Page 27 of The Write Place

Justin is shaking his head. “Miss Mac, why do you do this to us?”

Then, Warren, slightly louder than the others: “Yup, I felt that,” followed by some tentative laughter.

Neve sighs and holds her story to her chest, and I can see tears lining her eyes. “Oh my gosh. The cat.”

Daniel has tuned in now, and he is staring at me from across the room. “What cat?” he mouths silently. I go to my desk and hold a copy of the story in his direction, silently asking if he wants to see. He gives a curt nod, so I grab a pen and write TRUST ME in big letters on the top. I walk to the back of the room and drop it on his desk. I don’t look at him as I walk away, but I hear his sharp intake of breath. I turn around to meet his gaze then, holding a finger to my lips. He stares at me, eyebrows raised.

“Okay, class,” I say, not taking my eyes off Daniel. “I said good writing evokes feelings, so what say you? Is this good writing?”

There is an emphatic agreement from the entire class that this story is, in fact, excellent by that measure. I tilt my head toward him in salute and then face the entire class.

“What was the predominant emotion you felt while reading this story?”

What follows is an incredible discussion about the emotional rises and falls throughout this short piece. Justin cannot get over how much everyone in the story hated the black cat, and Haze is moved almost to tears at the way the characters talk about the boy behind his back. Aimee points out how lonely the boy must be feeling, especially when the other characters make fun of the cat, and Isabel chimes in to discuss how relatable the story is for everyone, even those she would consider popular. Through it all, Daniel remains focused on the class, not writing, and clutching the story in his hand.

As the bell is about to ring, I say, “I blocked out the name of the author for another reason. Our very own Mr. Evans wrote this story a few years ago, and it was published in The New Yorker. I thought it would be fun to discuss it without anyone knowing.”

“No way,” Justin twists around in his seat to look at Daniel. “Really?”

Daniel clears his throat. “Yeah,” is all he can get out. The bell rings, but as they shuffle out of the classroom, most of them make their way by Daniel’s desk, giving him compliments, handshakes, and a few fist bumps.

Once all the students have left the room, Daniel croaks out a hoarse, “Why?”

I shrug lightly. “You’re a writer. We read and discuss literature. Why not?”

He sets the copy of the story carefully on his desk, then stands and takes a few steps toward where I’m standing in the middle of the room, his eyes never leaving me. “That’s not why,” he asserts.

I soften at the shakiness in his voice. “You’re right. That’s not why. You were in here yesterday talking about how the people around you have consistently made you feel like your work is shit, and I wanted to show you that it’s not. I wanted to show you that you can make even hardened teenagers feel. I’m just a teacher, and I don’t know what your editor or your agent or your publisher look for, but when I’m reading something, I want to feel something, and this story did that for me. You are a good writer, Daniel. Your success is not a fluke. Don’t let the Martys of the world tell you otherwise.”

He pauses, and I think I can see his eyes go watery, but before I can tell for sure, he closes the distance between us in a few steps and pulls me into a hug. My surprise melts quickly, and I wrap my arms around his waist. I take a deep breath. He smells of clean laundry and something sweet that I can’t place.

“This might be one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me,” he says into my hair, and I feel his voice where my cheek is pressed against his chest. He rests his chin on top of my head, and I lean into him ever so slightly. His arms tighten around me. “How did you find it? Did you search for ‘Daniel Evans short story’ or something?”

“Something like that.” I don’t tell him I read his short story in The New Yorker years ago and it had such an effect on me that I had tucked it away in my brain for later.

“I know this isn’t your publishing house or your editor’s office or whatever else, Daniel,” I say into his chest, knowing this is highly unprofessional but not quite willing to move away from him yet, “but you belong here. In this literal place right now, and in the larger literary conversation. I mean it. Don’t let other people silence your voice.”

He seems reluctant to let me go, but eventually he does. He walks me out, and when I get to my car, I move in just the right way to catch a whiff of his scent still on me and this time, I don’t try to stop the butterflies from fluttering in my chest.

Chapter 12

I text Jenny to meet me at my place for a run, and when I get home, she is waiting for me in my living room. She is wearing her hot pink leggings and sports bra, her long brown hair pulled into a perfect, perky ponytail. How this woman runs with her long ponytail flowing behind her without it turning into a complete, tangled mess, I’ll never know.

“Jenny, it’s October. Get a shirt.”

“I’m good!” she says cheerily. “You never know when you might meet your future husband!”

“And you think your future husband is going to fall deeply and madly and instantly in love with you because you’re showing skin?” I ask, making my way toward my bedroom and shedding clothes as I go.

“You never know!”

I pull on my much more appropriate black leggings, sports bra, and a bright yellow t-shirt and then try to tie my hair into submission in a tight bun. We tie up our shoes and step outside.

We start at an easy enough pace to have a conversation, since that is really why we are doing this, and Jenny reaches over to nudge my arm. “Wanna go to the park and see if Mr. Darcy is there waiting for you?”

I groan, immediately regretting telling her I ran into him on a run over the weekend. “Please do not call him that.”

“I promise I will not call him that in public,” she amends. I suppose I’ll have to settle for this compromise. “So, tell me what happened after the meeting on Monday. Did he fall all over you because of your unwavering confidence and general bad-assery?”