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“I mean, I am all ears, but beyond the lack of plot or character development, it was just boring. Predictable. Like aFast and Furiousmovie. Action but no substance, therefore, forgettable.”
He scoffed and clutched his hand over his chest. “You wound me. Those movies raised me.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes. “Give me the plot of one of the movies in the franchise.”
He bit his lip and threw his hands up. “Alright, fair enough. But in my defense, it has been years since I’ve watched any of them.”
“And yet, I bet you can give me the basic plot line of Romeo and Juliet, even the Odyssey. I’m sure that was required reading nearly a decade ago for you.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe it is just your perspective, you aren’t a child, maybe it would move a little eight-year-old to tears.”
“Correct,” I conceded. “But you weren’t trying to make a kid feel something with that story. You were trying to impress me, and that story fell flat.”
“I know nothing about you! How can I appeal to your senses and likes and dislikes without knowing anything about you?”
I pulled out my notebook, the one I used for ideas, quotes, and inspiration. Without warning, I simply started to read.
My sister handed me fresh sheets for the guest room and gave me a squeeze. “I’m happy you’re back,” she whispered before disappearing to their bedroom.
I’d been away for a long time. Borneo this time. I’d given aid to the locals, passed out Advil like candy, sipped on mojitos, and fell into quicksand.
I sat on the couch next to her husband. He turned up the volume on the TV. His hand rested on my thigh. It was heavy.
The movies were wrong. Quicksand was like being suffocated by a blanket of gravity. It was the hard stare from a ghost you tried to outrun.
“I’m happy you’re back,” he whispered and pulled me down.
I never had to go far to find quicksand.
“What the fuck?” the words tumbled from his lips.
“That was a reaction. Tell me, did it make you feel uncomfortable, pissed off?”
“Yes,” he said, snatching my notebook and reading through it again. “I hate cheating. I think it’s disgusting.”
“Good,” I laughed uncomfortably. “At least you didn’t feel guilty.”
“This is too short to be a story.”
I tugged the notebook back, worried he’d get bold and flip through it. “Stories don’t have to be this long mess of words. Simple is great, let readers fill in the gaps with their own fucked up imagination.”
He pointed to the notebook. “That story is fucked up.”
“People like stories because they can close the book. They can pretend to understand it but, in the end, they can always close the book. But stories are the best way I can make people understand. There’s a certain power in that.”
I packed my things and walked away, leaving him in the quiet. And for some reason it hurt to go, because I was a stubborn fool and I wasn’t sure he’d write me another story.
8
TRASK
It shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did, butfuck, I was pissed. A stupid story was all that stood in my way. She still came to tutoring and just having that time alone with her, despite her razor focus on the math problems, was the joy in my week. I approached taking her out several more times (nearly every tutoring session) but she just mumbled something about a story. I could see it going two ways, her resolve cracked, or I buckled down and wrote a story for her. I was tired of waiting.
“Something on your mind?” my mom asked.
I stood behind her, face paint in hand. “No, just thinking about a class.”
“Relax.” She laughed, wiping her hands on a towel. “Enjoy the festivities!” She was too cheery and happy. It made me grimace. She wore a black dress with a witch’s hat. That was the thing about this small down, any holiday was an excuse to throw some community celebration. This was the harvest weekend. The giant park was transformed into a Halloween oasis, complete with a petting zoo and several rows of business and craft stalls. It was the costume contest day, and I had been roped into helping my parents in the face painting booth. This was Dad’s way of “giving back.” Whatever that the hell that meant. It was Mom’s excuse to schmooze and gossip. It would all happen again in less than a month for the turkey trot. Then a month later for the Christmas bazaar.
