My Last Innocent Year(22)

Connelly put the paper down. “Do you see how she does that? This short piece of writing, a fragment,” he looked at Andy, “tells us all we need to know about this girl. She’s strong. She loves her mother, who she feels is somehow out of reach. She can get herself out of a tough situation.” He pinched his bottom lip with his fingers. “She knows how to save herself.

“I guess for me,” he said, studying my pages as though there were something hidden there, “what resonates is the question of what we owe our parents and what it means to step fully into our own lives, to decide what we want beyond what they have offered us. So despite the story’s flaws, at its heart is a question that is meaningful and true, and what else do we want out of literature anyway?”

The classroom was quiet. I sat there, stunned. The sound of my words in his mouth had moved me deeply. Connelly turned toward the window, and it looked like he was about to say something else, but then he inhaled sharply and said, “Okay, then. Let’s move on.”

When class was over, I gathered my things. When I pulled my coat off the back of my chair, I heard something rip.

“Isabel, wait up a second,” Professor Connelly said.

While I waited for him to finishing talking to Holly, I inspected my coat. There was a tear in the lining, nothing that couldn’t be fixed, but I felt disproportionately sad about it. Someone had left behind a four-color pen, and I slipped it in my pocket as Andy walked by with Kara. I refused to meet his eye.

“Have a seat,” Connelly said when the room was empty. “I won’t bite.” I hugged my coat to my chest and took the seat closest to the door. Up close, the scar on his hand was jagged and long, hinting at some great violence. I thought about what Jason had said, about an R. H. Connelly who had killed himself, and wondered if there was any truth to it.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said. “It’s not easy to get criticism on something you’ve worked hard on, and I can tell you worked hard on this.”

I nodded, and my eyes filled with tears. It surprised me, and I tried to blink them back, but that only made them come faster.

“Shit,” I said. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m not even that upset.”

Connelly pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to me. “My wife says women cry when they’re angry.”

“I’m not angry.” I held the handkerchief to my nose. It smelled like him, peppermint and woodsmoke, mixed with laundry detergent.

“Let me ask you something,” he said. “Did Andy’s comments make you want to go back and work on your story, to make it better?”

I thought for a moment, then shook my head.

“No, of course not. It made you doubt yourself and everything you instinctively know about storytelling—and you know a lot. People want to tear apart your work because they’ve been taught that critique is how you learn and grow. But if Andy had his way, you’d never work on that story again. You’d never work on any story. That’s what critique does, shuts us down so only the strong survive. Thins out the competition.” He smiled and whatever anger I had felt—because it was anger after all—dissolved like ice in water.

“So tell me,” he said, resting his chin in the L of his fingers. “Where are you from, Isabel?”

“New York? The Lower East Side?” My voice kept rising at the end of each sentence, which Debra said revealed insecurity. I hated when she pointed it out, probably because she was right.

“Ah, so that’s why you were so enamored with the Catskills. Miriam, I mean,” he added with a smile. “I lived in the city for a while—well, Brooklyn. I’m not sure real New Yorkers consider that the city.”

“Yeah, probably not,” I said, laughing. “I have family in Brooklyn. Borough Park? The religious side of my dad’s family. We don’t see them much. We’re not religious—I mean, my dad’s not. He says he doesn’t have time for religion. Because he’s always working? They think all we care about is money, which is weird since we don’t have that much.” The words were tumbling out. I held my hand over my mouth to stop them.

“Then I guess we’re both a long way from home.” Connelly handed back my story and I held out his handkerchief. “Keep it,” he said. I shoved it in my pocket and stood up, lifting one hand when I got to the door in a kind of awkward wave. Then I hurried out, nearly bumping into the doorframe.

The lights were off in our bedroom when I got back. I turned them on and heard a groan from the bottom bunk.

“Debra?” I looked at the clock. It was after two.

Debra rolled onto her side and pulled the blanket over her head. The room smelled like cloves and sweat. “Bitch, turn out the light.”

I did as she asked. “Why are you in bed?”

“Because I’m tired.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “That’s all. I had a paper and I was up all night. Could you let me fucking sleep?”

I closed the door gently and sat down at my desk. I took out my story and turned to the last page, where Connelly had written a note.

Lovely story about childhood experiences and the ways they shape us, about discovering there are many ways to live. You eloquently and effortlessly capture the voice of an outsider wanting to get in. But something is holding her back. I want to know what.