And Then There Was Vince

Chapter 5: pleasedon'tfail.doc

I spent several hours that night writing and rewriting my contribution. I was so harshly critical of every word I put down on paper, and by the time I was finally finished, I felt as if my work could have been better. If this meant anything for me, it was that I'd never become an author. I'd throw every draft in the bin well before it went in front of any publisher to be torn apart.

I was browsing random scary videos on the internet when my cell phone buzzed.

I had a new message from an unrecognized number.

"Hey, this is Vince. I finished my draft already and can email it to you. I figure it's best we do that since we don't have creative writing tomorrow."

I quickly, but not too quickly, sent my response.

"Sure. I'm VHenley94@mailmail.com. I finished mine, too."

Apparently it's rather atypical, but at our school, the schedules alternated during the week. Tuesdays and Thursdays brought longer classes, and they were different from the ones we sat through on the other days. This meant that a lot of subjects could be crammed into one semester, and many parents had been fighting to change that. While they were saying it put too much on our plates, the administrators were saying it would help us graduate more well-rounded. The way I was looking at it was that I wouldn't be seeing much of Vincent or of Ashley twice a week. Thank God for the latter part at least.

The only response he sent me was a thumbs up.

I logged onto my email a few minutes later and found his draft waiting for me, titled amusingly as "pleasedontfail.doc". I attached mine with a similar name and sent it back to him before opening the work to look through it.

His prose left a bit to be desired, and I found myself editing out the smaller grammatical mistakes. Overall, I thought his take on our plot was structured much better, and would be easier to fit into five minutes with a more pleasant pace. I couldn't think of anything from mine that I'd rather have included aside from some of my words.

I was propped up in bed and ready to sleep on it when he messaged me again.

"Your writing is awesome. I think we should just use this one and throw mine away."

I chuckled at our obvious disconnect. We were both thinking the same exact thing about two completely different versions of the same story.

"I actually thought the same about yours," I admitted.

"Lies," was his hasty rebuke.

"No, truths," I argued.

"I can't write, though," he fished.

"But your story is better," I pointed out.

"So you're agreeing I can't write?" He picked playfully.

It was lame, but my smile kept growing. 

"Let's meet up tomorrow night and fix it. Together."

It took an excruciatingly lengthy amount of time for him to reply. Actually, it was only about 5 minutes.

"Sure, your house or mine?" was his answer.

"Yours might be better," I said, not certain I'd bother my father with this while he was on third shift.

"Cool. 106 Woodvale Lane. Bring vodka," He teased. (I think).

"NO! Just me," I argued.

"Fiiiiiiiiine," He complained through text.

That groan was the last message he sent me, as well as the last I sent him. All in all it was a short exchange, but also the only enjoyable one I'd had in a little more than a week. My last message from Ashley had come before school on Wednesday. All that greeted me in her chat were my screenshots and futile attempts to get her to acknowledge me.

I sighed, and flopped back on my bed.

My mind was spinning with everything. I was worried she'd never speak to me again and I'd lose Mandy and Corrine as there was no way we could share her. It would be either me, or Ashley, and if anyone chose the former, their lives would become living hell.

Living hell, like mine currently was.

Was it really right for a friend to be doing this?

I pulled the covers over my head and resigned myself to sleep before I could think about it any longer.