Speak Easy

I was bored and there is no cure for pretentiousness. Enjoy a little story (1800 words).

If only there was- if there was- if I could only have-. If only there was something that could come to Bryant Blake’s mind as he sat in the back of the library, gnawing on a pencil and wanting to tear up the paper in front of him. He’d never been to the library except for during class, and felt out of place. He kept worrying that someone would come up to him and ask him what he was doing there, and he’d be forced to respond: I don’t know. This was a new feeling for him. Bryant Blake had always been made to feel like he belonged whenever he walked into a room. Whether it was everyone in the immediate vicinity shouting his name as he passed through the door, or not even getting to see who was around before someone struck up a conversation. He’d never even realized the protection he’d been cushioned with before it was stripped away. I guess that’s the point of protection, he thought.

Bryant Blake had all the status of being on the football team without ever having to work; automatically had an invite to every party, which he almost never attended, making it all the more special when he did; he was nice enough that people couldn’t help but like him; was always referred to by both halves of his name; and was absolutely, irredeemably terrible with words. He could barely stutter out a comprehensible sentence in a conversation. Because of this, he’d become an expert in listening and repeating. Rephrasing words in the slightest amount so he was not quoting, but maintained what was being said. But he could only so slightly change what others said because he wasn’t the best at comprehension either, and too much change could mean losing what he’d meant to say, and he would be none the wiser.

This had gone across pretty well for seventeen years. A bright child, who could memorize what the teachers had tried to hard to drill into the kid’s heads. A mysterious boy, who could quote poetry to make you feel special, but wasn’t one of those weird kids that wrote angsty poetry in the corner. In fact, they probably wrote in the same corner as Bryant Blake was sitting in now. That made him feel slightly weird, like he was occupying the same space as a ghost. Bryant Blake knew that nothing was going to be happening in English class, which was where he was meant to be, and he could’ve just done this there, but, however irrational it may be, he didn’t want anyone to know what he was working on. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to admit it to himself.  

Bryant Blake could have any girl he wanted. He knew this. Everyone else knew this too. Homecoming, a completely arbitrary celebration in his private opinion, was coming up, and he was sure that if he didn’t ask anyone it would be selfish. As if he was keeping the pleasure of his company all to himself. If everyone saw he was going with someone, they would kindly accept that and move on. But if he wasn’t, it was like the race was still on.

It’s not that he hated homecoming with a passion, as he’d heard some other kids groaning on about. It wasn’t so bad. It was mainly just a cover for what he really thought. He wanted to go. He thought it would be fun to let loose and shake your head and see everyone else dressed up as you complained about the awful DJ and cheesy decorations. And if he wanted to go with just anyone, he would be all set. He’d noticed more girls starting to strike up flirty conversations with him. He wondered why they didn’t just ask, since that’s so clearly what they wanted. He couldn’t blame them, Bryant Blake thought, he wouldn’t ask either. Which was why he was in the back of the library during class, wasting his time as he tried to find the words that were just millimeters out of reach, to say something that felt so abstract it couldn’t exist in the English language.

If it was any other girl he was thinking about, he wouldn’t’ve bothered with the whole writing thing. He would just ask, maybe bring a flower or a chocolate. He’d seen the hallways littered with cheesy proposals: “You’re a catch” attached to a bag of Swedish Fish, HOCO written with sticky notes on someone’s car, etc. Not everyone was a literary genius, and they got away with it just fine. But something in Bryant Blake’s brain had decided to curse him. It set its hopes on one girl, and would not take no for an answer. It could not focus on anything except the task at hand. At any other moment he would dream for motivation like this (procrastination was another one of his vices), but all he wanted to do now was think about anything else. But his head and his heart had grasped hands and held him down. All he could think about was asking Sarah Tomas to homecoming.

