Creative Writing stories, #1: "The Ask-Out"

Hey, I'm back! After a couple busy months, I actually have time to post something AND something to post as well. I took a Creative Writing course this Winter Term at school, which required us all to write three stories and ultimately revise and turn in two of them. In order to determine which two I liked best, I decided to write final versions of all of them. The first story I'm sharing with you all is the one that I decided not to hand in. That doesn't necessarily make it crap, though. Maybe it is, but read it and let me know. Without further ado...


The Ask-Out


He was starting to sweat. It was not the sweat of physical exertion but of pure anguish. It was an unexpected sweat. A sweat of indeterminate temperature such that he shivered without any apparent cause for shivering. Sneaky sweat.

Neither of them had class at this time of day. He knew that she would be studying at her usual table in the library. He peered at her through the rectangular slit window in the main door to the library, her long, dark amber hair in a simple ponytail. She wore a cream-colored sweater, navy skirt, and navy leggings—she was always immaculately, modestly dressed. He stood in deep thought about how he might best approach her. Should he go directly to her and ask her out point-blank? Should he put his books down at another table first? If so, should he walk by her and draw her attention on the way to said other table? The sheer number of methods of approach was maddening. He felt like a military general who had no idea how best to position his troops.

He was no General Patton, so he decided to just wing it. He had never winged anything before but then again, he had never asked a girl out, so god only knew what would work. He trusted his subconscious to lead him to the Promised Land—in this case, maybe dinner and a movie. Hell, he was surprised to have made as much progress as he had in the courtship game the last few months. He had wondered about this moment for nearly half a year. It was late January, and his dreams of going out with her had stewed in his head since September.

His feet were moving but he had no idea to where. He felt controlled by a consciousness that stemmed from outside his head. In a fog, he veered to the left of the path that would have taken him straight to her, darting between two chest high wooden bookshelves that housed the school’s Encyclopedia Brittanica. A few more seconds of automatic movement and he noticed his load was lighter—he had shuffled off his backpack over by the computers. He then found himself striding confidently toward her, smiling as warmly as he could. He reached her side at last and she glanced up from her work. Those beautiful deep brown eyes, he thought. They met his own and he snapped out of his quasi-autopilot. She cleared her throat and he glanced quickly out the window at the snow-covered school quad. The ice from last week’s freezing rain still clung to the naked tree limbs. The cavernous room was silent; only the faint rustle of paper in the librarian’s office could be heard.

~ ~ ~

Katelyn Price had beguiled Tim ever since freshman year, when they were in the same Ancient History class. He had sat directly behind her, enamored with the cascade of her not-quite-blond, not-quite-brown hair. They were “friends” on Facebook but nothing more. He had enjoyed perusing her pictures ever since they became “friends.” She was gorgeous; about five feet six inches, with eyes that seemed to change color from one day to the next, modulating between brown and hazel-green. Her frame was lean but she thankfully did not look like the girls who subsisted on breath mints and the occasional salad. And unlike the girls who did not feel pretty unless their skirts were too short to leave much to the imagination, Katelyn dressed smartly, and her modesty made her sexy.

It was junior year, and Tim was elated to find that he and Katelyn once again had a class together: English. Maybe this would provide a pretext for them to converse. Having spent all of freshman year too chicken to talk to her, he resolved to get to know her somehow this year.

For the first few months of class he could manage no more than a shaky “good morning” to her, but one day in early December saw a perfect opportunity for Tim to lay the groundwork for proper acquaintance. The English department always found a way to incorporate Shakespeare into the curriculum—standard practice for a prep school with a bit of a Briton complex. That day, the Bard’s Sonnet 18 (“Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?”). The teacher frequently called on students to read poems aloud prior to discussing them, and so Tim hoped that if he read the sonnet aloud and with gusto, Katelyn would appreciate his sensitivity and eloquence. What if he glanced at her at key points in the poem while he read it? Would she be moved by such a gesture? Would she be creeped out? He decided to keep the glance count to one, at the very end: “So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,/So long lives this and this gives life to thee.” This would be a Grand Romantic Hook for sure.

Sure enough, the teacher called for a reader for Sonnet 18. Sure enough, no one raised a hand at first. And sure enough, Tim was called on when his own shot up—not too eagerly, he hoped. He proceeded confidently through much of the poem but his heart began beating harder and faster as he neared the critical final lines. He stumbled over the fourth-to-last line: “Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade.” He stuttered at “wander’st” and his voice cracked. He took a deep breath and hurried on through the rest of the poem, forgetting to look at Katelyn at all. It was just as well; his attempt at a Grand Romantic Hook had fallen flat.

