Priorities

Sixteen shots of espresso. Two mental breakdowns. Thirteen missed calls and forty unread messages. 

All for what?

I glance at a manuscript buried under a mound of eraser shavings and bits of toasted almonds—shut up, I know I’m a mess. You don’t have to say it.

Sunlight flirts through undusted window curtains, an irritating reminder the night is over. To make it worse, my brain repays my sleepless night with a painful migraine. 

God, I really don’t want to go to school, but I doubt I have a choice. Maybe I’ll call in a sick day? Take some time to recover? Self-care is really important, after all. People work themselves to the bone here on campus but sometimes making time to take care of yourself is the best way to be productive…

Who am I kidding? I’d probably waste that time and make my life more miserable. Mom would be ashamed of me, I’m sure, if she saw the state I was in. Elliot James, she’d grumble, who are you trying to fool? 

My cell phone vibrates on my bed stand. Should I answer it? Now is as good a time as any.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Be-

I mindlessly slap my phone to my ear. “Hello?” I croak, my voice barely a whisper. Would it have hurt to make thirteen missed calls fourteen? 

On the other end I can hear the pleasant rhythmic tapping on a keyboard, a steady drip of liquid (probably a coffee machine), and the flapping of paper. Someone’s up to a productive morning.  Eventually, someone responds.

“Jesus, Elliot. Are you doing alright?”

“Good morning to you too, Ananth.” I try to play off his concern, but my voice sounds even weaker than before.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” He huffs. “Well, I’m just checking in. Have you finished the design specs for our rocket project in Physics?”

Huh?

“Wha-what?”

I search my memories trying to piece together what he just said. There was a project?

Two days Ms. Hoffman said we had to finish this packet on orbital mechanics...and I'm sure it’s not that. Five days again she said if we had any questions we should ask her before it’s too late. What was she referring to? Two weeks ago she paired me and Ananth to design something...

Oh! That little thing? 

That little thing worth 10% of my physics 103 grade?

Oh. Haha.

Oh shit.

I glance around the room, looking for the time I should’ve invested into that project. Once again, I find new ways of impressing myself. 

“Could you, um…could you give me a few extra days?” I mumble.

Silence. He’s still on call, but I can’t hear anything on his end.

Fortunately—or unfortunately?—I put myself in these situations quite often. Ever since I spilled milk on the couch in second grade and had to placate Mom, I’ve learned how to respond to these circumstances. Protocol is as follows:

Step one: apologize. “Hey, I’m really sorry,” I whimper, wincing at my desperation. 

Step two: reassurement. “I already have a plan over the next few days on how I’ll get it done, and if you have time, we can go over the assignment guidelines and—” 

Ananth has none of it. “You have a problem, dude. Actually.”

Step two: failed.

Step three: compliment them? I’m grasping at straws. “Ananth, I know you’re super smart and uh,” God, what do I say? “I can personally attest to your work ethic,” Where am I going with this? “So I’m sure you can get it done?” Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no...

“Dude, shut up. Like, shut the hell up.” 

Yikes. I could've phrased that better.

   “I’m so fed up with you. Ever since high school, dude. Really? Are you serious?”

   Ananth ends the call promptly afterwards, but I pat myself on my back for not crying.

   Step four: buy a consolation gift? I look through my wallet, hoping I can spare some change, but just like me, everything amounts to basically nothing. 

*   *   *

Ananth and I meet up in the cafeteria a couple of hours later. The cacophony of students rushing from one class to the next, lunch ladies yelling to each other across the canteen, people slurping their yogurt cups and spinach smoothies—it’s too much. Too much for me, at least. 

Ananth sits across the table I’m sitting at, surprisingly patient.. He’s dressed in a button up shirt and jeans with his hair combed back, a steaming cup of coffee locked in his left hand. Meanwhile, I’m dressed in the same t-shirt and jogging pants I’ve worn for the past two days while my hair is basically a crow’s nest, and I’m not even sure I’m wearing deodorant. Ananth looks through his binders, meticulously organized. When I look through my backpack, I realize I just cram everything wherever I can with no sense of order. 

For a couple of minutes neither one of us can bring ourselves to speak first. When he inevitably looks at me, I try to look in any direction except his. 

“What gives?” He eventually says, voice plaintive. I’m staring at the ceiling, imagining calm waves and sandy beaches, staying cool, staying collected…

“I said, what gives?” He repeats a little louder, snapping his fingers in front of my face. I’m still trying to imagine calm waves and sandy beaches...maybe there’s some dolphins...maybe some palm trees. Happy trees, swaying back and forth...

“Liston Elliot,” He says a little softer, ruffling his hair with hands. “I talked to Ms. Hoffman. I’m turning my work in, and if you can’t explain to me what’s going on, you’re going to get a zero and I can’t do anything to help you.”

Suddenly, my day dream isn't as calming as I'd hope. My stomach drops off a cliff, an unsettling ache settling in my chest. I look at him, eyes wide, realizing that I can’t ignore my work ethic—or lack thereof—any longer. 

“Are you serious,” I hiss, “Like, for real?”

“Yeah, dummy,” he deadpans. “So listen to me.”

I nod, swallowing my pride. This isn’t the first time I’ve lagged behind assignments. If it weren’t for Ananth I know I would've failed high school. 

“Okay," I say slowly. When he recognizes I’m being genuine, he continues.

“I’ve known you for, God, how long?” He asks. “Since high school right?”

“Yeah,” I laugh. “A long time.”

