On Suppressing Doubt

 I wrote this for my AP Euro Summer Assignment :)

It is rare to find a historical work that is as engaging as A World Lit Only By Fire. Historian William Manchester wrote the text in a narrative style, a literary choice that some critics believe lessened his credibility as a historical author. The critics have it all wrong, however—it is his style which makes the book work. While the main text focuses on Magellan, the controversies of the Roman Catholic Church, and the eventual fall of the church, it is the minute details that paint the image of the age. These facts make the book more accessible to modern readers; it shows that humans were still motivated by the same forces that motivate humans today. By making this period of time fascinating, Manchester is able to present his thesis to an intrigued reader—that the ten centuries of the Middle Ages were corrupt, ignorant, and ruled by an all too powerful church. The latter half of the book focuses on Ferdinand Magellan’s trip around the globe, and how his quest to explore juxtaposes itself with the era’s negative view of knowledge. Overall, the book explores how the church’s attempt to suppress doubt achieved nothing except facilitating it.

            Based on Manchester’s descriptions of daily life in the Middle Ages one could conclude that he agrees with Thomas Hobbes that, at that time at least, life was “nasty, brutish, and short.” (92) He spends a great deal of the work setting up the circumstances of the time period-from the fall of the Roman Empire to the rise of the Roman Catholic Church (and eventual decline) and by describing the lives of every class of people he shows how people viewed the world, and this helps to explain why the world was really only lit by fire, to be frank. Bathing was irregular. Promiscuity was a way of life. Illiteracy was high. People believed in mythological legends—fairies and curses and superstitions. (67-68)This, according to Manchester, is why this period of darkness could continue for so long and why it only took a few voices (of humanists and especially of Martin Luther’s) to bring the entire institution of Europe crumbling down. Manchester wrote the work almost as a war between the power of the church and the various threats to the Vatican by knowledge. The printing press, Martin Luther, and Leonardo da Vinci all made dents in the control of the church. (140)Eventually Magellan circumnavigated the world and this revelation in the value of knowledge for knowledge’s sake would shake Europe until it crumbled.

            As stated previously, William Manchester uses some unorthodox methods in his attempt to present his message. Some historians might say he uses too many details, many of them crude and gratuitous, and they overbear the real facts and points in the work. If anything, these details uphold the overall historical record. It is easy enough to write “The Papacy was corrupt,” but much more intriguing to read about Lucrezia Borgia and her affair with her father, the pope. (85) These gritty details add color to the story that textbooks lack. Other historians may have been interested in teaching history, Manchester teaches history through life experience.

            Manchester ends the text with some insight on doubt. Doubt, above all else, was the greatest enemy of the church. Knowledge and life experience facilitated it, which is why the Roman Catholic Church was so against the spread of the printing press, and why Martin Luther’s idea to print The Bible in German changed absolutely everything about religion in the Middle Ages. “Suppressing doubt is hard.” (296) Manchester included this in the final paragraph. The entire text is essentially the idea that because the church had so many people fooled into believing in indulgences and the afterlife and their sins they had an immense power over everyone in Europe. This can only last so long however, before the glass ceiling shatters and sends doubt spreading across Europe—in the form of Lutheranism, vernacular literature, or new of corruption in the papacy. Knowledge was the only way to light the world once the candles burned to the stub, and nothing would stop it.

            This book is paralleled perhaps only by William and Ariel Durant’s eleven volume series on the history of civilization. (To which Manchester frequently refers.) No other work is so comprehensive and engaging, and no other work makes such an impact with its message. The idea of living in a world in which the acquisition of knowledge must be done in secret (as with Leonardo da Vinci) sounds horrific in modern times. How could that have ever happened? As Manchester tells the story, it progressed as the wrong people took power. He brings up the modern world in his final paragraph—discussing the current Christian population. Do they still  believe in heaven and eternity? Not really, and certainly not in the same way the people of Europe did in the Middle Ages. “The specter of skepticism haunts shrines and altars.” (296) Knowledge has done its work in the modern era. As long as it is valued, it will remain very much alive, and feed doubt throughout its existence. Do not feel too comfortable, however. Manchester began A World Lit Only By Fire by discussing the Roman Empire. Knowledge was valued and doubt common. It was a golden age for Europe, much like the Renaissance that would follow it. However the fact that there were ten centuries of oppression in between should not be forgotten. Hopefully Manchester is correct when he states that “the serenity of medieval faith is lost forever.” (296) If that is serenity, knowledge is much more useful, and a much stronger force.

