Here is the third place winner of this year’s Writerwerx University Short Story Contest. This is “In-Class Notes” from writer Aniah Chinn of Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
“In-Class Notes” by Aniah Chinn
I remember seeing you, among thirty other faces; the residue of a good laugh still bubbling out of you – you were the only person I saw. From across the room of cacophonous conversation and laughter, your eyes fell to me. I thought that maybe I’d crossed the threshold from gazing at you to staring and you felt my eyes boring into you – so, in a nervous panic, I looked away. A moment later, I see your sturdy figure in my peripheral, sifting through disordered chairs occupied by inattentive students. You beelined to me.
You snagged a chair from the desk in front of me and sat across from me, smiling – how cute. Your eyes hadn’t left me since you spotted me, but you silently insisted on sustaining eye contact as you spoke to me.
“Don’t I know you?” you asked.
“Yeah,” I responded, almost bitterly, “we went to school together.”
“Clayton Elementary?”
“Mm-hmm.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but the sound of the teacher’s voice caught our attention. The class fell silent as she asked everyone to take their seats. You, ignoring the given seating chart, stationed yourself in the seat in front of me.
Five minutes and a half page of notes into the class, my tunnel vision was broken by a folded sheet of notebook paper sliding onto my desk. You looked over your shoulder briefly before turning back to face your own work. I unfolded the slip of paper and read on the very first line, Hey. I took another quick glance at you, your head bobbing between your notes and the slideshow on the overhead projector, then back to the note. I stifled a chuckle and decided to play along, responding, hey.
We exchanged notes the entire period, occasionally getting caught and told to dispose of it – which we failed to do. In the time it took for us to learn everything about thermal expansion, you managed to explore my mind – question after question, you opened me up like a book and sopped up every bit of information you could. You were interested in me.
As the class progressed, so did we. We took turns surveying one another; learning more about each other than environmental science. Everyday at the start of class, there was a folded piece of paper on my desk, and you, sitting in the wrong seat, waiting for my response. Through those notes, you wormed your way through every crease and crevice of my mind and welcomed me into yours.
On the last day of the first semester – exam day – your seat was empty. Despite having friends peppered throughout the room, your deserted seat made me feel desolate. However, you hadn’t forgotten about me; on my desk, there was a note waiting for me – folded with the fringe torn off.
I waited until the end of class to read the note. I didn’t think it would amount to much since you weren’t there to write a response, but was surprised to find not a note, but a letter:
I’m exempt from this exam, which explains my absence, but I wouldn’t dare miss a conversation with you. Even if it is one sided.
I smile.
This was more like You and I 101 rather than environmental science, but I can’t say I haven’t had fun getting to know you and all your little ticks (like the way you turn your head to the left when you write or when you nibble your thumb nail when you’re focused on something).
The way your mind works is astonishing. How you write, speak, and think; the questions you ask, the stories you tell – I’ve never met anyone so articulate. Your aura is warm and alluring, like the sun’s light glimmering against clear waters. You’re beautiful – the kind that makes you feel like there’s no way anyone could ever get tired of looking at or talking to you. I can say that because for the past seventy-five days, I haven’t grown bored of you and, as easy as I make it seem, it’s almost impossible for me to not peep over my shoulder just to see you gnawing at your bottom lip when you’re deep in thought.
Despite the semester coming to an end, I’m not quite ready for this conversation to be over. There’s so much more about you I want to explore. I hope you choose to keep the conversation going with me.
202-555-0755
-Your friend and distraction in environmental science
I folded the slip of paper and slipped it in my back pocket in exchange for my cell phone. With his number memorized, I entered it into the address bar of a new message thread, my stomach like a whirlpool. Keeping it short and sweet, I messaged him, hey. Before I could shove my phone back into my pocket, it buzzed in my hand. Much like my face, the screen lit up with a notification from the same 202 number I’d just entered. Deciding to play along, he replied, Hey.
