A Little Something Different

by Sandy Hall

  “I know the type.”

  “Anyway, sometimes they do that thing. Where one of them looks over at the other like they’re going to say something and then looks away just as the other senses someone’s looking at them so they look up.”

  “Ugh, the bad timing thing.”

  “It’s the worst. But Gabe and Lea will fall in love, mark my words,” she says, tapping her finger on the table to punctuate her statement.

  “These words, they are marked.”

  We’re quiet while we eat for a few minutes.

  “So what’s new in the world of astrophysics?” she asks.

  “We’ve been married for five years and you still have no real concept of what I do with my days.”

  “No, I really don’t.”

  OCTOBER

  Charlotte (a barista)

  Getting stuck with this God-awful morning shift all by myself is basically the worst thing that has ever happened in the history of my career at Starbucks. It’s this new manager, she doesn’t seem to understand that I have to always work with Tabitha or Keith. They keep me level and they keep me from wanting to strangle customers.

  And look who just happens to walk in—Gabe the loser. It’s an interesting and terrible phenomenon about working at Starbucks, you really do get to know the regulars’ names. And unfortunately they get to know yours. Gabe’s been coming in for a long time, though he wasn’t around much last year. I almost missed him, but now he’s come back, flakier than ever. He’s even talking to himself right now.

  Tabitha and Keith like to pretend that Gabe is some kind of special snowflake. That he’s the cutest, shyest, most wonderful boy on the planet. Personally, I think they’re nuts. I think the kid is straight-up loopy and in the worst way possible.

  “Hi,” I say as Gabe gets to the register, trying to put on my best Starbucks smile and failing.

  He says nothing, continuing to stare at his shoes.

  “Hello!”

  Nothing.

  “Yo! Dude!” I glance around the register to find something to flick at him.

  The girl behind him nudges him and Gabe looks up.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles.

  “S’okay,” I say, even though I really don’t mean it.

  “What can I get for you?”

  “Grande coffee, room for milk.”

  “Sumatra or Pike Place?” Normally I would assume Pike Place, but Gabe mixes it up sometimes.

  He stares at me like I’m speaking a foreign language even though it’s a fairly basic and obvious question.

  “Sumatra or Pike Place?” I’m practically yelling. It’s ridiculous.

  He stares at my lips and does a weird combination of a shake and shrug. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  I point at the urns behind me that say “Sumatra” and “Pike Place.”

  “Oh, Sumatra’s fine,” he says. I feel a little bad; his cheeks are a burning red that you usually only find on cinnamon candies and he’s blinking a lot as he hands me a gift card.

  For the life of me I can’t figure out why Tabitha has such a gigantic crush on him. She could do better, I think as I hand him his drink.

  “Thanks,” he mumbles, digging deep into his pockets and dropping a few coins in the tip jar. I have to fight the urge to thank him profusely for his seven-cent tip. Wait until I tell Tabitha and Keith how weird he was today.

  Victor (creative writing classmate)

  I don’t understand what kind of horrors I must have committed in a past life that I’m being forced to endure this kind of punishment in the present.

  Why do Big Foot and the Giraffe always sit by me? I swear I randomize my seat each class and somehow I still end up between or near these two dillweeds every single time. There’s nothing about me that’s inviting, I’m sure of it.

  I’m tired of playing chaperone to their weirdo mating ritual. Talk to each other already! You’re in college! Stop being coy and adorable. And I don’t mean adorable in a positive way. They’re cloying and maybe even a little bit pathetic.

  I wonder what Big Foot would do if I asked her on a date in front of him. Maybe he would stomp on me with one or both of his feet.

  “Victor?” I’m roused out of my thoughts by Inga. She thinks she’s so cool in her hipster glasses and tiny cardigans and her spiky blond hair.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s your turn to share your story idea.”

  I need to start thinking of new and creative ways to get out of this class. That’s what my story idea should be.

  Inga (creative writing professor)

  As one of the other students leaves office hours, I’m delighted to find Gabe and Lea waiting for me in the hallway. In fact, when they look up as the door opens, I go so far as to hold up a “wait one second” finger, just to make them hang out alone together a little longer.

  I close the door and drum my fingers on my desk, straining my ears in case they decide to talk to each other.

  I count to thirty.

  I’m aware of how unprofessional this is and yet I can’t stop myself.

  I count to thirty again.

  Still not a word from the hallway. I sigh and open the door.

  “Who’s next?” I ask, all too aware of how overly bright my smile is.

  “Ladies first,” Gabe says. And it’s like all three of us are surprised for a second by his chivalry. He awkwardly leans against the wall and looks in the other direction.

  “All right, Lea,” I say. “Come on in.”

  We chat for a few minutes. I tell her how impressed I was with the direction she took on the most recent short-story prompt.

  She sits up straighter and smiles at the compliment.

  “Thank you, I wasn’t sure how the assignment would come out. I feel a little … young sometimes in there, quite frankly.”

  “You’re a first-year?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have had many first-years who are far better writers than the upperclassmen. I don’t think age has much to do with writing. I think it’s something that can certainly improve in time, but there’s no age limit on how old you need to be to write well.”

