Page 1 of The Write Place

Chapter 1

“Okay, but what if,” I pause, building a little drama. Twenty-five pairs of eyes stare at me as I sit in front of the classroom on the edge of a stool. I wait a little longer than strictly necessary before continuing because this is my favorite part—making suggestions to get them to dive a little deeper into literature. “What if,” I say again, making sure they are all listening, “he’s not actually real?”

About half the classroom erupts at the suggestion. I fight back a smile. “Miss Mac,” one voice cuts through the chaos. It’s Warren Alden, one of my top students. “You can’t be serious. You mean to say he’s literally her imagination? As in something she made up?” The class quiets as they wait for me to explain myself.

“I’m not saying that, but think about it. In what ways could this be true? In what ways is he an actual piece of her, rather than simply another character?” They are quiet for a minute, considering. Some students flip open the pages of their photocopied short story, looking to the text for evidence. Eventually, Isabel Hernandez raises a tentative hand, and I gesture for her to speak.

“My mom told me this story when I was little about a girl who went dancing with a really handsome man, but it turned out she had been dancing with herself all night. The guy was just someone she thought up. Kind of like an imaginary friend, but more sinister. This guy seems to know a lot about the main character, right? I mean, it’s weird that he keeps finishing her sentences.” I nod, impressed. Isabel is typically painfully shy and quiet, but she has been coming out of her shell the more we discuss what we read in class. Warren rolls his eyes.

“That’s not enough. He could just be obsessed with her like the story suggests,” he counters.

“Well, of course it’s not enough,” I say. “One piece of evidence is never enough. This is why we talk about using sufficient evidence to support claims in this class. You have to make your case really well. So, what are some other things he does that may make us see him as a figment of her imagination?”

They are quiet for another moment before Neve Blanid speaks up without raising her hand. “When he first shows up, he says he’s been with her forever. Maybe that’s literal. Someone who is a part of you might use that language to describe the relationship, which would be very on brand for someone who isn’t real.”

I laugh lightly. “On brand, indeed.” A few students laugh, too. “What else?” They quietly skim the story again. After some time, I add, “He starts with these weird incantations. I believe it was Haze who suggested he was trying to hypnotize her.” I indicate Haze Frye in the back of the room, and they perk up at my mention. “It’s a definite possibility, but what if he has access to her inner thoughts and is using them to try to persuade her?” A few students huff at this. Apparently, this suggestion was one step too far for some of them. I glance up at the clock. “Okay,” I say, “we are almost out of time, but I want you to think about this over the weekend because we’re going to come back and continue to follow this argument on Monday.” The students pack up their materials as the bell rings. I flop into my desk chair as they all shuffle out the door. Warren, often the last to leave, waves as he moves toward the door.

“I’m not buying it, Miss Mac. You’re going to need more sufficient evidence for me to come around on this one,” he mocks, and I smirk.

“I’ll come prepared on Monday then, Warren. Have a good weekend.” As the door closes behind him, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, savoring the end-of-the-day quiet. The silence lasts all of two minutes before my door opens and my best friend, Jenny Green, floats in. She flops into a student desk right in front of me and puts her chin in her palm, leaning forward, her dark brown hair falling gracefully over her shoulder. She’s wearing an oversized green-and-gold Leade Park Lightning spirit t-shirt that she’s tied at the waist with skinny jeans and black booties. Somehow, Jenny makes spirit Friday look like a fashion show, whereas I treat it like the casual day it is meant to be. My copper hair is in a messy bun on top of my head, and I’m wearing a plain, old Leade Park High School spirit shirt and somewhat baggy jeans. My sneakers are also green and gold; I found them once on the clearance rack and grabbed them because they were school colors. Jenny told me they were on the clearance rack for a reason, and now I wear them almost every Friday because of how much she hates them. Jenny and I have been best friends since grade school, and while we never planned on teaching the same subject in the same school, since we started seven years ago, we’ve become a power duo in the department.