He laughs too. “Right. And who’s been there for you?”

“I wonder…”

“I swear to God, Elliot.”

“You,” I admit. 

“Right. And when you keep missing these assignments, you create problems—” he gestures wildly with his hands, “and I think we can agree these problems need to stop.”

“Yeah.”

“So just be honest with me okay? What have you been up to?”

I scratch the back of my head. “Um...it’s kind of embarrassing actually?” 

Ananth rolls his eyes. “We can be adults about this. I know you don’t look like it but...”

“Hey!”

Ananth smiles. “Joking. Except maybe I'm not. Now that I’m actually looking at you, you’re a mess. Have you heard of a shower?”

“It’s only been two days!”

“Well it smells like a week.”

I sniff my armpits. He’s right.

“Regardless,” Ananth pivots. “You can tell me anything. I’m like, your best friend.”

I scratch the back of my head harder. “I’m not sure…”

“Remember when you slept in Mr. Chen’s biology class? Remember? Back in—what was it— eleventh grade?”

   “Yeah.” 

“Who covered up for you? And who made sure to wake you up at the end of class?”

“You did.”

“Yeah. And remember when you put off studying for your chemistry final in Ms. Powell’s class, twelfth grade?”

“Yeah.”

“Who pulled an all nighter with you and taught you the entire curriculum for the semester?”

“You...you did.”

“Do I need to go any further?”

“No…”

Ananth nods. He looks away a moment, then his expression falls. “Look, if you’ve got into drugs, I know plenty of support groups on campus and—”

“It’s nothing like that,” I mumble.

“Do you have money problems? Mental health issues?”

“No, it’s not that,” I drawl.

“Then what is it? I’m not interested in playing Go Fish, Elliot.” 

“I…” I whisper. “I like to write.”

“What?”

“I like to write!” 

“Like what? Porn?” 

“No! Jesus Christ, Ananth. I write like...I like to write suspense.” I squeak. 

“Oh,” he replies. “Oh.”

“Oh what?”

“Well I don’t know,” he mutters. “I didn’t think you’d be into that sort of thing.”

I scrunch up my face so much you’d think I was a raisin. “But you assumed I was on drugs?”

He raises his hands in surrender. “Uh, kind of? Sorry?”

I sigh. “I guess I wasn’t exactly open about it.”

Ananth hums. “Exactly.”

“But like how could I? You know how much my mom wants me to pursue engineering.”

Ananth snorts. “Remember when she went ballistic when you joined art club freshman year?”

I groan. “Yeah, for real. You heard that phone call. Imagine that for my whole life.”

“Yeah. That’s rough,” Ananth concedes. “Thanks for telling me, I guess."

"Yeah."

"But like, I still don’t get why you get so behind in work? We all have hobbies. Doesn’t mean we have to sabotage our project partners…”

I flinch. “I’m sorry, okay? I just, I don’t know how to manage my time. I find math and science so...boring? Like, it’s hard for me to keep up when I just, don’t want to. If that makes sense.”

Ananth nods. “I get that. If I had to major in English, I’d probably be miserable too.”

“There. Exactly.”

“So...okay.” Ananth takes a sip of his coffee. “ You lag behind in schoolwork because you spend all your time writing. Do you think you can compromise? Maybe...maybe just a little?”

I pout. “Eh…how do you figure?”

“Like, you commit to setting a couple of hours for writing, and a couple of hours for school work. Every day.”

I roll my eyes. “You think I haven’t tried?”

“Obviously not hard enough.”

“Ouch…”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. But we have to reel this in somehow. As much as I want to say you should pursue your dreams, you also promised your mom you’d do your best in these classes. And It’s not like you can’t be a writer if you major in engineering.”

I think about that. “I guess.”

“Yeah.” Ananth says, bobbing his head. “Yeah.”

“But how do we do that? How do I do that?”

Ananth contemplates for a minute, checking his schedule and mine. “How about we meet up in the library after our classes on like Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays? We'll dedicate that time to homework. Then, when we finish, you can write all you want when you head back to your dorm.”

I have to admit, the idea sounds tempting. “Okay. That sounds good.”

Ananth hums again. “Yep. Cool.”

“Cool.”

We both awkwardly nod our heads in sync, then look away in embarrassment.

“Oh!” Ananth pipes. “About that assignment.”

I almost forgot. “Yeah?”

“I saved your butt by telling Ms. Hoffman a lousy excuse. Just talk to her and she may give you an extension.”

“Alright.”

“And...uh. If you don’t mind.” He says, embarrassed. “Could I read your writing?”

Oh. Yikes.

“Do I have to?”

“You literally owe me a thousand favors. It’s the least you could do. Come on.”

I search through the cluttered contents of my backpack. Finding the manuscript, I hand it to him. “Have fun, I guess.”

Ananth grins. “Sweet.” He reads it to himself quietly, and I sit anxiously waiting for his reaction.

   Glancing back, the figure approaches. The street lamps flicker as I quicken my stride, trying to reach the last bus on route to my apartment complex. The figure persists too, and as I look back, all I can see is two eyes filled with malice.

   “Wait!” I scream as I run to the bus. I’m only a couple of yards away, but the bus takes off without me. The distance between me and the figure closes…

“Elliot.” 

“Yeah?”

“This is good. When did you write this?”

“I finished the ending of that story last night.”

“Nice.”

Then Ananth buries his face into my writing. All the uneasiness I feel is replaced by a fuzzy joy.