She frowns. "What do you mean?"
"Unreliable narrators." I tap the prompt cards. "That's what we're talking about today. Sometimes characters make choices that seem stupid from the outside, but make perfect sense from inside their head. The trick is showing the reader why."
More kids trickle in over the next few minutes. Devon and his ever-present headphones. Aaliyah with her glitter pens and aggressive highlighting system. Sam, who's been writing the same vampire romance for eight months and refuses to let anyone read it. The twins, Miles and Maria, who write together and argue constantly about plot points.
By the time we start, there are seven of them arranged in a loose circle, and I'm running on caffeine and spite.
"Okay," I say, pulling up a chair. "Today we're talking about unreliable narrators. Who can tell me what that means?"
"The narrator's lying," Devon says.
"Sometimes. What else?"
"They don't have all the information," Aaliyah offers. "Like, they think they know what's happening, but they're wrong."
"Good. What else?"
Jade shifts in her seat. "They're biased. They only see things from their own perspective, so they miss stuff that's obvious to everyone else."
Something twists in my chest. They only see things from their own perspective, so they miss stuff that's obvious to everyone else.
Like how I was so busy being embarrassed at the garage that I didn't notice Knox tracking my every move. Like how I spent the whole motorcycle ride convinced I was just a problem to be solved, not seeing whatever Robin saw in Knox's face.
"Exactly," I say, and my voice only wavers a little. "Every first-person narrator is unreliable to some degree, because we only have access to their thoughts, their interpretations. The reader has to figure out what's actually happening versus what the narrator thinks is happening."
We work through the prompts. I have them write a scene from their protagonist's perspective, then rewrite the same scene from an outside observer. The differences are illuminating — Devon's brooding loner turns out to be obviously depressed when seen through his best friend's eyes. Aaliyah's confident queen bee is clearly performing for an audience. Sam's vampire is significantly creepier when the love interest notices the things he's choosing to ignore.
"This is hard," Maria complains, halfway through. "How do I show that my character is wrong without just telling the reader?"
"Details," I say. "What does your character notice? What do they ignore? What do they assume without evidence?"
I'm thinking about Knox again. About what he noticed last night — the texts on my phone, the way I was shivering. About what I noticed — his size, his control, the way everyone watched him for cues.
About what I probably missed entirely.
The workshop runs over by fifteen minutes because Jade gets into a heated debate with Devon about whether an unreliable narrator can be a good person, and I don't have the heart to cut them off. By the time everyone's packed up and heading out, I'm running on fumes.
"Mr. Toby?" Jade lingers by the door. "Thanks. For the workshop. I think I figured out my protagonist problem."
"Yeah?"
"She's not making stupid decisions." Jade almost smiles. "She's making decisions that make sense to her because she doesn't know what the reader knows. I just have to show why."
"That's exactly it."
She nods and disappears into the stacks. I slump into the nearest chair and close my eyes.
Three hours of sleep. A day of pretending to be functional.
I should go deal with Margaret. I should defend the story hour snacks, fight for the rainbow cupcakes, do my job.
Instead, I sit in the empty teen room and think about unreliable narrators. About the story I'm telling myself — that I'm forgettable, ordinary, the kind of person people leave on the side of the road. About what Knox might see when he looks at me, and whether it's anything like what I see in the mirror.
My phone buzzes. Robin:Survived the teens?
Barely. Margaret wants to talk budget.
Ugh. Want me to pick you up after?