                                                                 Small Town Girl

Celeste Malone had always said she was a small town girl and that is what she would always be.  Now here she was 35 years old and wondering where life was going to take her next.  Her job as head librarian in Summerville, population 9,000, provided a good living and had been satisfying for the most part until now.  She had never married as she presumed she would, so there was nothing that dictated that she should stay.  Maybe it was a midlife crisis, but she had begun to feel restless.  Of course, she had traveled to plenty of big cities, but always returned to the comfort of small town life.  She had always sighed a sigh of relief as she neared the city limits on her drive home.   She enjoyed seeing familiar faces as she walked to work every morning.  It is all she had ever known in her day to day life.

Celeste woke up one morning and somehow things seemed different.  She was in a rut.  There had to be more to life that this!  Her best friend, Jo, was married and had 2 sons who kept her busy.  They still took in a movie once a month and occasionally had dinner together, but that was about it.  She didn’t have much of a social life.  Most of her free time was spent, reading, watching TV, or her latest passion, cooking.  She was addicted to the Food Network and couldn’t resist trying new recipes.  She would try them first just as the recipe instructed and then try them again putting her own twist on things.  

“It would be fun to cook for a living,” she said out loud one Saturday morning after fixing brunch.  She smiled at the fact that people who live alone talk to themselves all too often.    Saying it out loud, though, made it seem like a real possibility.  It was a thought that took wings in her heart.  She began reading about culinary schools around the country.  Having been frugal all these years, she had a nice saving put away for a rainy day.   She thought that rainy day would be a family and kids to put through college, but it seemed that was not to be.   Questions filled her mind.   Was she too old, too set in her ways, too unrealistic? 

After a month of studying and thinking about what avenue she might take to create a new life, she took the plunge at midnight while online.  She had been to the websites over and over, but this time she had filled out the application and clicked the send button.  She had been somewhat relieved to learn that it was not at all uncommon for people in their 30s to go to culinary school.  She had selected a school in Portland, Oregon. It was almost 2000 miles from home and Portland was a big city.   It wouldn’t be easy and it wouldn’t be cheap, but it would certainly turn her life in a new direction. 

The first day of classes she stepped on the elevator and someone she supposed would be one of her instructors smiled and said, “Hi, I’m Charlie.  I’m starting classes here today.   How about you?”

This was all nearly 10 years ago.  So much had happened!  Celeste and Charlie began a friendship that turned into more.  They married while still in school and upon graduation bought a bed and breakfast and started a family.  Did I mention that the Bed and Breakfast is in Seaside, Oregon, population 6,457?

Letter of Apology. Kind of.

 I wanted to write something quick and this is what occurred as soon as I opened Word...

Dear Mr. Bertram,

                 

I am writing on behalf of all of the juniors at Scott High when I say we did not realize that was your car we egged in the McDonald’s parking lot. (Although, let’s be honest, there was a lot more than Egg McMuffin on that paint job.) As teenagers, we make foolish decisions, most of them wildly uninformed. If we had known the 1997 Chevy Impala had belonged to you prior to the vandalistic acts, we would have gone with a different breakfast item; perhaps a sausage and egg biscuit or hotcakes—I hear maple syrup does a number on cars.

              

  I will not, however, apologize for the beautiful work done by my class on your shitty car. Yes, it was wrong to vandalize, but you have to sit back and admire the effort of talented stars like Jeff Smith and Lindsey Thomas. Without the superior artistic training they have received at your educational complex they could not have intimated so much frustration through a simple design as that of your balding head. The shading of your pedophile mustache really proved the versatility of safety glass and ketchup packets as new artistic mediums. I hope you have taken pictures and strongly encourage you to enter them into the county’s art contest—for they breathe creativity in every way.

