Chapter Ten: A Perfect Grade and a Bravo

My first honest attempt at writing something that someone might want to read was a 3000 word short story about a pre-teen summer camp. I sent it to the Avonroy admissions board, sealed with a weird kind of anticipation and excitement. I was proud of that story. It took a lot out of me to write, and I felt like it was good.

They let me into Avonroy, but nobody ever gave me any feedback on that story.

Now I'm sitting in my Short Fiction Forms class, fully aware that any minute now, my postcard fiction about shoes is going to be returned to me.

It's ridiculously nerve-wracking.

I mean, I've had feedback on a few in-class writing exercises and stuff. Most of it has been positive or at the very least constructive, but it's hard to place much value in that when the writing is rushed and unedited.

This story is the most heavily-edited 300 words I've ever dreamed of, and I just know that it's going to crush me if the prof didn't like it.

I really don't know what I'll do if I came all this way and left behind so much for a craft that I turn out to suck at.

"Alright, alright," says the prof, a short, most bald man called Don. "Let's get these postcard fictions back to you then, so that you can relax."

I feel the anticipation almost solidifying in the air as everyone leans forward and makes nervous eye contact with their friends.

It's sort of ridiculous how much emotional capital I think we all have riding on the outcome of this tiny assignment.

Holly grabs my hand from the chair beside me, and I squeeze hers back. We don't look at each other. We're both a little bit afraid that the other is going to have done better than we have.

Don says, "Postcard fiction is a nightmare. I know that. But if you can't tell a story in 300 words, you really need to ask yourself if you can tell a story at all."

There's something really ominous about the way he says it, and I feel Holly's hand go limp in mine. "That being said," he continues, "The class average on this assignment was a B. So most of you have nothing to worry about. And a couple of you have an extraordinary gift that most people on this mountain would sell kidneys for. You just need to figure out how to use it. So don't give up."

Fuck. This is not a promising pep talk at all.

Don begins passing out papers, and I try not to watch anyone's face as they peek at their grades and start scanning their feedback. I don't want to know how anyone did but me.

"Blaine Anderson?"

I nod and put up my hand to call Don's attention to me. He passes me my paper wordlessly.

Holly catches my eye as hold it close to my chest. I look away and turn towards the wall to peruse my assignment.

My eyes go to the bottom of the page, and I and feel a weird sort of resolved emotion as my eyes land on the bright red 10/10 scrawled there.

Genuinely entertaining and imaginative piece. Good Work.

And that's it. No further comments. Nothing specific. Nothing constructive. No room for improvement.

Just a perfect grade and a bravo.

I look around. Most of my classmates are either frowning intently or grinning furtively, eyes still pouring over the words on their pages. Nobody else is looking up yet. Did they get more feedback than I did? Or is everyone just looking at their stories to avoid looking at everyone else?

Seriously though? I know I should be grateful for the good mark, but after so much anticipation and worry, I feel like I've been robbed a real critique. He liked my story, but he didn't tell me why. How am I supposed to believe that he really liked it if he didn't give me a reason why? He might have just been tired to grading papers by the time he got to mine.

Or maybe he just really doesn't put as much thought into this stuff as I do.

I look at Holly. She's staring at her paper with a curtain of her hair obstructing my view of her face. I glance down at her paper and see it nearly saturated in red penned comments.

What the actual fuck?

She sees me peeking, and she quickly pulls her paper to her chest so that I can't see. I look away quickly.

After a few painful moments, I ask her, "So how'd you do?"

Her voice is a little small as she says, "Oh, you know. Good enough. You?"

She doesn't make eye contact with me, and I can't tell if it's because she's trying not to brag or trying not to cry.

"Yeah," I agree quickly, stowing my paper in my bag, "Good enough."

We don't make eye contact for the rest of the class.

I can't figure out what I'm feeling right now.