“It had been her mother’s idea that she should go to a
creative writing workshop. She’d said that a friend’s daughter had attended
one and enjoyed it very much. Aviad also thought it would be good
for Maya to get out more, to do something with herself. ”
"Creative Writing"


"Is that the boy you like?" I asked her.

"Him? Ew, no! That's gross!"

He didn't look gross. If we’re being honest here, he was far from it. He seemed nice, too. Always smiling. I had seen him around school before. He seemed friendly, but much too cool to be friends with someone like me. I didn't think about him for the rest of freshman year.

The next year, we had a couple of classes together, but we still didn't talk. I lent him some note cards once, but that was it. I still thought he was too popular to be friends with me. But it wasn't like I really wanted to be friends with him. I barely even thought of him. The only things I remember of him that year were him saying that if he could have any superpower in the world, it would be to summon IKEA furniture on command, and that he thought a proper word to describe himself was the word, "yogurt."

This year, I joined the Creative Writing club. It was full of people expressing their deepest, most profound emotions.

He walked in the door.

I thought to myself, "He must just be here to give a friend moral support. There's no way this upbeat friendly goofball could be harboring any deep secret emotions."

He walks up to the front of the class, poem in hand, and he begins to read.

"So, you wanna know what depression feels like?"