Tim decided that since he was no Cicero, he would employ the pen (or keyboard) instead of the tongue. He contrived to engage her on Facebook IM and with winged words win her affection!—or at least get to know her and let her get to know him, whether she liked it or not. While lying in bed studying at home one Friday evening in early January, he noticed the name Katelyn Price illuminated along with his other Facebook “friends” who were online at the time. His heart started pounding and he began sweating a sneaky sweat. Gutless, he stalled for time, checking his email four times in the space of ten minutes and getting up for a glass of water to wet his rapidly drying tongue. He was stalling, but his curiosity trumped his anxiety in the end. He swallowed hard, fingers trembling as he typed in the message box and pressed ‘SEND.’

TIM [8:37 pm] Hey there Katelyn

Hey there Katelyn? Was he trying to seem like a pervert? He might as well have said What’s shakin’ baby doll? She responded quickly:

KATELYN [8:37 pm] heyy Tim

She had not ignored him; he had cleared the first hurdle. Was there any meaning in the second Y? A typo? A casual, friendly informality? He was encouraged.

TIM [8:38 pm] how are you doing this evening?
KATELYN [8:38 pm] pretty good, how about you?

Thank goodness she didn’t totally adhere to the needlessly terse Internet parlance with abbreviations like “u” for “you.” He let her misuse of a comma slide.

TIM [8:38 pm] I’m well; can’t complain…how are you?
You already asked her how she’s doing, shithead. He felt his ship of courtship taking on water before it had even left port. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, waiting for the familiar pop that signaled a response. It came, and he braced for the worst.
KATELYN [8:40 pm] haha good good, what’s up?
He had not scared her off after all! Not yet, anyway. He forged on, hoping his game would improve in a hurry.
TIM [8:40 pm] not too much, I guess; I was wondering, however, if you might know what pages we need to read in Catcher in the Rye for English class on Monday

Being a diligent student, Tim knew the answer to this query, but he could think of no other immediate means of conversation extension.

KATELYN [8:41 pm] sure thing, one sec, let me check
TIM [8:41 pm] thanks, I’m much obliged

Much obliged? Who are you, some Southern politician? Three or four minutes passed and no reply came. He shifted back and forth under his covers, no longer comfortable in this position or that. But pop went his computer soon enough:

KATELYN [8:47 pm] hey sorry about that, I think its chapters 5 through 9
TIM [8:47 pm] excellent, thanks very much Katelyn
KATELYN [8:47 pm] youre welcome Tim

He was relieved that even though she neglected its apostrophe, she at least put the E on the end of “youre.” His anxiety began to wane as he reveled in having carried on an online conversation with her for nine full minutes. He was Harry Potter fighting against the Lord Voldemort of his timidness! He was Captain Picard making First Contact! He had made it further than he would have expected himself to.

Perhaps he was turning a corner, preparing to put himself out for romantic acceptance or rejection by that most fickle beast, Teenage Woman, for the first time in his life. Even though his manner around his fellow “guys” was energetic and sometimes downright obstreperous, he had always been shy about girls, never having been kissed and only a few times hugged, other than by his mother. Even when his male friends discussed what girls were “hot,” he kept mum. He had always fancied himself a sure-thing kind of guy, and while he did not pretend to know much about life’s principal intricacies, he knew enough to know that women were never a sure thing.

This reflection on the achievement of communicating briefly with Katelyn caused him to zone out. A full seven minutes had passed since she had sent her last message dangling, neglected. Did she think he had just abruptly ended the conversation without a proper good-bye? He was eager to keep chatting with her but his self-congratulation had caused him to lose focus on continuing to talk to her. He was mortified again, his wild heart jumping up and down in its chest cavity cage, enraged and fearful. His eyes went wide as he scrambled to think of anything to say but came up empty. He perked up when he heard the pop sound again.

KATELYN [8:54 pm] hey are you going to the hockey game tomorrow night?

It was an unexpected, pleasant surprise. She had messaged him twice in a row! And after a long pause, no less! Like the feet of Fred Astaire his fingers fluttered over the keys.

TIM [8:54 pm] definitely; I’ll see you there, I imagine
KATELYN [8:54 pm] you bet! we’re gonna kick some Taft ass!

He was caught off-guard by her cursing. He did not tend to use such invective, but he secretly enjoyed when girls did.

TIM [8:55 pm] heck yes we are! 2 o’clock tomorrow afternoon, right?
KATELYN [8:55 pm] thats right! See you there!
KATELYN [8:56 pm] hey Tim I’ve gotta run, I’ll see you tomorrow at the game
TIM [8:56 pm] alrighty; bye Katelyn!
KATELYN [8:56 pm] byee xoxo

Did she really just…xoxo? His heart soared at the possibility of what those four characters meant. Two hugs and two kisses! Perhaps she was into him. Perhaps he had just paved the road towards his first kiss and more! The perhapses flew through his mind like a hundred shooting stars. He was beaming now, awed by the possibilities established by this conversation. As he grew more tired, so his thoughts moderated. Let’s get her phone number first. Maybe go out to dinner and/or a movie.