  “I feel better hearing you say that.”

  “Have you made any friends in the class?” I ask, prodding, probably getting too close to my personal interests.

  She scrunches her nose and peers at the door. “Not really. There’s that guy, Gabe, he’s nice, but I don’t know that he’s looking for a friend.”

  I nod and smile and keep my lips closed tight so that I don’t burst out with something seriously inappropriate like, “I knew it!”

  I take a deep breath. “Well, it’s good to find critique partners. We’ll be talking about that more soon.”

  “All right,” she says, standing up.

  “Is that all? You didn’t need anything specific?”

  “No, mostly I just wanted to make sure I was on point with everything and you cleared that up pretty quickly. So, thanks.”

  “Excellent.” Then I have a bit of a lightbulb moment. “Can you send Gabe in?” Now she has no choice but to talk to him.

  She opens the door and gestures for him to come in without saying a word. I suppose at least she smiles at him. These two and their nonloquacious natures are going to be the death of me.

  He scrambles into the seat across from me and dives right in without so much as a greeting, like he’s been rehearsing these words over and over again. Like if he doesn’t get them out he might just explode.

  “I’ve been having trouble with writing too many words,” he explains quickly, wiping his hands on his jeans.

  “That’s not necessarily a problem,” I say, my words slow, hoping to calm him down a bit.

  “Even for these more limited short stories?”

  “I mean, try not to write five thousand words for a two-thousand-word assignment, but if you want, bring this one in and we’ll work on phrasing together,” I offer. “It’s amazing how many writers could chop down t
heir word count by using more precise vocabulary or getting rid of unnecessary descriptors.”

  He smiles and nods.

  “Any other questions?”

  “It’s not so much a question. It’s more like a concern. I’m going to have to read an assignment in front of the class, right?”

  “Yes. More than one, probably.”

  “There’s no getting out of that?”

  I smile sympathetically, but shake my head.

  “I feel like I’m going to end up editing myself a lot, because, I don’t know, the idea of sharing some of this stuff with strangers makes me feel…”

  “Vulnerable?” I suggest. I get this concern a lot.

  “Yeah,” he says with a sigh, his ears turning red.

  “That’s a little tougher. I’m not going to tell you to ignore the way you’re feeling or try to forget it, but writing about something that makes you feel emotional isn’t necessary for this course. If you find that the idea of presenting something you’ve written is out of the question, come see Cole or me, and we’ll be happy to help you out without you losing any points.”

  “All right,” he says, nodding.

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jeez, you kids are making life easier and easier these days.”

  “I could make something up?”

  “Nah, I’ll just get home earlier than usual.”

  “Thanks for your help,” he says, standing, smiling, and slipping out the door.

  I sit back in my office chair and spin around. It’s not much, but I think there was at least a tiny bit of progress made today.

  Sam (Gabe’s brother)

  The girl Gabe knows from creative writing is wandering around the library stacks looking increasingly lost. To be more specific, it’s the girl Gabe has a crush on from creative writing.

  “Hey,” I say, approaching her when I see her for the third or fourth time.

  “Hi,” she breathes, looking from me to the shelf label and back again.

  “Do you need help?”

  “Do you work here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, then sure, maybe you can help me.”

  She shows me the slip of paper she’s holding.

  “You’re one level too high,” I say. I push the cart of books I’m supposed to be shelving out of the way and I lead her down the back staircase to the floor below us, bringing her to the right section.

  “Thank you so much,” she says, sliding the book off the shelf and hugging it to her.

  “No problem. I’m Sam,” I say, extending my hand to shake.

  “Lea,” she says. She has a decent grip. I’m impressed.

  “You know my brother, Gabe, don’t you?”

  She looks back up at me from the book. “What? No. I mean…” She pauses, obviously flustered. She and Gabe would seriously be a match made in heaven. “We have a class together, but I don’t know him. Not, I don’t know him know him. We don’t … we aren’t friends.”

  I nod and try not to smile too much, even though I’m holding back a laugh. “I’ll tell him you said that.”

  “No!” she says.

  “I was joking,” I promise, putting a hand on her arm.

  “Thanks again,” she says, holding up the book and backing away.

  I watch her walk away and spend the rest of my shift trying to think of scenarios to get those two crazy kids together. At least it makes the hours move faster.

  Squirrel!

  The best part of this time of year is all the acorns. Acorns are delicious and amazing and the best thing that anyone could ever eat. If you’re not eating acorns you are seriously missing out. I tell all my friends about the amazingness of acorns and sometimes they just stare at me like I’m crazy. But I’m only crazy for acorns.

  I see a boy and a girl. The girl gave me peanuts once and she always looks at the boy a lot. He looks at her too. But they always look at each other at the wrong second. But today they look at each other at the right second and they both smile so wide it looks like they’re laughing.

  I hope they’re laughing.

  I hope they like acorns. Maybe I’ll throw some acorns at them. No, that’s a bad idea. I don’t want to lose my acorns. I don’t want to share. Call me a bad squirrel, but I do not like to share my acorns.

  Maybe that makes me a good squirrel. The consummate squirrel. The very definition of a squirrel.