              

  Most of all, I wish that you have gained some insight from this experience, too. We juniors at Scott High have gained new experience in personal expression, protest, and efficient use of resources (pooling out money for all eighty five of those egg sandwiches, for example). If it were me, I would be proud of such a vibrant, ambitious class—and do everything in my power to stay on their good side. Perhaps you should consider returning free wifi services to Scott High? This is just a suggestion.

Above all, I hope you understand that this is only the beginning.

Hoping you make smart decisions,

The Junior Class

Changing Face

THE WORLD IS ENDING,  Amy thought to the ground as she walked from school to her next destination. THE WORLD IS ENDING AND IT’S DOING IT ON PURPOSE. Maybe she was exaggerating a little bit, but she felt she was allowed to after the day she’d had.  She walked briskly, her hands in her jean pockets, staring at the concrete below her and never ahead.  If she looked ahead she might see people. She was so tired of people.

People suck. She thought once more. People are always doing things that suck. And they were. Not even five minutes after the morning bell had rung, Joey Lawrence had pointed out that her teeth were too large and that she should consider a possible surgery in which a rabid bear might claw all of them out, because that would make them a whole lot more attractive. In response she asked how that even made sense and how the use of the word “claw” was most likely grammatically incorrect, and maybe he would be better off with an English tutor. She was thoroughly surprised by how many people seemed to be on Joey’s side in the dispute,and newly self-conscious about her pearly-whites.

Other than that, she got a ninety-five on her spelling test (a rarity for her), a rejection from the school musical she had recently tried out for and about a thousand more comments to the same degree as Joey Lawrence’s. Fun day.

But it was supposed to be! In fact, Amy had been looking forward to that day immensely for some time! This was the day she would join the elite “Pennbrook Junior Orchestra” that rehearsed down the street from her school Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. She had been working up to this day since she began Middle School and joined band. She was a skilled viola and flute player, and she more-than-deserved a spot in the orchestra.

She was about two blocks away from the music academy now, and her mind was still elsewhere. Like her teeth. And her glasses. And every other little thing that wasn’t perfect about her. She was still staring at the ground, but after a bicycle whizzed by her much too close for comfort, she decided it was time to look up.

What she saw was a group of Junior High students lined up on the steps outside the academy. Each one sported a case of some kind (her viola case was in her hand) and everyone seemed to be pretty social. All of the kids stood in clumps talking to each-other, and it seemed to Amy like this was probably going to end up as another breeding ground for cliques. Approaching the crowd reluctantly, Amy found a place among the steps where she could stand alone and hopefully not participate in conversing with anyone. Gladly no one did, and after a few minutes, an older woman with a clipboard opened the doors of the academy and directed everyone up a couple flights of stairs to a rehearsal room.

Once everyone was in the room, the doors were shut behind them, and they were told to be quiet. “Hello, my name is Mrs. Wilburn, and I will be your assistant director here at the Pennbrook Junior Orchestra,” the woman quipped energetically, tapping her clipboard for emphasis with each syllable. “If you will please pay close attention I will be calling off names and seating arrangements now.”  She first named a section and then went on calling off names and seat numbers throughout the room.  Come on. Amy thought. I just want to go home.

Soon enough the word “viola” was called, and Amy waited patiently for her name to be called. Actually, she waited more impatiently, seeing as she had been waiting around and leaning on some boring wall for over twenty-five minutes now. There seemed to be an extremely large number of violas in the orchestra though, because the list never seemed to end, and it didn’t help that Amy’s last name was Zedler.  She was sure to be last!

As the minutes dwindled by Amy kept asking herself why she was here. Sure, she was good at playing an instrument and getting acceptable grades, but as far as being social went; she wanted nothing to do with it. She was excited for it months ago, but suddenly not now. This was just one more place she might have to put up with the constant jabber. Never would it be good jabber either. That she could guarantee.

