Split

Chapter twelve

"It's not bad," Aizza assures me, though the way she glances at the paper before her with pinched lips suggests otherwise.

"But...?" I prompt her, my stomach twisting.

It's seven thirty, and I'm far from rested after rolling out of bed half an hour ago. However, Aizza agreed to give me feedback on my first short story before my creative writing class at eight.

She's not impressed.

"You're a good writer. The prose is all here," she says, sipping the coffee I brought her. "But the plot feels lacking. A little half-hearted, honestly."

You don't get to this point in a communication degree without learning to take constructive criticism, so I don't argue. I don't throw a hissy fit or cry or something equally embarrassing. But I do burrow further down in my seat, my cheeks flaming. Just because I know she's helping me doesn't make me feel any less shitty about it.

"I mean, do you even like horror, Maya?"

I don't. Once my middle school friends discovered the thrill of watching scary movies definitely not meant for our age group during sleepovers, I began staying home to watch cooking shows with Zeke, who, like me, despises horror.

So, it might seem like a strange choice for my short story, but I figured that if I wrote something I didn't really care about, I wouldn't mind it sucking either.

Watching Aizza struggle to say something nice about my writing disproves that theory badly. Despite all my attempts at forgetting the part of me that craved approval, it's still there, and right now, it's dying by starvation.

The urge to get on an airplane and forget all about this college ordeal makes my knee bounce with pent-up energy. I would much rather quit than fail.

But that's what I did six years ago, and I promised myself - and my parents - that I would see it through this time.

"Not particularly," I admit, picking at the scone I bought myself for breakfast when I got Aizza's beverage. I love breakfast, but my appetite is wavering.

"Then you shouldn't write it anymore. You know the saying 'write what you know?'" Aizza looks expectantly at me until I nod. "Well, it's true. Especially as a beginner. So, pick the genre you're most familiar with. What do you usually read?"

I stare at her, drawing a blank at what to tell her. I haven't picked up a book for leisure in ages. I can't even recall the last book I read. And for some reason, I think admitting that my favorite type of fanfic is Twilight AU's, where Edward and Jacob are the ultimate enemies to lovers, isn't the answer she's looking for.

"Um, I don't read."

It's Aizza's turn to look dumbstruck. "What do you mean?" Her gorgeous eyes blink, puzzled.

I advert my eyes to the table in front of me, and I have every intention to avoid the question, as I do when Zeke asks, or make up a convincing lie, like when my parents broach the subject. But for some reason, I can't manage either, and when my mouth opens, the truth spills out, "I can't read."