Helen sits in the back right corner, hunched over, with her attention firmly rooted in the book she’s reading. Her white-blond hair hangs in a curtain so it blocks her face from where I stand in the doorway, but I know it’s her. I would recognize that hair anywhere. Shiny and soft, it always juxtaposed beautifully with her thick eyeliner and all-black clothing.
I forgot that Helen studied creative writing.
I forgot a lot of things about Helen.
I take a deep breath and beeline for the seat to her left. She looks up,confusion briefly spreading across her face before she offers me a small smile. Only now do I remember that this class is capped at fifteen people. Fifteen people in fifty-odd seats.
Maybe sittingrightnext to her was overkill.
I smile back, trying my best to make it genuine. It’s been years since I saw Helen. Had she always looked so sad? The thought comes with a pang of guilt because she probably had; I’d just been too caught up in my own shit to notice.
Helen was friends with me and Madison throughout college. But friendship trios are rarely balanced, and ours was no different. Madison and I had the bond of being roommates, and we also just had more in common. Madison loved to drag us out to parties, something I was happy to go along with at that age but that wasn’t really Helen’s scene. She bailed half the time and never really jelled with the rest of our friend group.
I’m not sure why Helen changed. She started going out senior year, drinking a lot. Drinking too much, but we didn’t think anything of it. It was college—most of us drank pretty heavily. I remember getting home from a party once and chatting with Madison about how happy we were that Helen was finally getting out of her shell.
Helen moved back to Iowa after graduation and got a job teaching English at her old high school. The three of us drifted apart.
At twenty-seven, Helen died of a heroin overdose.
Her brother gave a moving eulogy that reframed the Helen I thought I’d known and offered a new perspective: A shy girl who went to college and immediately grew depressed. Who drank because it was the only way she didn’t feel miserable in a crowd. Who began to associate alcohol with friendships and relationships. And then dated a woman who introduced her to harder drugs.
Her death came years after we’d drifted apart, and I’d often wonderedif it would’ve happened if Madison and I had made more of an effort to keep in touch.
“I’m Joey,” I offer. “I just switched into this class.”
“Helen,” she murmurs, not quite making eye contact. Her focus is somewhere in the general vicinity of the air above my shoulder.
I forgot how she was with people who weren’t her friends. How low she spoke. How it took several interactions for her to make direct eye contact with you, and even then, it was rare. Just one of those quirks I stopped noticing.
“What’s Professor Travers like?” I push, determined to spark a real conversation.
“She’s cool.” She shrugs. “We have to write a short story every week. Twenty-five hundred words, emailed to her by Sunday night. Kind of a lot, but… good practice, if you want to be a writer.”
I blanch. An entirely new story every single week? I’m used to drafting contracts and shareholder agreements, but I wouldn’t know where to start to create a world of fiction, let alone a new world every week. Maybe creative writing isn’t for me.
“Do you?” I ask. “Want to be a writer?”
It takes her a long moment to respond.
“I don’t know. Maybe? It’s more of a hobby. I’m not sure I have the talent for it…”
“I’m sure you do,” I say with a smile. Her gaze snaps to mine, the first time she’s made eye contact in this whole conversation. The effect is arresting.
I’m staring into the eyes of a dead woman.
To be fair, I also am a dead woman, in a way.
I should take a philosophy course. Metaphysics, maybe. I make a mental note to add that to the lineup for next semester.
“How would you know? You haven’t read anything of mine.”
Damn, Helen has claws. Did she always have claws? I never talked to her much about her writing. Maybe it’s a sensitive topic. “It’s just something people say, I guess.”
“Do you often say things that people say?”
I laugh and reply, “I guess I do. Not an original bone in my body.”
A smile tugs at her lips, the sort that makes me feel like I’ve accomplished the impossible, and she says, “Originality’s overrated.”
