Page 50 of Take Care, Taylor
Everyone in the circle was required to tear the essay of the day to shreds, and the writer wasn’t allowed to utter a word in response.
Unfortunately, I was settling into the Hot Seat now, armed with a cup of coffee and an emotional-support squishy ball.
“So?” Professor Walton cleared her throat. “Who wants to start our critique of Miss Parker’sThe Bullying Years?”
Matt, a guy who wrote the best lyrical metaphors I’d ever read, raised his hand.
“I enjoyed reading it. Very beautiful sentence structure.”
“I agree,” Beth—a strong poet—chimed in. “The essay has a really easy rhythm, and I felt bad for all the bullying that the guy in her high school put her through.”
That was it.
Silence spread. Pens clicked. Someone coughed.
“Taylor, what did you think of Miss Parker’sFarewell to My Latest Expiece?” the professor asked.
“My honest opinion or a soft one?”
“Honest, of course.” She smiled. “The only way we can all improve as writers is with honest feedback.”
He looked at my printed words, and then at me.
“I thought her words were hollow and superficial as hell, almost like she wasn’t being truthful about how this supposed ‘bully’ hurt her.”
“What?” I snapped.
“No, no, no, Miss Parker.” The professor wagged her finger at me. “Silence. You’re not allowed to say anything. Taylor, feel free to elaborate.”
“She says she cried enough tears to fill a lake, which is a pretty metaphor, but we never find out what the guy did to cause that. Seems like she just wants sympathy without giving the full story. In fact, she does that multiple times throughout the piece, so…I feel like she’s just farming for emotions without telling the truth.”
My blood boiled, and I took a long sip of coffee.
“You know what?” Harold—the guy who usually said my work was perfect—nodded. “I see what Taylor’s saying. It’s kind of like she’s scared of being completely vulnerable with the reader. Like she’s telling us, ‘This guy ruined my life,’ without the reasons.”
“Exactly.” Taylor looked at me. “There has to bea reason.”
I dropped the pen to the floor to prevent myself from jumping up and stabbing him with it.
The timer on the professor’s desk kept ticking, smug and steady, while suddenly everyone had something to say.
Another student cleared her throat and said, “It’s like you’re editing your feelings before we can feel them.” Someone else added, “I wanted the bruise, not the bandage.” The professor drew a slow line through an entire paragraph and murmured, “Kill your darlings.” By the time the buzzer sounded, the only sentence left untouched was,I miss the silence more than him.
I paced behind the front door later that night, ready to give Taylor a piece of my mind and make him think twice about embarrassing me like that ever again.
If he came home…
I’d been waiting for three hours now, and I was beginning to have my doubts.
Suddenly, the lock turned and the door gave way.
He came in stretching, earbuds still in, the ghost of a smirk on his mouth like he’d just jogged a victory lap.
“Hello, Audrey,” he said.
“Fuck you,” I hissed. “Apologize.”
“For what?” He pulled one bud out. “Coming back to my room?”
