Tanner’s eyes are the sky, water-colored in values of blue—the outer rim as dark as midnight; the narrow band lying just inside blue-gray like a summer storm. The largest band in the center is a warm winter sky striped with cirrus clouds. If you look into them close enough, long enough, you can almost see flecks of ice melting between the thick, black fringes of lash.
It isn’t that I’ve been close enough to look intimately into his eyes. I haven’t. Lately. I know because I sat opposite him at a table in kindergarten and throughout elementary school. He’s been in at least half my classes in junior high and high school. So I’ve continued a stealthy study of those eyes, one glance at a time. Hundreds of glances a year
“Lexi, bring your writer’s notebook.” Ms. Danou’s voice jerks my attention from my writing. I throw a period behind the last word and pick up the notebook. Ms. Danou sits at her desk in the corner of the classroom, pointing to the chair beside her. She is mid-fortyish with long, salt-and-pepper hair. She is one of my few teachers who really know what they’re teaching. She’s an author. Not in the sense that “we are all authors here,” but she writes novels someone published, someone paid for, and someone read.
My chemistry teacher isn’t a researcher. My math teacher doesn’t earn a paycheck as an engineer. And my business teacher drives the rustiest car in the teacher’s parking lot—pretty sure he doesn’t get Wall Street.
It feels as if the whole class is watching me move to the front of the room. And this is why I hate sitting in the back. If I ever have to go to the front of the room, I can’t help wondering if my hair is wonky or my shirt has ridden up and the kids whispering behind me have noticed. I watch my feet take each step as I weave through the cluttered aisles, across the gray and white linoleum tiles littered with backpacks, jackets and notebooks.
I tug at my shirt and slip into the chair beside Ms. Danou, perching on the edge, curiosity and fear warring in my mind. She knows writing techniques and secrets I crave. Right now, I’m just toying with the idea of being an author. There’s less potential disappointment if it’s just a casual interest—for the last six years. Fine, not casual. It freaks me out to think my heart and soul could be smeared on paper for others to read—way, way in the future—and be judged by my metaphors or punctuation.
Each time I sit in this chair, I worry I don’t measure up, that someday Ms. Danou will shake her head and suggest I become an entomologist instead of a writer. I guess I would have to make the best of it, live deep in a rain forest, discover new bug species, write an encyclopedia for cataloging insects…
I hate bugs.
“What are you working on today?” she asks.
Opening my notebook between us, I say, “A characterization. It’s just brainstorming right now.” I’m fidgeting in my chair like I need to go to the little girls’ room—just nerves. Pressing my sweaty palms to my jeans, I force my legs to stop moving. “I don’t have a story for this character yet, and it isn’t finished.”
“Read me what you have so far.” Mrs. Danou leans forward and tilts her ear toward me. She says you can tell a lot about a story when you listen to it from the author’s voice.
I begin reading. “Tanner’s eyes are the sky.” Would anyone recognize this description as being Brendon Michaels? Duh—of course they would. I immediately drop my voice to a whisper to continue, “If you look into them close enough, long enough, you can almost see flecks of ice melting.” Ms. Danou looks up at me and I feel my cheeks blush warmly, but I continue reading.
As I finish, Mrs. Danou leans away, theatrically fanning herself. “Please tell me this is the antagonist. Good looks on a bad boy is money.”
No. How could she think that? He’s angelic. “I was thinking the hero, actually.”
“Well, you’re not done yet. You have time to rough up his edges a bit so he’s not quite perfect. We women love a few imperfections.”
“Like, he has no butt?” I say with a smirk.
She smiles but shakes her head slightly. “No need to be hasty. Something will present itself as you begin developing his personality. Just stay open to a flaw or two.” Ms. Danou taps her pen on Tanner’s name. “Writing is observation. Maybe it would help to choose someone to borrow characteristics from as you continue.”
“Observation.” I smile and nod. Don’t you worry—I’ve got that one covered. I head back to my desk, considering what deficit I could possibly write into the story, thinking this is where the “fiction” part must come in. Well, and the fact that Brendon’s character will be falling in love with a character like me. Maybe I could cast myself as a young starlet or a model, someone out of his league.