The Writer | #4✓

Chapter 10

"Okay, that's it for introductions. I think we should all talk and get to know each other—"

"Bonding time!" the blonde-haired partner of the writing group's leader yelled on top of her high-pitched voice, making everyone laugh.

It was late noon on Friday, and the writing group I'd signed up for was having their first meet up. The room we were in was a small one in the humanities building that no one else really used. Everyone was sitting in a circle on chairs, and the table by the door had snacks for anyone who wanted to eat. Maxwell was in the room as well. In fact, he was sitting right next to me.

"It seems fun already, don't you think?" Maxwell whispered as he leaned into me a bit. I smiled, watching as one half of the group got into a small conversation. Soon enough Maxwell got up and joined them too, and I did as well after a while of just watching.

"What do you write?" someone asked, directing their question at me.

I smiled a bit. "Literary fiction, you?"

"Sci-Fi," he said with a proud smile before turning his head to the person next to him which made his dark curls bounce a bit.

All twenty of us talked for the rest of the hour, sharing our main projects at the moment, and the genres we wrote, read and liked or disliked. Maxwell blended in well, although it seemed he was a bit lost. He did a lot of reading, but not writing, and it was obvious.

"Everyone seems nice," Maxwell told me as he made to sit beside me when the introduction period was over.

"Okay, we'll head on to tell each other about our current projects, and what we're working on," Cynthia, the head of the group said as she ran a hand through her blonde hair. Everyone turned to the person beside them and started talking.

Maxwell laughed, shrugging. "I'm not really working on anything. I'm not really a writer. Well, I've tried, but I don't think it's any good."

"Wait, you write?" I asked, watching as he shook his hands in a no motion before laughing a bit.

"No," he said, before biting his bottom lip and looking down at his sneakers. "Well, I've tried, but it's not any good."

"Most writers think their work is shit. I mean, they read it all the time," I said, but it didn't seem to lift Maxwell's spirit because he just gave me a small smile.

"What about you? What are you working on?" he asked, not replying to what I'd said.

"Nothing much, I'm helping my mum turn her comic concept to a novel. So, there's that," I said, mostly to avoid falling into a discussion about my actual writing. I was shy about it, especially when — you know.

"Your mum makes comics too?" he asked, making me blink before nodding. Most people at my high school knew my parents. They were like those ones that came for every and anything. Most people thought their parents doing that was irritating, but I guess I'm a big mama's boy because I never really minded. One is a journalist and the other one who I also Caleb's mum's sister is an illustrator that is just getting into comics.

"That's so cool," he muttered. "All I did was play my cello, and my dad does boring stuff, so..." he laughed before giving me a small smile.

I remembered Maxwell's dad. He was a big tall man that never had a smile on his face. In fact, from his dad's behavior, you'd think Maxwell would be moody and reserved, but he was the exact opposite. I'd never seen his mum, and I just assumed he didn't have one or that he wasn't living with her.

I smiled back, but in my mind memories of watching him play flooded my mind. I used to watch him whenever I could. He'd known me, and he'd talk to me from time to time, but I'd be tongue-tied and I just ended up running away. I wanted to ask Maxwell if he'd thought I was weird in high school. I mean, I basically hung around him like a ghost but avoided talking to him as much as I could.