’s something going on in there right now, so whatever it is, quit screwing with yourself,” she tells me, and for one of the only times I have ever witnessed it, I see sincerity there. She’s – she’s actually telling me something here, so I listen raptly.

She sits mute, though, so I say, “Explain.”

She exhales audibly, gathers herself for a moment, then goes on as though trying to explain to me a great secret because she speaks in a whisper, but with urgency.

 “Just… you – you stop yourself from creating. It’s obvious. I can almost see the story there in your brain, but it’s like you automatically shoot down whatever you’re making before you can write it down because you instantly think it sucks. But it doesn’t! And you probably base that conclusion on what someone said once…ONCE about something you wrote. Am I right?” she concludes as she crosses her arms and sits back to gauge my reaction. Her face looks almost like she’s accusing me of something, but it doesn’t feel bad, just…intense.

“Um-I don’t-maybe,” I mumble, and I can’t look at her right now. Am I blushing? Christ, I hope not. I can’t answer her for a minute. Not that I don’t want to-I just-don’t know the answer myself.

Do I suck at writing? Yeah, I think so. Pretty sure Mrs. Buchanan would agree. But where does that stem from? Hell-I never considered it.

“I don’t…” I begin, but she interrupts.

“I wish we had time for a therapy session. But we don’t. So here’s what I wanna see; you stop shutting down what you’re thinking about, just write. If it needs to be adjusted later, fine. But you’re on my team right now, and I write pretty well. Which means that you write just as well now, too. You have to; because I’ve seen you do it.”

What the hell does that look she’s giving me mean? Is it knowing? Challenging? The hell?

Fine. Fine! She wants to see what verbal vomit I spew out if I don’t hold back? I can do that. I pick up my pencil again and begin.

 

“Heath?! Like, named after the candy bar? Weird. Anyway, there was this line where he says something like ‘Do I look like a man with a plan?! I just…DO things!’  And that’s how I feel. Aaaallll the time.”

“Yeah, um, I wouldn’t peg you as a Joker type.”

“No?”

“No….Dexter, though. Yeah. You are totally Dexter.”

“That’s jacked up.”

“It’s not entirely wrong though. I mean, I see your point a lot, even if I think it’s morbid. Kinda Dexter-ish. I see his point a lot too – even though it’s morbid.”

“I don’t get if this is a good thing or a bad one. I’m like Dexter, so I’m a freak, but you see my point, so I’m not an unreasonable freak. That’s seriously how you see me?!”

“Um. Kinda. Yeah.”

“Christ.”

“No. Not like Christ. That’d be a weird combination, Christ and Dexter.”

“…what?”

“Never mind. I don’t know where I was going with that. I just-you-well, I-“

“Ok, so I’m trying to drop the Jesus Dexter thing, but it’s still fluttering around in my head.”

“Let it go.”

“Trying. But all I wanna get out of that is-um-I mean, I see your point. Kind of. But that’s not my major concern. I mean, I’m glad to get your input-I guess-but, I-“

“But what? Stop babbling and just say what you’re trying to say.”

“Just - But then, how do you-ya know-feel, I guess-about me?”

“How…how do I feel about you? Um-good question, Bryan.”