“Maria Benetos, seat forty-seven…” Every-day, she put up with so much. “Paul Magar, seat forty-eight…” Why did she put up with it? “Alicia Nedham, seat forty-nine…” She wanted to be someone else, even if just for a day. “Francesca Pomoroy, seat fifty…” A silence washed over the room as no one identified themselves as this person. “Francesca Pomoroy?” Mrs. Wilburn called once more.

In a spur-of-the-moment decision, Amy frantically waved her hand up in the air calling, “That’s me! I’m sorry; I didn’t hear you the first time.” Mrs. Wilburn raised an eyebrow at her and sighed as if making a mental note of this strange girl.

“Seat fifty.” She repeated shaking her head.

“Thank you.” Amy replied politely, making her way quickly to her seat. Francesca, huh? She asked herself as she settled in her chair. Really? But it would be okay. She was absent. If you missed the first meeting you were left out of the orchestra, and even if she did get caught she wasn’t completely against the idea of leaving the group.

“I like your name,” the girl sitting next to her, Alicia, whispered. “It’s beautiful!”

“Thanks! Your name is pretty too!” Amy whispered back, flattered by a compliment that wasn’t for her. Seat number fifty-one, a girl named Ruth, complimented her on her name as well and pointed out how well her eyes went with her outfit. Maybe this isn’t so bad. Amy though smugly. Maybe I just needed a new name.

Soon, all of the viola names were called off, and Amy Zedler was marked absent. Francesca however was not. Francesca volunteered to play a solo she had been working on privately for a while for the entire orchestra (something Amy would never do, due to nerves and embarrassment). Francesca discussed nail polish colors with Ruth and Alicia (an activity that was deemed completely remedial and pointless by Amy). Francesca even talked to a boy, Paul Magar, about some football game between two colleges she apparently felt strongly about (“Football is a waste of time.” –Amy Zedler).

Francesca wasn’t shy. Francesca was funny, and beautiful, and unique. Francesca had confidence and a stride in her walk. Francesca didn’t care what other people thought about her. If only I didn’t either. Amy thought. If only.

But it didn’t have to be that way. Amy knew it better then than ever.  Orchestra felt for her that afternoon as it would the many other afternoons after it; rejuvenating. For once in her life, Amy had a place she could depend on to lift her spirits and keep her moving forward.  She hoped with any luck she would become Amy, not Francesca, and as time passed on she realized she had been Amy all along.

Next

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. She also decided not to walk through the door. She decided to sit down. She decided to stand. She decided all these things and a dozen others, all equally contradictory, and all retracted long before her body could turn any thought into action. To meet them boldly, or wait here to be discovered? Should she fiercely demand or coolly assume entitlement?

The book discarded, she looked around for another prop. The speed of the images increased then, even as they became more absurd. She was standing on the sofa; she was waving them off with a standing lamp, bulb still ablaze. Then she was quietly pouring something over ice at the cabinet, hopefully scotch. She emitted a puff of air that might have been a laugh as she looked up at the chandelier.

Finally her eyes fell on the tiniest thing in the room. There, on the shelf, forgotten for years, was a tiny figurine, a goat. It was dusty when she picked it up. A piece of lint had balled itself on the goat’s tiny beard. She wrapped her hand around it and felt real relief.

She heard footsteps on the tile. The goat was thrust into her pocket. She grasped the door knob, turned, and pulled.

“Hello,” she said, and began waiting, again, to see what she might do next.

The Funeral

His father had passed away. George Trotter, the patriarch of the town's church was gone. They mourned for weeks. Henry was cut up about the whole thing. He never saw it coming and in the midst of the madness he had to preside over his own father's funeral. They had an open casket, Roberta's morbid wishes. His dad's body lay in a wooden box beside the church’s podium. It always seems to be raining when there's a funeral in a movie, but the sun was shining on this day. Spring had irrupted and now the older kids could ride around with their tops down and the children could ride their bikes without getting stuck in the mud. All of this freedom released, but he had to preside over the funeral. His heart pulsed, needed some type of freedom, but there was none. This constricting feeling, why was it so severe.