“It’s Friday, Mac!” she exhales in her breathy voice, and I eye her warily. I’ve known her long enough to sense when she wants something from me, so I wait it out, kicking my green-and-gold sneakered feet out from under my desk and crossing my ankles. She spares a glance for my shoes, and though she doesn’t give an exasperated sigh, I can tell she wants to.

“Mmm hmm,” I agree, folding my laptop in half and closing a few books that were open on the top of my desk.

“It’s been three weeks, you know,” she starts deliberately.

“Mmm hmm,” I say again, still waiting, though I know where this is going. Ever since we were younger, after a breakup, we would give ourselves three weeks to mourn the lost relationship and then, after that, whichever of us was not recently dumped would take the other out to a bar and buy the drinks. Jenny usually finds herself the recipient of these drinks, mostly because ever since she ended her relationship with her high school sweetheart, Kyle, after almost nine years together, she hasn’t had a great relationship track record. This summer, though, I let myself have a whirlwind romance, mostly because Jenny had begged me to have a little fun and had set me up with this guy she met at the gym. It had been fun, but I ended it right after school started because he made it clear he was annoyed at the shift in my schedule. Alas, tradition is tradition, and besides, she owes me for two such outings over the summer, anyway.

She finally gives that exasperated sigh. “You’re coming to Tony’s tonight and before you whine about ‘the local dive bar,’ there’s going to be a band there and it’ll be fun.” I only raise an eyebrow in response, and she sighs again. “Okay, fine. I’ve been chatting with the singer online and he’s really hot, so I figured why not kill two birds with one stone?” She leans back into her chair, having finally gotten it all out.

“Is the music any good?” I ask. She sends me a long-suffering stare and folds her arms across her chest.

“How would I know if the music is good or not?”

“I would assume that somewhere in your extensive research and conversation with this singer, you’d have checked out his craft?” I ask. She waves the words away as if they’re nonsense.

“I don’t see how it matters.”

“Are you kidding me? If I have to sit there watching you make googly eyes at some singer, I’d at least like the music to be worth my time.”

“‘Googly eyes?’ Honestly, Mac, what are you, eighty years old? No one says that.” She rolls her eyes, and I have to smirk. I’m going to show up tonight and we both know it, but my resistance is part of the tradition. Of the two of us, Jenny is the social butterfly, thriving on the noise and attention she finds on a night out. I’m the dedicated introvert, always more willing to spend a quiet Friday night with a good book and a glass of wine.

Jenny stands, the chair legs scraping noisily against the tile floor as she pushes it in. “Show starts at eight!” she calls as she heads for the door.

“See you at eight thirty, then,” I call after her, half joking. Jenny will probably be late for her own funeral. She raises her finger in the air with her back still to me, hair swishing gracefully as she glides across my classroom. I laugh as she opens the door and leaves.

Chapter 2

To my surprise, my doorbell buzzes at almost exactly eight. I pull the door open and let her inside. She’s wearing a black miniskirt with painfully high-heeled sandals and a skintight pink top. Her long brown hair falls over her shoulders in waves. She looks me up and down, not trying to hide her disapproval at my jeans, black tank top, and very flat sandals.

I wave a hand, indicating her feet. “Jenny, we’re going to Tony’s. We’re just as likely to step on peanut shells as we are the actual floor. Those shoes are incredibly impractical.”

She groans in the way of the long-suffering. “There’s nothing impractical about looking good, Mac.” She adds pointedly, though she’s smiling, “You should try it sometime.”

“Wow. It’s a little early for the knife in the back, isn’t it?” I pantomime pulling a knife from my shoulder and handing it back to her. She waves me away and moves into the kitchen, pulling down a wine glass and pouring herself some from the open bottle on the counter. I follow and grab my half-empty glass. We clink our glasses together and both take a long sip. She hums her approval at my wine selection and finishes her glass quickly. I give her a bemused glance but say nothing as she pushes away from the counter and grabs her purse.

“Shall we?” she asks, and I nod, leaving my glass on the counter.