Chapter 13
I spent the weekend writing. I avoided Beck as much as I could, telling her I was shutting in to plow through the first fifty
pages of my draft. She understood that, but I knew she also sensed something was wrong. Her voice held an uneasy undercurrent
of anxiety.
I’d been parked on the porch, drinking lemonade and reading back through what I’d written last night, when the heat made it
impossible to enjoy the outdoors. I’d completed twenty pages so far. Eighty to go. The thing about my editor’s request that
was so hard was that I always rewrote my first chapter after I finished my books, and it was never as strong on the first
couple of tries. Without getting to the end, I didn’t really know how to begin. I sighed. There was no point dwelling on it,
because no one cared about that reality but me.
My phone dinged and I checked the text message.
Joy: I finished your new book. So good. ??
I smiled and put a heart on the message. It was cool having a close cousin and cooler still having one who read my books.
The alarm on my phone dinged, reminding me it was time to meet the kids at the center.
Since taking on the job as writer in residence, I’d signed up for every writing-related program, fellowship, grant program,
and email list from the state department of education. I was pleased when an email arrived about a summer writing contest
for grades seven through eleven. However, the email was a reminder of the contest. The original information must have been
sent out weeks ago. I wanted some of my kids to enter, but we didn’t have much time to get submissions in.
The grand prize was a hundred dollars in cash, several fast-food gift cards, and an interview with the Post and Courier newspaper. “Bragging rights,” I said, a smile filling me. Regina’s face came to my mind.
The students trickled in right on time. Now that it was summer, our numbers were down, but we had added more local students,
including quite a few seniors needing help to prepare for college. If they didn’t drive themselves, they were dropped off
by parents and older siblings. As arranged by Gabe, his uncle picked up the students from Edisto Island, but they had to have
their own transportation for the trip home, which meant many did not attend. I hoped the Edisto students would be back once
the public school buses were transporting them.
When the students filed in that afternoon, the energy in the room was a mix of chatter and summer impatience. The college-bound
teens talked about application essays; the younger ones doodled in their notebooks. But when Regina walked in, she was quiet
as always, clutching her spiral notebook like it held all her secrets. I felt something inside me lift. I liked this child.
Once they were all in, I clapped to get their attention. “How was everyone’s weekend?”
A chorus of responses filled the room.
“Hot!” one boy said, fanning himself with his notebook.
“Too short,” another groaned.
“I went fishing,” Malachi called from the back. “We ain’t catch nothin’ but mosquito bites.”
That got a few laughs.
“Great snapshot of your trip. I hope to see something as descriptive in the poem you’re supposed to be working on.”
Malachi shrank in his chair.
“What did you do?” one of the teen girls asked, tossing her thirty inches of hair over her shoulder.
“I worked on my next book, and I completed an online writing seminar,” I replied.
The teen frowned. “But you already have a bunch of books.”
Too many students thought learning ended with their high school diploma or college degree. “Continuing education helps you
to become the best at what you do. And it’s nice to learn new things.”
That answer roused some conversation that included head shaking and twisted upper lips.
I waited until everyone was settled again. “I have something that might interest the writers in the room. The state is holding
a couple of writing contests for grades seven through eleven. The theme for the first one is Southern Sound Bites.” I looked
up from the email I was reading from. “Can someone tell me what you think that means the judges want to see?”
One of the older teens held up his hand, and after I nodded, he replied, “Little bits of Southern life.”
“Great answer. I hope that means you’re going to enter.”
He sank in his seat, clearly regretting putting himself out there.
I smiled inside, remembering that reaction from my teaching days. I continued, “The categories are short fiction, poetry,
and essays. There are cash and food prizes, a feature in the Post and Courier newspaper, and”—I paused, letting the suspense build—“a chance to call yourself a published author.”
That got their attention. Even the ones who usually groaned at writing sat up a little straighter.
“You mean, like real published?” one boy asked.
“Real as it gets,” I said. “The submission deadline is in three weeks for the first contest. There’s another one that has
a six-week deadline, but it’s for seniors only, so you all start thinking about what you want to do now.”
Regina looked down at her notebook, fingers tracing the cover’s edges. I could almost see her thoughts moving.
After I handed out the graded assignments, I signaled for Regina to come to my desk.
“I want you to enter the contest.”
Her brows rose and her enormous brown eyes widened.
“That oyster piece is really good. I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”
Her fingers tightened on her notebook. “It’s not finished.”
“You can get it done,” I said gently. “You’d have to make time to work on it every day for at least thirty minutes.”
She glanced at the floor. “My grandma thinks winning is gambling.”
I knew from living in the Lowcountry that the Gullah were God-fearing and faithful people. I was thoughtful before I spoke.
“I understand what she believes. If it’s a lottery or some other kind of drawing, it’s gambling, but this contest is not based
on luck. It’s judged by teachers who decide which students have the best stories. I could explain that to her if you need
me to.”
“You think someone like me can win?”
Getting my eyes level with hers, I said, “Why not?”
Her lips curved into the shyest smile. “I can try.”
I smiled with her. “A try is all I need.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I could see her confidence bubble up a little more.
Taylor and the other two volunteers and I divided the students into two groups and worked with them. Halfway through the session,
Regina approached my desk and held her notebook out, presenting an outline for the balance of her story. It was good, and
I told her so. I thought she might need a small tweak at the end but decided to wait until she’d gotten to the end to see
how she managed it.
After giving her a few more tips, I said, “Now it’s time to write the words.”
Regina went back to the table she was sharing with another girl. Their small figures were swallowed by the bright sunlight
coming through the window behind them. For a moment, I saw myself at their age—dreaming quietly, afraid to say the words I want to be a writer out loud. Being a writer wasn’t possible. Other than a few classics, there weren’t any books by authors who looked like me.
And writing didn’t promise a steady paycheck. Beck made sure I understood I was to do better than she had.
Regina raised her eyes and caught me staring. I gave her a nod of encouragement, and she returned her pencil to her notebook.
She had a chance to write her story, her way. Whether she continued to write was up to her, but for now I was going to encourage
her in a way no one had ever encouraged me.