Member-only story
The Boy in the Creative Writing Class
Ghosts don’t get to tell their stories, do they?
I remember it clearly: it was the first day of classes for the spring semester, and the boy came into the classroom like a small whirlwind. He was late — and everyone else was already seated in a circle — but other things stood out about him right away.
He wore a beanie to tamp down unruly black hair.
His face was pale as if he rarely ever got enough sun.
And he was a flurry of movement as he took an empty seat, removing his messenger bag and flopping down with almost a sigh of relief.
I didn’t think much of him then. He was just a stray puzzle piece, far from the landscape I was creating on my own, but already he was an anomaly of interest: he was only one of two boys in the creative writing class.
I wouldn’t think of these things all this time later unless he came to matter to me.
Neither of us knew it at the time, but he was going to be a ghost in my life who would inspire me — and sadden me — in the days to come.
You might think, “Oh, did he say something about your writing that made him a fixture in your mind?”
No, that would be another boy (years earlier, in fact).
