Writer Games | Death Wish & 51

Task Six: On My Own /SF - Kara Travis

And so we're back to  where we started, quiet as we were when we first embarked on our journey  to Area 51. Back when the fifteen of us were a group of strangers, when  the silence was not due to weariness but unfamiliarity. When the sky  was black and starless and not light, when what we felt was anticipation  and not trepidation.

Of course, bright as the sun is through the window, our thoughts have become much, much darker.

Sunlight. It filters  through slits in the curtains as the bus bumbles down the road. Blinking  as I draw them back, I sit up and look out onto the gravelly road  sweeping past. The view has changed and the Michael Jackson album that  was playing earlier has made way for something something I don't  recognise.

"So as I was saying,"  says Lincoln, "both my parents are teachers. My mother coached me while I  was in lower secondary and my father took over when I got to upper. Now  I pretty much study on my own."

"Wow," I marvel, the  concept of going to university sounding almost foreign. "Aren't you  something? The last time I studied was...actually, I don't think I've  ever studied."

Lincoln nods once, but  what I've said doesn't seem to make much sense to him. That's okay,  since I don't understand much about his life either.

"Then when you said you'd worked hard to build the life you have now, what exactly did you mean?"

Lincoln looks like he's  about to start on a long explanation. "You see, all these scholarships, a  spot in Brown University... I didn't get them because I was born a  genius or naturally smart. It's not because my parents are teachers,  either. The only reason I have what I have now is because I worked hard.  I worked really hard. I never socialised or went to parties—it probably  rationalises my lack of social skills—and the only clubs I joined were  those that were applicable to school. In fact, the only friend I think I  had in high school wasn't even that close to me. I sacrificed a lot to  get where I am. It didn't come naturally but still I built, I built, I  built...and I built it all myself."

When I hear this, I go quiet. It takes a while before I finally ask, "Then what made you work so hard?"

Lincoln's features adopt  a certain seriousness as he silently ponders my question. While  waiting, I grow conscious of the way our pinkies touch as they sit side  by side between us. For a while, I'm confused by the almost-comforting  feeling it gives me. That makes me choose to ignore it.

It takes at least a  minute for him to start speaking. "I don't know. Expectations, I guess.  This overwhelming desire to be greater than you are in someone else's  eyes." He pauses, contemplating. "When I was young, really young, I  would bring home report cards with B's and C's and when my parents saw  them, they'd be mad. They would go to parent-teacher meetings where my  teachers would complain that I wasn't working hard enough, and my  parents would agree that I wasn't trying hard enough, and when we got  home they would scold me and tell me that I had what it took be to be  smart but I wasn't making use of that. I thought I was trying but  apparently no one agreed with that. And they were so disappointed. After  that, I kinda vowed never to disappoint them again."

After a pause, I kill the moment by saying, "Go get a life, Lincoln."

"I want to be great. And I want to be whatever makes me parents happy."

"Go get a life, Lincoln.  Like you said, you didn't even have friends. You yourself know that's  pretty abnormal. Sure, being me kinda sucks but at least expectations  aren't the reason I could be dead now."

Lincoln frowns. Then  slowly, his face splits into a wide grin. "Let's make a deal. You teach  me to get a life and I teach you to build one."

Big dreams, hard work, buying a house downtown? Absolutely not. "Sure. Sounds great."