Okay so Roberta was being weird about the whole situation, and some of the older colleagues were really standing on top of him, but a lot of the townsfolk were supportive. Some of them had a decent relationship with George. He had passed one some of the similar lessons to the local children that he had given to Henry. It wasn't always about religion either, George loved his family, loved the town and his congregation and it didn't need to be a symbol every day, it was home. Henry could feel it in his heart. He didn't know what to believe. He felt like he wanted the church to just be his home today. He just wanted to be alone. No congregation, no Elizabeth, no pregnancy, no Mother, and no open casket to reveal some body that was missing the man that animated it. And everyone was wondering what he would say about his father. That's another thing. This job isn't even about helping people anymore. Between himself and the congregation he has developed into being so charismatic that his words lost meaning and he's just supposed to put on a show. He didn't want do it. He wasn't going to make a reputation for himself. He just needed out and there was this terrible timing. When they had all entered the church he was waiting in the back. He hadn't had time to look at his father. He knew he wouldn't like what he saw, but the possibility of closure sounded like such a necessity. They had just dropped his father off though. Immediately the mortician set his father's body up to look presentable. Henry was there for that, but the intimacy couldn't be made and so Henry kept a stone face and made little eye contact with the corpse. Then it was time to get dressed, set himself up, the basic ritual, at which point the town came in. He wanted to tell Elizabeth. He'd broken down in front of her several times, but they hadn't really talked about it. He needed her, he needed to be held, some arms to fall into, but she was pregnant and despite the fact that it was there decision,he assigned her some blame for it. This helped add to that shit-feeling that was going to get far worse once he ran away. He needed to be helpless, like a child, but of course that's always hard to do in the presence of a child. Even though Corry wasn't born that belly told him he was a Father and thus Corry might as well have been already born.

So when they all had walked in and Barry had sat down at the organ and begun to play, they were surprised to not see Henry walk out and great them with his usual sense of pride. Barry kept on playing. Henry got out of there. He got in his car and was out of there. The hills seemed to dive up and down so fast that he could have been on a horse. He accelerated so high that at one point he felt that he had lost control and had been chosen as overseer of this land. Ultimately Henry was a mere viewer. You can drive 10,000 miles and still be where you are.

Third Book

NOTE: I submitted this to a contest about a month ago, but unfortunately it was not selected. No worries, I shall post it here now. It had to be written about internet relationships. It's definitely not perfect, but there are some things I like about it.

“He’s like, such a douche. I mean, who breaks up with his girlfriend because she doesn’t want to keep cheerleading?” I complained to my friend Anna over a lunch of grapes and goldfish, the best snack yet known to this world.

“Oh I know,” Anna replied. “Honestly I’m surprised Lexi quit, being your basic Barbie doll, but like it’s her prerogative. Hasn’t she been injured all year anyway? It’s not like it’ll be any different.”

“Exactly! But of course it’s this big deal, like just being able to say ‘I’m dating a cheerleader’ is all he wants out of a relationship. Idiot.”

“Where did you hear all this anyway?” Anna asked.

“Um, well I overheard Ellie in first period talking about it…” I mumbled, looking forcefully out the window at the cold concrete courtyard.

“Ellie told you? Linds, it’s probably not true then…” Anna chastised me, just like I knew she would. Ellie isn’t really the most reliable source, but, this sounded just like something Aaron would do—total jock, soccer player, heartbreaker.

“I don’t know, it could be! He sounds like the kinda guy who would do that!”

“Linds you are just being unfair. Didn’t you spend most of freshman year obsessed with him?” She asked me. It bugged me that she was becoming so judgmental, hadn’t she been agreeing with me moments before?

“Yeah, I guess, but he was different! Less controlled by his muscles, more or less a person with a brain,” I retorted. I had been obsessed. Maybe I was being a little petty. But I didn’t like him anymore, not really. He had dated a string of cheerleader popular girls with fake skin and fake hair and identical personalities. I couldn’t fit the bill.

“Well, like in middle school—“ I started.