  Hillary (creative writing classmate)

  “We’re going to be starting on our first long-term critiquing assignment,” Call-me-Inga declares one rainy October day. She says it like she is so thrilled, like it’s the best thing to happen since movable type was invented or whatever English professors get excited about.

  “We’re going to be doing a series of simple stories, a thousand words give or take, and then sharing them with a partner over the next few weeks. It will give you both a chance to see firsthand how someone else works on these assignments, and then we’ll switch around. I think it’s important that we all learn from each other.”

  I sit up straight and raise my hand, not bothering to be called on before speaking. “What topics will we be writing about?”

  “I think something simple like a particular childhood memory that stands out to you would be a good place to start. It can be sad, happy, funny, but get it to a thousand words. It doesn’t have to be extremely personal. If you feel like this topic might tap into something like that, come see me in office hours. You don’t have to give any specifics, but we can work something out.”

  Truth be told, that’s part of what I respect about Call-me-Inga, even if she can be sort of a tool. She’s realistic about limitations people might have when it comes to topics. Like what if I was abused as a kid and everything about my childhood makes me think of that? Although I feel like if you’re having those kinds of problems you’re probably not in college taking creative writing. You’re probably like in prison making toilet wine.

  These are the kinds of thoughts I really need to keep to myself.

  I probably don’t want to think too hard about toilet wine, either. One time my roommate and I made a huge tub of punch in a Rubbermaid storage bin and used grape Kool-Aid and all the guys said it looked like toilet wine. But how would frat boys even know what toilet wine looks like?

  “Was there something else?” Call-me-Inga asks me. I must have zoned out thinking about toilet wine.

  “We can pick partners?”

  “Of course. This isn’t kindergarten.” She smiles like she said something super clever and I go back to disliking her even if I do respect her.

  I run my hands through my hair and look around at the class. There are an even number of kids so that’s good news. But I don’t want to get stuck with that snoozefest Victor. I’ve had my eye on cutie pie Gabe all semester, so I lean across the empty chair in between us. He kind of looks like this guy my sister dated who drove a motorcycle. He was hot. She was too stupid to hang on to him though.

  “Gabe!” I say, like we’re old friends.

  He doesn’t respond. I ball up a piece of paper and throw it at him. He jumps and looks over at me. I toss off my most seductive “come be my creative writing partner” finger wave.

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “We should work together,” I say, leaning my hand on my chin. I’m almost annoyed at myself for using all my best stuff on this semi-loser in class, but he’s not really a semi-loser. He’s particularly cute when he doesn’t shave and he gets all flustered when he has to talk to the class. If only he would wear cooler shoes. Maybe while we work together on this assignment I can coach him on different footwear. They’re always slip-ons, never anything with laces. And they’re always kind of cheap looking. At least they’re not Crocs.

  “So?” I prod.

  “Oh.” He glances away. “Um, I guess.” He turns to me and nods.

  Score.

  We drag our chairs together.

  “Before we start, I have to ask. A
re you Italian? I love Italian guys.”

  “Um. I’m mostly Portuguese and Welsh.”

  “South American, even better.”

  He gives me a weird look. “You do know that Portugal isn’t in South America, right?”

  “Of course, silly,” I say, touching his arm. “I was joking!”

  Where the eff is Portugal?

  Inga (creative writing professor)

  I finish giving the assignment and I watch as Lea makes a note and Gabe stares at the back of her head. It’s perfect timing for them to finally become friends. I hope neither of them had a painful childhood. I find that this is the best assignment to get my couple of the semester to really engage with each other. There’s something about having to share childhood memories that always brings people closer.

  And time is ticking for Gabe and Lea. I haven’t even seen them talk to each other yet. They spend plenty of time staring dreamily at each other, so there’s obviously an attraction there. It’s like they’ve formed a covert mutual-admiration society, and now it’s time for them to share it with each other.

  Lea looks up from her notebook and smiles at me. But then we both notice at the same moment that Gabe is talking to Hillary.

  Dammit, Hillary! You are cordially uninvited from the covert mutual-admiration society. It’s like I can see all of my hopes and dreams of Gabe and Lea falling in love go out the window with each toss of Hillary’s long overly highlighted mousy brown hair. I know that it’s mouse brown under those expensive shades of ash and honey. Not that I think Gabe is the kind of boy who’s particularly susceptible to hair tossing, but I don’t know him very well and therefore cannot give him the benefit of the doubt.

  I sigh so loudly that I feel like half the first row notices, so instead of actually wringing Hillary’s neck I smile and turn away for a moment, regaining my composure. Pam is going to hate hearing about this. In part because it emphasizes how emotionally invested I am in this nonrelationship.

  I turn back to check on Lea and she looks okay. The girl who was sitting on the other side of her seems to be engaging her. But I wanted Gabe and Lea to fall in love while talking about his tenth birthday party, or her using the quilt her grandmother made her to build the world’s best blanket fort. Or that time that Lea got her head stuck in between the rungs of a chair and Gabe fell off a roof because his older sister told him that he’d be able to fly. These are the kinds of stories that bond people together. These are all examples of actual essays that students have written in the past.