Page 111 of Good Graces

Maybe it means I’m capable of more than just staying afloat.

34

QUINN

I’min Lang’s office before class, front row, grading papers on the tiny tablet desk and half listening as she rattles on about some new writing contest she thinks I should enter.

“The Blackthorn Prize is highly coveted,” she tells me. “Big-name judges. Good prize money. And it’s right up your alley. A little darker and gutsier than the usual lit mag fluff.”

I make a noncommittal noise and keep my eyes on the essay in front of me. Somethingdarker and gutsier. Sounds like me, sure. But the thought of putting my work out there like that again makes my stomach knot up.

It’s one thing to write because I have to. To bleed out onto the page before it festers inside of me. It’s another thing entirely to hold my work up in front of people and then wait for them to tell me if it’s any good.

“Quinn,” Lang presses, planting her coffee on the desk. “Seriously. You should do it.”

I set my pen down and lean back in my chair. “It costs money to submit, doesn’t it?”

“I think the early bird deadline is sometime in late October,” she says. “You’ll have to check into the details.”

“Details,” I echo.

I’ve been careful about money lately. The TA position pays enough to keep me afloat, and I’ve been trying to stash most of it away. Same with what I earned in the last month of summer. My savings took a serious hit before that.

I’d been traveling alone, worn thin from too many weeks on the move. Met a girl in a hostel. She was sweet, young, wide-eyed in a way that made me want to believe her. I let my guard down for once. Told myself to stop being the suspicious girl who never lets anyone get close.

She was gone the next morning. So was the rest of my money.

Lang grins. “This would be a great resume builder. And you have a real shot at placing.”

And maybe I do. I want to believe I do.

After I stole from Daniel, lost Warren, and the contest to boot, I let myself believe in some kind of karmic balance. Like when I lost, I was paying my price. I didn’t enter another contest after that. For a long time, I didn’t think I deserved to.

But now, things are good again, and it feels like something’s finally realigned. Maybe I’ve done the work, and maybe that matters. Maybe I can let myself want something without thinking I have to pay for it afterward.

“I’ll think about it,” I say.

Lang looks pleased. “Good. Any gems in the pile there?”

I wince and stare down at my stack of essays, red pen poised and ready. This group of students isn’t the most inventive, but we’re still early in the semester. Maybe they just need time to surprise me.

“One or two,” I say. “Though I’m not holding my breath.”

There are about ten minutes left until class begins. The room is filling slowly, students dragging their feet as they shuffle to their seats. I keep my head down, still flipping through the stack, when Warren walks in.

I feel him before I see him. That quiet, steady presence of his, like gravity shifting slightly in his direction. He doesn’t say anything, just makes his way down the aisle, his fingers brushing my desk as he passes. Something small and folded slips beneath my elbow.

When he’s seated at the back of the room, I unfold the paper, curious but not surprised. A crooked smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.

I’m terrified by this dark thing

That sleeps in Quinn;

All day I feel her restless turnings,

Her sharp edges and quiet claws.

I bite down a laugh and tuck the note into my pocket. A warped rendition of Plath’sElm.Claws instead of feathers, my name dropped in like a dare.

---