It hurts to say it aloud, but the last few months have been a slap by reality. Every piece of negative feedback this semester has knocked me down a peg of confidence, repeatedly.
Grant leans back, and his hands going into the pockets of his cream-colored pants.
“You don’t suck at writing.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.” He insists. My chest tightens. “You did all the writing for our project in undergrad. It was good.” It’s hard to savor the compliment when everything about him, and about writing, has been soured, but he continues. “I couldn’t have written anything even half as good. Like that one word you added in.” Grant starts snapping his fingers. “Evanescence?”
I blink. “What- The band?”
“No, no.” He waves his hand for a few seconds, then pauses. “Well, yes, but that’s not what I’m talking about. It was a word like evanescence.”
The conversation is turning lighthearted and fun and totally unrelated. This is the exact opposite of what should happen today, but a part of me wants to figure out this memory of his. This random word—that Grant is so sure is beyond his comprehension—is the closest thing I’ve gotten to any praise in weeks.
Our assignment was about human emotions, and since he was the one who was supposed to present most of it, I chose words that were easy to pronounce. It couldn’t have been complicated.
Something comes to mind, but I hope he’s not this easily impressed.
“Adolescence?”
“No...” His eyes are traveling across the landscape of the room, as if the answer will be hiding in the out-of-date wallpaper. “It definitely started with an E.”
“Erubescent?”
Green eyes snap back to mine. “What the fuck is that?”
The grudge in me can’t stop the tiny laugh his outburst. I allow myself ten seconds of humor before quickly composing myself and guessing again.
“Effervescent?”
“Yes!” He exclaims, pointing in my direction. “See, you’re a good writer. I don’t know words like that.”
My palm lands onto my forehead. I hide my smile behind my hand and stop a laugh from creeping into my throat.
“Having a wide range of vocabulary doesn’t make me a good writer.”
“To me, it does. That has to count for something.” Grant shrugs before settling back in the rickety chair. “You said it was a writing course?” I nod. “You’re in the writing program. That’s not easy. You have to be good to get in.”
I bite onto the skin of my bottom lip and twist my pen in my hands. “It was just because of my English minor.”
“Which isn’t easy.” A corner of his mouth lifts, and my teeth clamp down harder. “People don’t go for art programs unless they’re passionate. They don’t get in unless they’re talented. Give yourself some credit.”
The walls feel like they’re closing in again, the room falling in on itself. He’s handing me sentiments I usually grasp for. Being told I’m good at something is the best feeling in the world. The high of being admired and successful. It’s my driving force more often than I’d like to admit. Sometimes, I think it’s all I exist for.
As of recent, compliments feel like a lost friend, only around occasionally but gone before they feel affixed again. Grant’s compliments get filed away with my doubts. That’s where they’re most familiar now.
“Those facts are irrelevant. Trivialities.”
“What?”
“Nevermind.” I pretend not to see his head tilting and flip my planner open to next week’s page. The pink ink highlighting, circling, and underlining the words “FIRST ACT DRAFT DUE!!!” realigns my thoughts.
“Back to the assignment.” Grant’s gaze sweeps over the rubric I push in front of him. “It’s a short story. The draft of my first act is due next Friday.”
“Okay. And for your part of the deal, you want me to…?”
I press my feet hard into the carpet. This is the last thing I thought I’d ever say to Grant. “Help me with my assignment.”
