Page 18 of The Write Place

When the door finally closes behind him, I scrub my face with my hands and groan. Five more weeks of this might as well be an eternity.

The next morning, I come in and my door is propped open as it usually is now that Daniel is shadowing me. This morning, however, I hear voices as I get closer to the room. I approach quietly and pause right before I get to the door, standing in the hallway so I can’t be seen.

It’s not eavesdropping, I tell myself. I just don’t want to interrupt. They can’t blame me for politely waiting outside, right?

“I love what you did with the fireflies as a symbol,” I hear Daniel’s voice, gentle but excited about their conversation. I can almost feel Isabel’s smile from where I stand. “But have you thought about incorporating them a little more throughout the beginning of the story? More subtly, so you aren’t hitting the reader over the head with it at the end.”

“Oh, that’s a great idea.” I hear some scratching of a pencil on paper.

“These characters are really interesting, too,” Daniel continues after a minute, and I hear him shuffle some papers. “But they are first-generation Mexican immigrants, right? So, why are they only speaking English? Do you relate to these characters at all?”

“My parents immigrated here from Mexico. I guess they inspired this.”

“Okay,” Daniel says slowly, considering. “Do you speak English at home?”

“Mostly Spanish. I’m actually not great at English,” Isabel admits. I frown. Isabel is an excellent student, and I would never have guessed English wasn’t her first language. It makes me sad that she thinks she’s anything less than an excellent speaker and writer of English.

“Well, I’m holding proof that’s not true. Your command of the English language is excellent.” I smile at Daniel’s perfect response. “Can you have your characters speak some Spanish as well? You can mix it in with a little of the English. Use context clues so even an English-speaking audience will be able to figure out what they’re saying.”

Isabel makes a non-committal noise at that.

“What makes you hesitant?” Daniel asks, and I lean a little closer because I’m also wondering.

“Won’t people hate that if they don’t understand the language? You should see how people treat my parents when they speak Spanish at the store.”

“If you pursue publication—and I hope you do—you are going to have to get used to people rejecting you for all sorts of ridiculous reasons. Don’t let that stop you from sharing your important voice. Because it is important.” He emphasizes the last part, and my heart squeezes a little. It is exactly the right thing for Isabel to hear, especially from him, and I didn’t even have to tell him to say it.

“I don’t even know how I’d start to do that with context clues,” Isabel admits, more quietly, as if she is embarrassed. I can almost feel Daniel wave that concern away with his soft hand. And then I immediately chastise my brain for thinking about how soft his hands are.

“Nonsense. You just need to see a few examples. There are wonderful writers who have done exactly this. Rudolfo Anaya. Sandra Cisneros. So many more. I’ll find you a few examples and bring them tomorrow. You should read everything you can get your hands on as a writer, but you should study your genre, and for you, that’s Chicano literature.” I hear more scratching on paper.

Then, after a pause, Isabel asks carefully, “Did you study your genre?”

Even from my spot in the hallway, I can hear Daniel take a deep breath. “I did,” he starts, slowly. “But you probably know I never went to college.” I imagine Isabel nods, because he continues. “I became very famous when I was your age. It was a complete accident, and sometimes I still wonder if it was a total fluke. No one saw it coming, least of all me. I had plans to go to college. I had enrolled and everything, but when I got there, in my first creative writing course, the students started asking me for advice more often than the professor. He was… well, let’s just say he was not happy to be upstaged. I left before the first semester was over and continued to read and write on my own. Not all learning has to happen in a classroom, Isabel.” I hear him stand, but I can’t tell where his footsteps are going. “Though sometimes you get lucky and get a really great teacher who wants to help you succeed, like Miss Mac.” I blush a little at the compliment and can still hear his footsteps moving aimlessly around. What is he doing? But the next time he talks, his voice is very close to the door. “Should we put her out of her misery and let her come in?” I scramble to push myself off the wall and act like I’m approaching the door, but his head pops out, and it’s too late.

“I wasn’t… I was just…” I start, but he is grinning at me like a fool with his dimples on full display. It is more disarming than I’d like to admit, and I end up shrugging helplessly.

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” I say quietly and without much conviction. I swear I can feel his chuckle rumble pleasantly through my bones. Get it together, Milcrest, I order myself.

Daniel clutches at his heart. “I thought you trusted me.” He pretends to pout.

“I do! I swear, I actually didn’t want to interrupt.” I push my way past him into the classroom and wave at Isabel, who is also grinning at me. “Hi Isabel. Did Mr. Evans give you some good advice?” I ask. She nods enthusiastically, standing.

“Yeah, he was super helpful.” She moves to leave the room and stops to beam at Daniel. “Thank you so much, Mr. Evans. I really, really appreciate it.”

“Of course. I hope to read another draft soon?” She bobs her head vigorously again and practically skips out of the room.

I avoid Daniel’s gaze and start setting up for the day, but I can feel his eyes on me as he walks back to his desk to sit down. When I finally sit, I have no choice but to look at him because of the way our desks are situated, and sure enough, he is sitting there, leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed over another, and his fingers tented, his fingertips touching his full lips. I can’t be sure from across the room, but I think I see a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

I poke around on my computer a little, but after a minute or so, he’s still staring at me, and it’s starting to get weird.

“What?” I ask, glancing at him.

He leans forward on his desk, resting his forearms on top of it and clasping his hands in front of him. “I’m just wondering which part of what you heard you’re going to comment on first.”

“Don’t act so self-important. I’m not going to comment on any of that because I’m very busy and I have things to do.” I open some more assignments on my computer, jabbing the mouse with my finger a little harder than necessary. He lets out a low hum like he’s unconvinced and continues to stare at me.

I sigh dramatically and raise my eyes to him over my computer monitor. “Are you going to stare at me like that all day?” I challenge.