Chapter 10
On Thursday, I have Intro to Archaeology, Two-Dimensional Design, and Intro to Creative Writing all in a row, so my day will end early.
By the time I walk to creative writing, I have a sneaking suspicion that there is no future for me as an archaeologist or a two-dimensional artist, but I hope to find joy in things I’m not naturally good at.
I have a little more hope for creative writing, but not much. I’ve never written anything creative in my life. Also, there’s the whole not-reading thing.
I step into the classroom, and all the blood drains from my face.
Helen.
I’m early, so only two people are there, sitting on opposite sides of the room. There are easily fifty or so seats, arranged in three semicircle rows in front of a central podium.
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 sitting right next 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 wondered if 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.”
“I’m not sure that’s a very writerly thing to say.”
More eye contact. Now that we’re in the rhythm of things, I remember how much I liked Helen.
“I told you, I’m not sure I have what it takes.”
“Really? I’m beginning to gather a credible pile of evidence that tells me you just might.”
“This is just talking. You can’t tell if someone is a good writer just by talking.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you can if you really pay attention.”
She doesn’t reply, and I can tell she’s starting to clam up, but I want this friendship to work, damn it, so I change the subject.
“How does Professor Travers have time to grade all those stories?”
“That’s the good news. I don’t think she does.
Grades are based on class participation, and as long as we do the assignment and write a new story every week, we get A’s.
But the class is a workshop, so she picks two writers at random each week and sends their stories out for everyone to read and give notes on.
And you won’t know you’ve been chosen until she sends your story out, so Murphy’s Law says it’ll be the week you decide to half-ass it. ”
As she’s talking, I hear a familiar laugh—a laugh that fills my stomach with both butterflies and dread.
It can’t be.
I turn, and it is.
Ellie walks through the door. He’s with someone, a guy who isn’t familiar.
For a moment, I just stare.
This is my worst nightmare.
The moment is almost the exact opposite of walking into Intro to Film yesterday and realizing I had signed up for a class with Alex. I’d been sort of amused by the idea of Alex thinking I’d added the class because I’d developed a sudden obsession with him.
With Ellie, that prospect terrifies me. I know how this looks. I slept with Ellie, he didn’t text me after, so I… signed up for one of his classes? All the worse if he did see me yesterday. There’s no way he’ll think it’s a coincidence. He’s going to file for a freaking restraining order.
I’ve been hoping to find a way to get Ellie to pay attention to me, but something tells me this isn’t the kind of attention I want.
I focus on the podium. I will not look at him. I will not look at him. I will—
Ellie takes a seat in the front corner directly opposite me, but I don’t think he’s seen me yet. I dart a glance at the door. Is it possible to slip out undetected? Drop the class so he never knows?
“Joey? Are you okay?”
Helen’s voice pulls my attention back to her.
Helen. If I drop this class, it’ll make it harder to cement our friendship.
I don’t even remember how we met the first time—at a club meeting, maybe, but not one we stuck to.
If I drop this class, I wouldn’t even know how to begin re-creating that meeting.
Five minutes in class together don’t make us friends.
If we’re not friends, I can’t keep an eye on her. Can’t connect with her. Can’t save her.
That makes the choice easy.
I care more about keeping Helen alive than I do about making sure Ellie doesn’t think I’m a freak.
She glances at Ellie and his friend with concern.
“Is something wrong? You look…” She narrows her eyes. “Do you know those guys?”
I take a deep breath. How much to say?
Hell, I decided I wanted to solidify this friendship as quickly as possible. What better way to do that than with some self-deprecating gossip?
I lean forward, careful to keep my voice down.
“I slept with one of them two weeks ago. He said he’d text, but he didn’t…”
Her eyes widen. “You didn’t know he’d be here?”
I shake my head. “No. I mean, he told me he was an English major, but I didn’t know he took this class.”
Oh God.
The mention of majors brings me back to our conversation at the party. As far as he’s concerned, I have no reason to be in a creative writing class. He doesn’t know that I’m having a second-life crisis and changing the narrative.
He just knows that the business major he slept with two weeks ago is suddenly in his creative writing class when one of the few significant pieces of information he gave her was that he’s an English major.
Hell, for all he knows, I switched into five English department classes in the hopes of striking gold and finding him. But I really had no clue he’d be here.
Doubt creeps in. Had I known at some point that he’d taken a creative writing class with a professor named Travers? Was that information floating somewhere in the back of my mind, subconsciously driving me to add this course to my schedule?
No. No way. That’s ridiculous. It’s a total coincidence—the worst kind of coincidence.
“That sucks,” Helen whispers, then lets out a small, tinny giggle.
Despite my anxiety, I laugh along with her. “It really does, doesn’t it?”
“It’s not too late to drop it,” she says optimistically.