It’s a bit poetic, though, that I start the most unpredictable month of the year with an unexpected grade.
“I think this is the best thing you’ve submitted to our workshop all semester.”
Kameron’s words sing choruses of praise in my head. They shouldn’t, because I’m walking out of class with a measly B- that would have sent me into an existential crisis during undergrad.Second semester graduate school Liliana, though, has only seen a grade this high in her dreams.
My heart could explode with pride and relief. I’m one inch closer to proving myself.
Kameron and I navigate around the students trickling out of their own classes. We head for the building’s exit and find our way to the subway entrance near campus.
“I can’t believe people liked it. Everyone hated the outline when I submitted it.”
“Hate is a bit much,” Kam says while heading down the subway steps. “I didn’t hate it. I just knew you could do better. And your first act draft is much better.”
I grin at him and look at the papers in my hands. He’s right. My outline was directionless and disorganized. I had concepts of a story, sure, but not a narrative with two characters and backgrounds and conflicts and conclusions.
I don’t want to credit the only successful thing I’ve done this semester to Grant, but I can admit his textbook helped. Learning about artists ignoring structure and reaching into their imaginations sparked a tiny bit ofsomethingin me.
It was Grant’s idea to pick my favorite outline out of the scrap pile. His idea to continue with whatever story I connected to the most, regardless of what score it earned. My first outline ever created, one with two people meeting at a mutual friend’s party and connecting over a game they love, was chosen.
When I pushed against it, he pushed back. Suggested if I couldn’t think of something to write, then I could move on. But if it was inspiring me then I should give it a shot. His logic of turning in something versus taking a zero convinced me to try.
My first act was the quickest thing I’ve written this semester. It’s barely three thousand words, but there’s a foundation here. Something to engross a reader and show them that my writing is worthwhile. I know that for a fact, too. It’s written in the marginsof the last page, in blue ink, with two exclamation marks that morph into a smiley face.
It’s the best feedback I’ve gotten all year.
I’m so drunk on that small sliver of praise that I bump into someone scrambling past us and have to yell an apology to his retreating figure.
Kam laughs. “Geez, you’d think that draft holds the answers to the world with how hard you’re staring at it.” It has the answers to my success, at least. That’s worth the world and then some. “You better text Grant a big ole’ “thank you” for helping you write it.”
He laughs again, with a nudge to my side and less humor in his voice. Not only has Kam been insufferable about Grant since I explained why we get together after my Thursday shifts, but as much as I’d hate to admit it, he has a point.
The eighty-one circled at the top of my assignment is physical evidence of Grant’s help. It’s some verification the guy from undergrad wasn’t a figment of my imagination. That Grant drove me home after lectures because he didn’t want me taking the train. He asked me for book recommendations, then took the time to read them and discuss with me later. He’d occasionally bring my favorite candy to study sessions and play it off like a coincidence.
I used to think that Grant had a crush on me.
I compared the two versions of him in my head after Thursday. Marking his textbook with material I might find helpful and encouraging me to use the outline I liked, despite what others said, were very Original Grant behaviors. The Grant that stood me up wouldn’t have taken time out of his day to do something extra for me. He might have forgotten my half of the deal to begin with.
It's hard for me to accept either version as therightGrant. He does and says little things that would have sent me into agiggling mess a year ago, but are so out-of-character for a guy who left me nothing when I needed him. The times we spend together mix every feeling I’ve cultivated around him, both good and bad.
Kameron reminds me again to thank Grant before he hops onto his train home.
A crowd of people swarm once the doors to my subway open, and I hold the praised draft closer to my chest. I don’t particularly like having old memories and feelings bob at the surface. I don’t necessarily trust Grant, either. But there’s one thing he’s reminded me of that transcends our history.
I’m capable of doing something worthwhile. I can produce good work and get feedback that calls me intelligent and talented. It’s validation of my self-worth that I’ve been pining after for months.
And if Grant is the person who can bring uncover that, I’ll deal with everything else that comes with it. The risk is worth the reward ten times over.
“And then your cousin Arianna started screaming because another kid passed by with a toy she wanted, and he wouldn’t give it to her.”
“What did you guys do?”
“We told her if she kept it up we’d take her home and she stopped immediately.”
I laugh while leaning over the counter, closer to my phone and away from the pot of rice in the sink. The vision of my parents and extended family hanging out at Nanakuli Beach Park is vivid. I can hear the loud sounds of my aunts and uncles and cousins bickering around the containers of lau lau andZippy’s chili. Dusk might be falling over Boston, but it’d be early afternoon where my family is. The perfect time to laugh and run around the beach park for a birthday.
There’s only one time I’ve experienced one of those outings myself, but with how often my parents talk about them, it feels too familiar.
A love for my family gathers in my chest.
