The Wave.

I began to re-write Sunday's college class story closer to how it happened, but then I remembered I’d already written it. Amazingly, still preserved in the bowels of my desk, here is a story from my 2004 creative writing fiction class. To maintain the integrity of my 22 year old self, one year removed from the incident, I’ve tried not to edit too much… ;)

The Wave

She had written a poem about the back of his neck, and the “myopic neglect” of such, before she knew his name. She had sketched the angular side of his face from two rows back, and laughed inwardly at his witty comments to his friends beside him. The haphazard moles that spotted his neck and cheek were points of endearment, and the unwashed hair a point of character.

For two months, Shayna had pined for this film amateur, his tight black jeans and his yellow plaid shirt. There were a few – two – occasions where she’d actually looked him in the eyes while passing in the hallway, and for her, time drew in its breath and hollow echoes of the world bordered around her. Those two walking-on-water moments merely intensified Shayna’s belief that this man/boy was part of her destiny.

And so, on a late October day, before her Art of Cinema class, she approached Craig, having learned his name from the class roster they all signed. Craig was just parking his bicycle outside the building, and none of his entourage were present. Entourage was perhaps not the right word, as Craig was by no means self-important and his friends were not followers, but Shayna was always intimidated by this group, who wore shaggy hair and gads of knowledge. Especially Chloe. Perhaps 'intimidated' isn’t the right word for how Shayna felt about Chloe; it was more like bewilderment and vague dislike. Her class points were empty, and her daggers for Shayna were fat. Though never overt about her passion, Shayna sensed that Chloe had her own gravitational pull toward Craig. So that when Shayna orbited near the two of them --outside the building, leaning on the rail, comfortably smoking cigarettes—she was inclined to keep her distance.

Therefore, on this October day, Shayna grabbed the wing of Fate and approached the lone, if winded cyclist.

“Hi.” Craig looked up as Shayna continued, “I know this might sound weird, but I was wondering if maybe you wanted to get a cup of coffee or a drink sometime?” And then Shayna’s world froze…

“Um…sure.”

“I know this is awkward, I mean, I don’t even know your name,” she lied, and smiling, held out her hand. “I’m Shayna.” Craig reached forward and held the outstretched hand. She could feel the adding-machine of his brain attempting to compute who this stranger was, trying to download a person in a touch.

“Craig.” He let her hand go, but maintained the gaze that stapled her to the spot like a stuck butterfly. “Um, yeah, let me get your number,” and he slid his cell phone from a tight black pocket.

She watched him type in the numbers. “Shayna,” she repeated, confirming. Craig looked up at her and nodded, sliding the phone back. Trying to make more of the scene, but inwardly dying to escape, “So, what do you think of this class?”

“Which one?” He was grabbing a paper-bag lunch from the back of his bike.

“Belton. He’s a little… I don’t know if ‘long-winded’ is the right word…”

“I think he just takes time to put his thoughts together.” He looked at Shayna, expecting perhaps more than she had scripted.

“Yeah… Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you in there.” And Shayna turned, walking toward the entrance, unsure if she was more distraught now having actually approached Craig, feeling perhaps like a stalker, an idiot, an insecure American female. In the fog of her mind scrolled the adage: “Best to be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”

Classes passed as they had, with Shayna sitting not too close to Craig, but within the orbit of his voice. There was little opportunity for acknowledgement on either part, because Shayna did her best to bolt from the classroom before another encounter could occur. She wanted him to call, so she could fill out the stick-figure image of herself she was sure she’d conveyed. She wanted him to call, so she could laugh aloud at the things he said. She wanted him to call, so she could etch into her memory the smell of his unwashed hair. But despite her fantasy, Shayna felt that any casual small-talk would just make her appear a foundering oddity. So, she fled, and his only image of her remained a stick-figure in motion.

One Wednesday, Shayna left the building a few minutes late. She saw through the glass-paned front door Craig and his intellectual group loitering outside, and drew in a deep breath. Craig looked up at her as she exited, and…waved. Her heart trampolined. Other members of the group turned to look at who he could possibly be waving at, and puzzled, studied Shayna. She could not brave approaching the whole seething frontal lobe, having to prove her likability – her cool factor – to their prickly group antennae, or to draw herself out in front of Chloe, standing at Craig's side like one of his moles.

So, she smiled demurely into his eyes alone, nodded, and walked into the night, leaving him to explain her relevance, or to allow his advancement to fall as an innocuous gesture to an anonymous ghost.