Physically, we take things slow. Glacially slow. We make out in his dorm room—he’s one of the few lucky freshmen assigned a single—but clothes stay on, and if my hands so much as creep toward a place that can’t be shown in a PG-13 movie, he pumps the brakes.
Emotionally, things escalate at a speed I can hardly wrap my mind around. We spend all our free time together. We haven’t put a label on it—still clinging to our initial commitment of staying casual—but a label hardly changes how something feels.
Itfeelslike Alex is a perfect boyfriend.
He takes me on dates every weekend even though we stopped referring to them as dates and now make plans by asking, “What do you think of doing [X] this weekend?”
I wake up every morning to a good-morning text. Whenever I message him, he always responds quickly, with perfect punctuation and in ways that keep the conversation flowing. He asks questions. He makesjokes. He uses emojis. At no point while talking to him do I ever feel like he’d rather be doing anything but talking to me.
No matter how great he is, I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to get bored. Sure, he seems perfect right now, but I know the truth. Money will change him. Hell, it might not even be money; it might just be time. It’s easy to act perfect when you’re enamored with someone—it’s a lot harder to keep that act up once you’ve settled down.
I don’t go to another Second Take meeting. I remember the tense hostility I couldn’t make sense of and think maybe I’m better off without the group. There was something unsettling about it, like meeting someone who reminds you of yourself in only the worst ways or like looking in a mirror that reflects back all your flaws. Impossible to look away, even though you’re desperate to escape.
After I skip the second October meeting, Kimiko shoots me a text joking that I couldn’t handle my new dysfunctional family, but she promises she’s around if I ever need her, and I shouldn’t hesitate to call. I do my best not to need her.
As much as I’d hoped to find a new passion, I come to the conclusion that I am probably not meant to be a filmmaker or an artist or an actor or an archaeologist. Certainly not a writer.
I work my ass off in creative writing, reading everyone’s stories multiple times so I can come up with thoughtful feedback for the discussion. So I can impress Ellie. And I don’t think I do half bad. Ellie’s an active participant in every discussion, and so am I. We don’t talktoeach other, but at least I know he notices me.
When it comes to the actual writing—
More weeks than not, I rely on the crutch of stealing my story plots from movies that have yet to come out.The Substance. Past Lives. Hereditary. Ex Machina.
I don’t feel too guilty about it, figuring that Professor Travers isn’teven reading them, and it’s kind of like that old thought experiment—if a tree falls in the forest, et cetera.
That is, I don’t feel guilty about it right up until the day I have to sit in class and receive notes as if I am the original creative genius behindThe Shape of Water.
“I don’t like that she fucks a fish,” one girl says shortly into the discussion. Lydia, whose tastes run to very serious literature, based on her short story we workshopped.
“It’s not about fucking a fish,” Helen argues. I’m flattered she’s defending my honor. Helen might be quiet by nature, but she becomes a different creature entirely when she’s passionate about something in these discussions.
We’ve grown close over the past weeks, hanging out after every class. I see Helen more often than I see Madison, even though Ilivewith Madison. But Madison seems to always be busy at work or hanging out with Patrick—still just as “friends.”
It’s not always Madison’s fault. Last night, she wanted me to go with her to a Halloween party, but Helen suggested a scary movie, so I stayed in with her and watchedHalloween. She spent half the movie with her head hidden in my shoulder despite the fact thatshepicked it.
I’ve tried to take the advice of the Second Take group and not worry too much about the future. Instead, I focus on being the best friend I can be right now. I even introduced Helen to Alex—she grew quiet like she always does around new people, but Alex managed to put her at ease within minutes, and we’ve gotten dinner together a few times.
“Sheliterallyhas sex with a fish.” Lydia snorts. I take notes:Literal sex with fish—
Professor Travers’s biggest rule for workshop is that the writer is notallowed to speak unless asked a direct question. No responding to critiques; you’re just supposed to sit there and take it. And write it down, I guess.
I’m grateful for that right now because I don’t have much to say, and I woke up this morning with a nasty sore throat, so talking doesn’t feel great to begin with. I would’ve skipped class if my story weren’t the one being workshopped. “My” story.
“He’s a humanoid amphibian.” I jerk my head up to meet Ellie’s eyes as he speaks. “Not a fish. And it’s a metaphor. For marginalization… for loving someone in spite of all the parts society deems ugly or unacceptable. It’s about looking beneath the surface.” He turns to Lydia. “Which you clearly didn’t do while reading it.”
The discussion continues, but I barely hear it; my notes are an incoherent mess of half thoughts and missing words. Ellie is always an active participant in these discussions, but it feels different when it’s my story we’re talking about.
Even if it’s not my story. It’sThe Shape of Water.
I walk down the hall with Helen after class. As I’m telling her that I think I’m getting sick and need to go pass out in my room instead of doing our usual hang, I hear my name called.
“I’ll see you later. Feel better,” she says, her eyes wide, then scurries off.
I turn around and wait as Ellie approaches, my heart sinking down to my stomach.
“Hey, Joey. I just wanted to tell you again that I really loved your story.”
He seems to genuinely mean it, so I smile and thank him and throw more weight into ignoring the guilt I’ve spent the past hour and a half avoiding.
