“What’s wrong with that?”

I sputter. “There are so many things wrong with that, I don’t even know where to begin.”

He laughs. “Live a little, Reed. You’re going to burn out and go gray by the time you’re nineteen if you keep this up.”

“Get out of the car,” is the only response I can give him.

Thankfully, he obeys.

7

The next day in Independent Study, I decide to focus on the essay.

I’ve been researching different ways to be productive, so I decide to try the method of no distractions for an entire period. Solely focusing on what I need to do and nothing else.

Maybe facing the challenge head on is just what I need.

I toss my hair up, flip to a blank page in my notebook, and pull out one of my favorite pens. With this setup, I’m ready to take on the world.

James, alternatively, is playing some mindless farming game on his phone. He doesn’t realize it, but he keeps tapping on my chair with his foot in an uneven rhythm.

I scoot my chair back, just out of reach from him, and readjust my focus on the page. I write my name at the top, as if that will help put me in the mood to write a personal essay.

The other times I’ve attempted to do this, I went in with the intention of writing the best thing I’ve ever written, being flowery but succinct with words, being witty without trying too hard.

Essentially, trying to write perfection before I’ve even decided what it is that I want to say.

This go-round, I just write with no expectation, starting with interesting and possibly pivotal moments in my life.

When we moved next to the Lawsons while I was in utero.

When Audrey went off to kindergarten.

When my dad got a promotion, we got a new refrigerator with an ice machine in it.

When James won Homecoming king.

And they’re all absolutely pathetic.

More importantly, all of these events aren’t even really mine—they’re other people’s moments that I was present for or benefitted from.

I stop myself, wondering if I can use that to possibly write about how influential and supportive I am. A real sideline supporter and champion for my loved ones.

But that’s not true either.

James doesn’t run faster because I’m there. He just does it, and I witness it.

I scratch at the paper with my pen in frustration.

“What’s wrong, H?” James asks in a low voice.

I move back toward him, letting our knees knock.

“My essay,” I say with a frown. “It somehow simultaneously sucks and doesn’t exist.”

He takes my notebook from me, and I’m glad that the ink has smeared to a point where he wouldn’t be able to make out the words even if he wanted to.

“Why are you beating yourself up about this?” James asks. “You’re putting way too much pressure on yourself, and you’re going to drive yourself crazy, and it’s just going to be more of this.”

He squeezes my knee under the table.

“Let’s do something fun this weekend and get your mind off it.”

“Okay,” I agree because I’m willing to try anything at this point. “Maybe a walk in North Park if it’s not too cold? Would be good to get out without the distractions.”

“Or the movies if it is?” James suggests. “There’s a new horror film that—”

“Not a chance.”

The last time James talked me into going to see a scary movie, I had to avert my eyes for half the film, and I was so on edge I couldn’t even eat the popcorn.

“We’ll find middle ground. Just know that I can absolutely not sit through another chick flick. I don’t care if it helps you write the most amazing essay of your life. I draw the line at another sappy thing that’s going to make you cry.”

“Fine,” I sigh and spend the rest of the period watching him tend to the carrots on his digital farm.

In AP English, Dylan is actually cordial to me.

We have to partner up to write the parameters of a dystopian world we would potentially create if we were writing a novel, and I can’t help but gush to him about how I think it’s a great assignment as we’re doing it.

I love the thought exercise behind world building, and when the bell rings, I’m trying to figure out how I can do other writing projects like that.

“Reed,” Dylan says, pulling me back to reality.

He falls in beside me as we walk to the cafeteria. I’m in a bubble of project excitement, and I’d be more than happy to sit by myself and churn all throughout lunch.

“Is your normally packed social calendar clear tonight?”

I stop walking and eye him skeptically. “Potentially. Why?”

“That was a joke, Reed,” he says. “Of course your social calendar is open. I just watched you write ‘research world-building exercises’ in the to-do list section of your planner.”

I cross my arms on my chest. “Stop making fun of me and get to the point.”

“My plans were canceled for tonight, which means I have extra time to get harassed by you about schoolwork.”

I lay it on thick. “Wow, someone actually gave up the opportunity to hang out with you on a Friday night?”

“Apparently,” he says sourly.

“Did you get stood up?”

He eyes me. “Getting stood up means you go to the agreed location and the other person doesn’t show. Have you ever actually been on a date before, Reed?”

I roll my eyes. “Is this whole ‘mocking me’ thing going to continue on throughout the evening?”

“We’ll see,” he says. “Let’s meet up after practice.”

He doesn’t give me time to respond before he’s off again.

In the cafeteria, I pick at my lunch and engage with James and some of his friends on the track team.

My eyes keep flickering over to where Dylan and Brandon sit.

They’re deep in conversation, and for all I know, they could be plotting to take over the world. When I notice that Serena, who is sitting at the end of my table, keeps her gaze fixed there, too, I force myself to talk to James for the rest of the period.

Later, after Marie hands me over my usual at Books & Beans, I text Dylan to let him know where he can find me if he still wants to do English work. We didn’t actually solidify our plans, so I’m trying to leave it open-ended.

I can be nonchalant.

I think?

I planned to do some research on my phone for the world-building exercises and check out other dystopian books in the store, but when I see an older couple sitting at the next table, they take up my attention.

And it’s not because they’re doing something extraordinary. In fact, they probably are boring to the average patron, but I’m simultaneously boring, average, and intrigued, so it works.

Their hands are joined across the table, a physical connection established between them while they occupy their own worlds. He sips his coffee and works on a crossword puzzle. She does the first spine-breaking read of one of my favorite Elizabeth Gilbert books.

My brain won’t stop creating all sorts of scenarios for their backstory, and I want to learn more about them and understand how one goes from what I am now to who they are together.