Middle Ground (36 page)

I’ve taken my professor’s advice and every day after class I people watch for one hour and collect observations. A camera’s a lot like a journal: it can store feelings and emotions and stories if you take the time to record them. That’s when I noticed this guy. It’s easy to overlook him; his back is always molded to the side of the building like he’s part statue. I almost doubted he was alive until one day when our eyes accidentally crossed paths. Even from across the courtyard, I could see they were a striking blue, the color of a late-afternoon sky (up close they’re even more impressive—they can hold you hostage). But there’s an edge to them that was more startling than the color. Instead of seeing, they were repelling. Deflecting. I tried smiling at him, but he didn’t grin back at me. He didn’t even nod—he just turned away like I had rudely stumbled into his line of vision.

He tries to blend in, which only makes him stand out to me. In the last two weeks, I’ve made a couple of observations:

1. He never smiles.
Ever.
I’ve seen him nod to people who pass him on the sidewalk. He talks on his phone sometimes, and texts. He doesn’t frown either. He’s just emotionless. Numb. As if something’s missing. Why doesn’t this kid smile? Do his mouth muscles not work? Does he have braces? A gaping overbite? It’s become my mission to make him smile—it’s like trying to chip through a layer of ice to see if something’s moving and flowing and alive underneath.

2. He avoids people. This suggests a few theories—he’s aloof, he’s antisocial, or he has a contagious skin rash that he’s afraid to spread. Or, the mostly likely scenario, he
chooses
to be alone. I think there’s a reason he prefers solitude over people, and I’m determined to figure out why. For me, life is one long expedition in search of the answers to
why.

3. He’s cute, but not in a typical way. He’s not one of the pretty boys that litter Phoenix like glittery ornaments. No tattoos, no spiky hair or muscle tank tops or shirts unbuttoned halfway down to expose bronzed skin and sun-streaked chest hair. This guy mostly wears gym shorts and baseball T-shirts and flip-flops. That’s one thing we have in common. He’s not trying to impress anyone. He may not be Mr. Approachable, but at least he’s real.

4. Music is his thing. It’s always on. He zones out to it. And he always wears a hat. It’s like he hides behind it, as if he’s trying to escape or shut out the world.

I unzip my backpack and pull out my inspiration log (a hand-size journal I carry everywhere). I flip through the pages until I find my list of
oughta
s—weekly goals I assign to myself. In the year I’ve been making them, I’ve seen every single one through. This week’s goal is Make a Friend. I squint out at the bright concrete and watch two girls walk through the courtyard, their high-heeled shoes clicking noisily on the sandy pavement. They glance in my direction and take in my jeans and my tennis shoes and I can almost hear the fashion police sirens wailing in the distance.

Make a Friend. This challenge is no easy feat, but I’ve been holding my own secret audition—listening to people’s conversations and studying their mannerisms and waiting for someone intriguing to come along.

I look back at the English building and smile, because now I’m convinced.

This guy is perfect.

On the surface he might be callused, but looking through a creative lens, I see layers and textures. He reminds me of a folding chair, closed up and waiting to be shoved in a storage closet. I’m determined to see him unfold.

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K
ATIE
K
ACVINSKY
worked in the entertainment industry and as a high school English teacher before deciding to write full time. She currently lives in Corvallis, Oregon.