LIke himself, Sarah Tomas was also always referred to by both halves of her name, for an opposite reason. She assumed everyone forgot about her the second she left the room, which, admittedly was true in most cases. Bryant Blake had had three years of classes with her before finally pinning it down. She understood, of course. She always introduced herself with both names, even when you know she remembered you. And she never held it against anyone. Bryant Blake had had all of four conversations with her (that he could remember, at least), but he found himself obsessed with the idea of going to Homecoming with her. He thought, for just a second, before he pushed it away, that maybe he liked the idea of mystery. He was always the one people were guessing about, it’d be nice to be the guesser for once. Bryant Blake wondered if Sarah Tomas knew what people thought of her. He wondered if she knew that people thought of her at all.

Sarah Tomas was always second or third in the class. She always raised her hand, but only slightly over her head. She always finished tests first, but sat at her desk until someone else got up to turn theirs in. Once, when Bryant Blake was too tired to learn, he wound up in a wikipedia spiral that taught him about Imposter Syndrome, which he thought described her perfectly. He thought of putting that in the letter, but decided against it. He wrote a little note in the margin, just in case he couldn’t think of anything else.

He was pretty sure Sarah hadn’t had a boyfriend all three years of high school, although it was quite possible that he’d just missed it. Though Bryant Blake prided himself on observation, he really only did because he couldn’t think of anything else he was good at.

The bell rang. Bryant Blake looked down at his paper, which only had a few markings on the first line, which had, of course, been erased into obscurity. Calling this endeavor a failure, he balled up the piece of paper and carried in his clenched fist. Contrary to popular belief, declaring something a failure is not a measure of weakness, it is a measure of strength. That was one of Bryant Blake’s leading philosophies. To be able to evaluate something personal with such honesty, and to be able to, in a second, throw away something you were so excited about working is one of the hardest things a person could do. That’s why you have so many failing artists and musicians on the street who can’t carry a tune. Every time Bryant Blake threw something in the trash, he felt a sense of exhilaration. He was able to do what others could not. And besides, it had gotten him this far without trying too hard and being disappointed.

He walked the halls with a new sense of pride. Nobody seemed to have noticed that he was missing for the past hour and a half, which was a success that he considered equal to his failure. Overall, it was a pretty good day, he decided.

Then he saw Sarah Tomas. She rushed through the hallway as if she always had somewhere to be, but with the dignity of a successful businesswoman, as opposed to with the awkward flurry of a student that didn’t want to be caught off guard. And suddenly Bryant Blake, who prided himself on never getting too involved, on standing back quietly and relying on his popular friends to stay afloat, shouted.

It was not so much of a shout as a yelp, similar to that of a chihuahua. And because of the regular volume of the hallway multiplied by homecoming excitement threatened rising to a decibel level that would harm their young ears, no one heard it. This was both a relief and a disappointment. Had the hall quieted and everyone turned his way, he would have no choice but to turn his thoughts into action. But now, he had the all too inviting option of pretending nothing ever happened and turning back to his life the way it’s always been. But Bryant Blake, for all the times he’d been commended for being cool and relaxed, took off down the hallway.

Sarah Tomas, who noticed everything (of course she did) turned around to see a panting Bryant Blake standing over her. She jumped a little, but didn’t make any noise. She waited for him to speak. Her hand was shaking. Bryant Blake, once again, was failed by words. Not a single one would come upon his lips, no matter how hard he tried. For some reason, he had that song from High School Musical 2 stuck in his head. The one where they’re dancing on the baseball field- It must’ve been at least 5 years since he last saw that movie. Why was the universe doing this to him-

“You okay, Bry?”

He stopped. He nodded. Bryant Blake, who’d always been referred to as both halves of his name because that’s what he thought he needed to be a full person, who always stood at the back of parties, cultivating the strong, silent type, who prided himself on failure and not being disappointed was completely dumbfounded. He always knew that the more names you used to describe a person the more important they were. The more syllables dropped off, the more intimate the relationship got. He never allowed himself to get closer than three. Closeness was linked to disappointment and failure.

“Yeah, sorry. How’ve you been?” He said finally.

She smiled. For a man of so few words, getting five out of him, directed to no one else but you, was like winning the lottery.