I'm Sort of Okay with This

Seven: Abby

After school, Ian was late arriving at the library.

He was disheveled as hell, his eyes bleary and his hair tousled. He held his composure somehow, the charming grace he carried. I admired his sweatshirt, which was a honey mustard yellow. It drew out the dark golden hues of his hair.

"How're you doing?" I asked. I meant it sincerely, since I knew about Cheyenne and all. He wasn't exactly triumphant, I was sure.

"Fantastic," he said wryly.

"You look fantastic."

He sat himself next to me and tittered. "Thanks. Means a lot."

"Did you talk to... nevermind. It's none of my business."

"It's done," he said. "We're, uh, finished."

"Oh," I said. "Sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault."

I changed the subject. "Yeah. So, what do you wanna write your essay about?"

"Catcher in the Rye," he said. "We have to write about Catcher in the Rye, right?"

"No, we're writing about key figures of the Russian Revolution. We only read the book for fun."

"What?"

I sighed. He was obtuse as hell. "Of course you have to write about the book. I mean what part of the book do you want to write about?"

"Oh," he said. "The ducks. When Holden asks the cab drivers about the ducks."

I raised an eyebrow, surprised by the certainty of his answer.

"That's pretty specific," I said. "Any particular reason why?"

"Remember when I said Holden was an asshole?" he asked. I remembered it. I also recalled my explanation of why he wasn't an asshole.

"Yeah."

"I think that scene shows that he's not," he said. "He's so genuinely concerned about the well-being of those ducks."

I agreed with him. "It's also about Holden's fixation with change. You know, he's horrified that the ducks have to change their living situation in order to survive, but it also ties back to the idea of life being a circular cycle, because the ducks always return in the springtime. Like the carousel scene."

"Yeah. That."

I shook my head and chuckled to myself.

"What?" he asked.

I gawked at him, inspecting each of his facial features. His round, gray-blue eyes, his heart-shaped lips, his pale eyebrows. Curiously, he had a single dimple on the left side of his face.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Did I spill ketchup on myself?"

He glanced down at his sweatshirt.

"Nothin'. Let's start writing. Get out your laptop."

He yanked his flattened, silver laptop from his backpack and opened it.

"How do you want to start?" I asked.

He chewed his lip and focused on his knees. "I'm not sure. I'm really not good at this kind of stuff."

"Well," I said. "You could start with a statement. Like, Catcher in the Rye is one of the most impactful novels in American literature, or something."

"No, no. That's not how I write."

He made a fair point. "True. That's kind of what my intro sounded like, actually. I don't want Miss Benson to think you're just copying off me."