 “I’ve heard he is really nice. He even visited Mr. Carr in the hospital when he was sick.”

“Well all points lead to douche from what I’ve heard lately,” I said, popping a grape into my mouth with finality.

I was even more convinced that my assumptions were true later that day.  I was checking Facebook for the hundredth time that day when I noticed that Aaron had posted a status. “Holding on is being brave, but sometimes you have to let go and be strong because its the only choice you've been given.” Whatever. He was as plastic as his bottles of Gatorade.  Why post this on Facebook anyway? People were only going to talk and talk about it even more and  Lexi would be upset and her friends would write nasty things on Aaron’s wall and it would just snowball into this big nasty thing. Of course I shouldn’t care, because it has nothing to do to me, but there was something unsettling about all that hate being out there for everyone to read. Like some sick art exhibit where we all just have to stare and stare at this horrendous painting depicting the truth about teenage behavior.  I was the kind of person who liked to think people were better than they actually were; I wanted to give people some benefit of the doubt in the hope that they would return the favor. Instead I was usually ignored and people like Aaron ended up on top, posting “meaningful” statuses to incite controversy.

                My thoughts were interrupted by a text from Anna.

Hey girl you up for a round for Failure?

Failure was a game that we had made up one snowday a year ago when we were breathing boredom.  I grabbed my laptop and sat with it downstairs in some hope that something entertaining would pop on the screen and our problem would be solved. No such luck. So we sat there refreshing Tumblr when I noticed a screencap from some site called Omegle.  Now I’m usually not the kind of person who jumps at the chance to converse with strangers online, and I’m just as aware of the potential creepers that lurk around the web—but it didn’t seem to give much more information about your potential weirdo besides the moniker “Stranger.” And we were bored.

The first few times on Omegle we had just screwed around, speaking in ALL CAPS ALL OF THE TIME. Somehow everything sounded funnier to us when in large, hard-to-discern letters. I liked how it evened the playing field, and I could happen to talk to anyone, including people that I wouldn’t talk to in real life. It was fun. I could be anyone, the stranger could be anyone, and we could make up an entire life. Anyway, Failure developed when Anna just randomly typed “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” as the start of a conversation. The stranger wrote back “wuts that” and Anna just replied with “You have failed.” It was a joke really, and we began to make a contest of it from then on. We would play for say fifteen minutes, and whoever had the most disappointing response won. I texted back :

I’m game. Harry Potter at seven?

You’re on.

I went to Omegle and waited for 6:59 to change. At seven, I clicked the button for text conversations (I didn’t have a webcam and felt generally weird about that anyway) and typed Harry Potter.

You: Harry Potter.

Stranger is typing…

Stranger: gay.

I ended the conversation and took a screenshot. Disappointing for sure.

You: Harry Potter.

Stranger is typing…

Stranger: Ur mom.

Not very creative.

You: Harry Potter.

Stranger is typing…

Your conversational partner has disconnected.

You: Harry Potter.

Stranger is typing…

Stranger: Yes.

You: Indeed.

Stranger: Which one is your favorite?

You: Azkaban, I guess. You?

Stranger: Me too!

You: Well, I’m glad there is someone out there like me. I was beginning to fear.

Stranger: Nah, we’re not so uncommon. You just have to seek us out J

I figured the conversation would end there. It seemed like a good place. The name of the game was Failure, and I was running out of time, now that it was 7:09. And this stranger wasn’t failing. I was starting to type my goodbye when the stranger began typing again.

Stranger: So, what is a Harry Potter fan like you doing on a website like this?

You: Playing Failure.

I explained the game, and he (I found out this was a guy) thought it sounded kind of funny.

Stranger: I wish you could do that in real life. Just walk up to someone and say “Inception!” and then see what they say.

You: “WTF?” is most common.

Stranger: But it’s really good to weed people out. You can easily figure out the kind of people you want to talk to.

You: I never thought of it like that. I was just looking for the trolls hahaha.

Stranger: Hmm, maybe you need to look at Omegle with the glass half full or something haha. Anyway I need to do homework, have to read this book by Camus for English and answer some questions about DNA operons.

