Chapter Fourteen

For the final weeks of the semester, we dissected Romeo and Juliet. We were shown that if they’d only listened to their parents, they’d have lived long, full and happy lives. Chill worked hard in isolation on the mural. Judging by the amount of paint that he was taking from the art room, there was more left to do than I thought.

I never asked Mr. Sfinkter about my book, and he never offered a report.

It wasn’t until the second to last day of school, the day before the mural was to be revealed, that I approached him.

We’d been allowed to study in class as Mr. Sfinkter prepared the final examination.

After the dismissal bell rang, I approached his desk.

“Sir,” I said.

“Not now, Mr. Fitzsimmons. I have work to do,” he said.

“I was just wondering if you’ve had a chance to look at my book,” I asked.

“Did you not hear what I said? I’m working.”

“But tomorrow is the last day of school and you said you’d—”

“I said what?” he snapped.

“You said you’d read it, even give it to—”

“Here I am at work, preparing examinations for your fellow students, and you’re bothering me over some whimsical promise I made months ago!”

He reached into the drawer that he’d set the manuscript in the day I gave it to him.

“Your arrogance in thinking that I would put your hobbies above my work and the needs of your fellow students has made any notes that I’ve made so far null and void! Your immaturity and complete lack of empathy show that you’re incapable of writing anything of substance.

“Since these are traits that cannot be learned, I can tell you with all certainty that you are not now, nor will you ever be, a writer. Take your scribbles and get out of my sight.”

My dreams drained from my body, leaving a shell that tingled with numbness.

“Now!” he yelled. I grabbed the manuscript and quickly exited.

As I made my way down the hall, I heard a sound behind me. I quickened my pace.

“Sean,” Chill yelled. “Sean, wait.”

I could hear his foot lifting and dropping as he tried to match my pace.

“Sean!”

I didn’t stop. The only time I slowed was to toss the manuscript in the garbage.

I sat dead in my afternoon classes as the biology teacher rambled on about the Venus flytrap.

“Carnivorous plants have existed for thousand of years. The Venus flytrap attracts its prey with a sweet-smelling sap. The insect is drawn to it and then the jaws snap shut and the digestion process begins.”

I tried to pay attention. I thought that maybe being a botanist might be more realistic than being a writer. But I couldn’t focus.

When I left the school, I saw Chill going to the mural to do the finishing touches. He must have had special permission to work late.

The first thing I did when I got home was delete all my stories from my computer. It was time for a fresh start. I didn’t know what I was going to start at. All I knew was it would be something more realistic than writing.

At dinner with my parents, I was still thinking about what I should do with my life.

“Mom, how long do you have to go to school to become a nurse?”

“You’re thinking of becoming a nurse?” Dad asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I thought you wanted to be a writer,” said Mom.

“It’s not very realistic is it?” I told them.

“Who says?” Dad asked.

“Everybody,” I said. “Including you.”

“When did either of us say that?” Mom asked defensively.

“You said it’d be hard.”

“Hard,” Mom said. “Not impossible.”

“You never really encouraged it though, did you?” I said.

“We read your stuff all the time when you were younger,” Dad reminded me.

“But you haven’t recently,” I replied.

“You haven’t shown us anything recently,” Mom said.

That was true.

“How are we supposed to show an interest if you never share anything with us?” Mom continued.

I wasn’t sure how to answer. I was confused, to say the least.

“Well,” I started slowly, “I wrote a book.”

“A whole book?” Mom said. She seemed surprised and even proud.

I looked at Dad. He had the same expression as Mom.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“I threw it away,” I told them.

“What? Why would you do that?” Mom inquired.

“I don’t know,” I said. At that moment I didn’t know.

“Didn’t you save it to your computer?” Dad asked.

“I deleted it.”

“Well that wasn’t very smart,” Dad said.

“Calling him stupid isn’t going to encourage him, dear,” Mom said.

“I didn’t say he was stupid. I said his actions were. And sometimes smart people can do dumb things.”

I wouldn’t have called myself a smart person at that moment, but I’d definitely have said that I did some really dumb things.

How would I ever make it up to Chill?