He woke up early the next morning and showered. He showered almost exclusively at night, but today he wanted to look his freshest for her. He applied a modest amount of his favorite eau de toilette, which smelled deliciously of orange. He then decked himself out in black pants, a black turtleneck and his golden yellow Superfan t-shirt. Most everyone who attended big school sporting events wore black and gold—the school colors. He did not don such regalia often, but this was not an ordinary occasion. He looked himself over in the mirror—a rarity—before heading downstairs. He was ready to continue his dogged pursuit of Katelyn Price.

He arrived at the game just as students were beginning to pour in and both teams were taking their warm-up laps around the rink. He took his place just shy of center ice, in the front row, knowing that Katelyn often stood with her friends in the second row. They would be in the middle of the cheering throng of home-team faithful. There would be plenty of time to chat in between plays and periods, during which time he would engage her in conversation eventually leading to an exchange of cell phone numbers.

His fellow students and Superfans streamed in like iron filings to a magnet and soon the black and gold mass was enormous, murmuring, cheering for some of the team’s luminaries. The visiting team brought a busload of fans as well, dressed in crimson and navy blue. It was going to be a raucous game. Only bad blood could come out of the competing cheering sections.

Katelyn still hadn’t arrived by the time the opening puck dropped. Tim was sweating that sneaky sweat again. He cheered only with half his normal voice. His heart thumped in his chest with brutal monotony.

Each team collected a goal in the first period and everyone sat down when the horn sounded for the intermission. As Tim turned around to find his seat, there she was, beaming at the Zamboni. She was radiant, her hair hanging freely this time. She was looking mighty, mighty nice in her Superfan t-shirt, which clung to her curves perfectly. Had she dressed that way for him? Their eyes met. His heart beat differently.

She smiled down at him from her seat in the row behind him. Her eyes were an exotic green-hazel today. “Hey Tim! You made it!”

His own smile was ten miles wide. “I sure did; wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he replied. What a fucking cliché. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. God, she’s beautiful.

He was doing it again. He had nothing else to say. Tim, who would win the “Most Talkative” superlative in the school yearbook when he graduated, had nothing to say. Mortified, he turned around and waited for the game to pick back up. A few minutes later, a whistle from the referee stopped play momentarily and he decided to give it another shot. He stammered, “So Katelyn, did you enjoy the reading in Catcher in the Rye last night?”

“Oh I just SparkNoted it. I had to write a U.S. History paper last night. ”

He sputtered, “I see, I see. Well…” Katelyn smiled warmly but raised a skeptical eyebrow, knowing that Tim had trailed off. It was no use. He was failing miserably at male-female smalltalk, a basic skill of Courtship 101. The referee blew the whistle again and Katelyn fixed her eyes back on the game. Tim turned around, sweating again.

The home team was victorious by a score of 4-2. Everyone left the rink on an adrenaline high except the opposing fans and Tim, who still could not believe his silence in the presence of someone so lovely, so unreasonably sweet. If only he could conquer his irrational fear of talking to her past a few seconds’ awkward pleasantries, she could easily be his, at least for dinner and a movie.

As he walked back across campus to his car, he decided that he would ask her out within the next week, bashfulness-be-damned. He would hold his head up and pop the question—well not the question; a much more preliminary question: “Would you like to go out sometime?” That bluntness would circumnavigate the smalltalk problem and give her the power to accept his request. But would she even consider doing so in light of the fact that they had never spoken at length to each other? To hell with it; just ask her and see what happens. He directed his attention to the roads, which were slickening with the freezing rain that was beginning to fall. Grayness enveloped the region.

~ ~ ~

Their eyes locked once again. His heart raged. He blinked a long, deliberate blink. He was at least smiling. She was smiling too, although she looked like the distraction had kicked away the strands of a good train of thought. She blinked a normal blink. Damn, those eyes!

“Hey there Tim. What’s going on?” Her smile flattened a little.

“Not too much. Just going to do some homework before I head home.” His chest was tightening. His breathing was becoming shallower and more of an effort.

“Cool. Same here.” A pause. Harold Pinter would have loved it.

“Good.” Nothing more.

Seemingly instantly, he was back across the room, standing over his backpack. The main zipper was partly opened. It was an abyss inside. He was sweating. The librarian rustled a few more papers.