Chapter 2

This is the second chapter of my never ending short story "Index Out Front". See the list at top right to read the previous chapters. I'll post additional chapters every couple of weeks. - Lyle
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She sat by herself in the cafeteria the next day surrounded by books. It struck me as odd that there were three books on golf stacked in front of her like a barricade. This meager fortification protected a slim leather-bound volume over which she hunched as if her eyesight had failed. “You missed class”, I said.

“I was out of town.”

“So you play golf?”

“No, never.”

“Why the books?”

“I needed to learn about it. Now they’re going back to the library.”

“Sounds like a mystery to me. You never play golf yet you learn about it and you go out of town and miss class. Am I getting close?”

“I went to see Tiger Woods play golf.”

“How was it?”

“I’ll write about it, I won’t talk about it.” With that she went back to writing in her leather bound book which I could now see had blank pages. It was a diary of course, which helped to explain the fortification.

I took the challenge. How was I to come up with a writing assignment which would cause someone to write about a game which they didn’t play yet would cause them to miss class? I assigned a paper written from a personal perspective about an off-campus activity. I knew it was lame.

I dug through the stack to find hers first. The title “Shine on Brightly” struck me as odd. The words did not flow across the page - they remained stationary and allowed the reader to caress them. I wept. “I need light to survive…..”; “Most people don’t shine, they cast shadows….”; “His joy was radiant……”; “You can tell from his smile……”. When I had finished I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to rip it to shreds so no one else could read it. I wanted to put it in the vault so no one could destroy it. I wanted to make a movie out of it. I wanted to force her make it longer so I could read more. I could not bear to read the other papers.

I wrote across the top of her paper “I cannot give you a grade on this paper. See me after class.”

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I started doing background research on my novel three years ago. I’ve learned more about Midwestern farm life, soccer, science fiction, football, cheerleaders, high school administration and small towns than any person aught to know. My “home town” novel is well under way and is bound to be a hit. At least that is what I thought a few days ago.

She stood calmly in front of my desk. “Well?” she said.

I suppose a writer should be allowed to be speechless.

“Didn’t you like my paper?”

“Would you review the novel I’ve been working on?” I hadn’t planned on being so blunt.

“What’s in it for me?” she said.

“I could give you credit in the foreword.”

“Bullshit. I charge ten dollars an hour until the day I am published, and then the price goes up.”

“I could give you an “F.”

“Go ahead, it would only mean you couldn’t teach.”

“Come to my office tomorrow.”