Page 12 of A Storybook Wedding

“Nothing,” I reply. “It’s just—I’ve got this presentation tomorrow.”

“I know. Character development. Three o’clock in the North Wind building.”

“And we have workshop.”

She groans and buries her face back in her knees. “Don’t remind me.”

I swallow back a burp. “Did you read my feedback letter?”

“No,” she admits. “I was giving myself some space for the dust to settle, but then I ate deadly microscopic algae and, well, you know the rest.”

Surprised by her snarky response, I shake my head and almost grin.

“Please don’t rehash it though. I’m still in a pretty fragile state, and I have to be honest, just the thought of your workshop is already doing things to my stomach that I’m trying to consciously ignore. I don’t think I can handle your verbal venom at this particular moment.” Her glasses make her look like she’s a terrified woodland creature, some small animal with big, curious, wounded eyes.

I’m struck by it, rendered unable to return the conversation volley.

“I’m sorry,” Cecily continues. “I’m not a rude person, and that sounded rude.” She sighs. “I just wasn’t expecting this all to suck so bad.”

My brow furrows.

“Ugh. Now I sound like I’m complaining.” She shoots me a glance. “I’m just going to stop talking. Hope you feel better.” She sets her bucket on the ground between us, puts her knees down, and lies back onto the standard-issue flat pillow at the head of her hospital bed. Then she rolls to the left so that when I look over at her, I’m faced with the entire length of her back.

One would expect that I’d feel relieved at the break in conversation, but I’m bothered by it. I get that she’s not a big fan of me or my workshop. Fine, that’s fair. But we can’t be stuck in this remarkably small hallway area mimicking an urgent care facility and not speak to each other. That’s just awkward. And it’ll only get worse when I inevitably need to use this bucket again.

“I won’t force you to talk to me, Cecily. But I think you should know that your writing has a lot of potential.”

“Huh?” she asks, still facing the wall.

“That’s what I said in my letter.”

Nothing.

“I believe I wrote that even if it wasn’t a workshop piece, I would be happy to read on and see where you take the story and how you connect the dots.”

“Really?” She stays put, but single-word answers are better than nothing.

“You juggled all the pieces well without dropping the topic,” I continue. Please turn around.

“I thought you said it was shallow,” she replies. I strain to decipher the words because she says them not to me but to the wall.

“I said you could have done more to develop the theme. Have you read The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas?”

“Of course.” Her knees bend in again, up toward her chest.

“You know how, in the book, Starr struggles to find her voice? How the whole book is like an internal dichotomy?”

“Yeah.”

“I think you need more of that.”

She swings her knees in a rainbow, up toward the ceiling and back to face me. “The Hate U Give is a masterpiece though. It’s a powerful statement about our society. It’s literally about life or death.”

“That’s true. But you see your reaction to it?”

“What? You mean, right now?”

“Yes. Right now. You need to bring that kind of intentionality to your own work. That kind of urgency.”

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