You: AP Bio? Sucks. I feel you haha. I need to go…read Harry Potter, I think.

Stranger: Third book?

You: Third book. J

I disconnected the conversation and saved the log, but not to send to Anna. I just liked it. In all my time spent playing Failure and ALL CAPS, I had never contemplated having a real conversation. I liked it because you could lie and write fiction and be someone you would never be. It never occurred to me I could enjoy being myself more. For me, the internet had been this opportunity to avoid the truth. The truth was hard. It was all my insecurities, boys not liking me back, not getting into college, my makeup less face, zits and all. I hid the truth in real life, and up until a few minutes ago, I never understood how the internet could be a chance to escape my hiding place. I could be Lindsey, and I am never just Lindsey.

My phone buzzed, bringing me out of my Omegle fog. Anna.

Hey it’s 7:25 and you haven’t emailed me pics yet! It’s cool though, because I know I won J

Yeah right. Mine were pretty much devastating single word replies!

I didn’t really feel like telling her about my conversation. Partly because Anna was much more sensible than I was and would not approve of actually talking to these people, but mostly because I just wanted it to be mine. I sent her the pictures, and after a long debate she decided that she had won when someone replied “Edward is better.” I read Harry Potter and went to bed, holding that little part of my night nearby. It wasn’t this big deal anyway—it had lasted fifteen minutes. I just liked connecting with someone, who could be anywhere in this world, over something like Harry Potter. Two people somehow affecting each other by sending words across the web. Two people who told the truth without a second thought. Two people with nothing to hide.  

When I picked up Anna for school the next morning, she practically leaped into my car, yelling “I HAVE NEWS!” Her coffee thermos spit little droplets out the top and onto the console.

“Okay! You have to speak in a normal volume though, or I may have to do something very unkind with the hot coffee you are holding,” I informed her, flicking the console droplets away.

“Fiiiine,” Anna huffed. “But the volume just makes it so much more dramatic!” I rolled my eyes, pulling out of her driveway and onto the street. “Anyways, I have the real story about Aaron Lewis. From his cousin, Courtney, who you very well know is my neighbor and occasional confidante. Even though I don’t really like her, but sometimes her mother watches our dog and it’s that kind of relationship.”

“Get on with it I want to know!” I did want to know, but it was kind of aggravating that Anna decided to drag it out like this.

“Alright I am getting there! It turns out that he didn’t break up with Lexi!” I waited for her to say more.

“So they are still together…?” I don’t even know why it mattered, except that we liked the gossip as much as anyone.

“No, she broke up with him because his grandma died and she was tired of having to cheer him up! She’s the horrible one!” Anna was beaming. “And like his status was about his grandma last night, not Lexi, like everyone thought, which just makes her sound that much more evil! I don’t know why but I find it much easier to dislike cheerleaders. And I knew he wasn’t the kind of guy to break up with a girl over something that superficial!” She proclaimed this in an annoyingly true “I told you so!” kind of tone.

“I guess, but Ellie sounded pretty convincing…”I smiled. Ellie did sound convincing, but this sounded like something Lexi would do in between spray tans or something.

I didn’t even think about that car conversation until Aaron literally ran into me. I was rounding the corner heading to fourth period when a tree trunk of a human plowed into me. Our books flew. We stopped traffic. In the confusion of trying to grab our notebooks we got ours mixed up. I had his binder and his novel, while he had my bio notebook and Harry Potter…I was kind of embarrassed that he was holding that, despite the self-affirming Omegle conversation from the night before.

“Oh, um, sorry I think I grabbed your some of your books…”I stopped talking as I realized I was holding his copy of The Stranger, by Camus. Well that’s the coincidence of the year. Weird.

“Thanks, and uh, sorry for running into you…”He handed me my books, and his eyes glanced at the cover of Harry Potter and then up at me, confused.

“Third book?” He asked me.

What? No way…

“Third book,” I replied, suddenly seeing a very different Aaron Lewis.

He smiled, “It’s my favorite.”