Chapter One: Sasha

 

I don’t know how I’m expected to wake up on time for an eight a.m. class when a roommate keeps me up until one, telling me all the details of her latest night out. Last night, Stella tumbled into our room long after curfew, interrupting my sleep. I was far too tired to question where she was, what she was doing, and especially who she was doing it with. Now I’m paying the price by forcing myself to stay awake after an eight-hour shift of dealing with drunks at the bar I work at when I know I’d be out like a light the second my head hits the pillow. 

 

“Sasha?” Stella’s voice makes me realize I’ve been spacing out. 

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Are you still there?”

 

“Yeah, sorry, I’m listening.”

 

Honestly, the very last thing I’m worried about the night before my Creative Writing class with Professor Davis is who Stella kissed last night, but I don’t have the heart to tell her that. Sometimes I ask myself, How is it that I have a roommate with the most interesting stories, yet I have no inspiration for a novel?

 

It had been almost a month since my first class of my sophomore year at the University of Iowa when Professor Davis told us that in addition to our assignments, she wanted us to write the final draft of a novel by the end of the year. The rest of my class has at least a basic idea of what their novel will be about, but I’ve been having the worst case of writer's block imaginable. 

 

I asked Professor Davis for some tips and she told me to “take inspiration from my own experiences.” Unless she wants to hear a story about waking up, going to class, going to work, and then going to sleep so I’m ready to do it all over again, I’m not sure how that would work. I tried taking inspiration from Stella’s stories, but I still have nothing. 

 

“So I told that guy to find another girl to take home because I wanted to go party with my awesome roomie!” There’s a hint of sarcasm in Stella’s voice, but it makes me giggle.

 

“Oh, you’re too sweet,” I said.

 

“That’s why you love me,” she says as she grabs her pillow from the floor and nuzzles herself under her blankets.

 

“You know I do,” I reply, pulling my white comforter over my body and lying down. 

 

“Goodnight, Sash.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

Stella pulls the string on her bedside lamp and the room goes completely dark, dimming the sight of her wall full of band posters and my overstuffed bookshelf. 

 

Sometimes it seems crazy that Stella and I are so close because we are total opposites. Think night and day, coffee and tea, up and down; that’s us.

 

We were placed in the same group on a campus visit at the University of Iowa the summer before our senior year of high school. After our names were called, Stella came up to me and pointed out that our names kinda rhyme. Sasha and Stella. She thought they sounded cool together and that we were destined to be best friends. 

 

About halfway through the tour, she snuck up behind me and said, “Hey, Sasha, wanna ditch this boring tour and find somewhere to shop?”

 

I politely declined because I was way too much of a rule follower to do anything like that, but I did take her name and number after the tour. I was already dreading having to find a roommate, and she seemed more than willing to be friends with anyone. 

 

And here we are, two years and hundreds of text messages and FaceTime calls later. Roommates. Best Friends. 

 

Maybe I could write a story about a superhero who saves me from a life of being boring and lonely forever.

 

Chapter Two: Riker

 

Early morning classes make me question why I even go to college. I always pictured myself touring the world and performing at huge stadiums packed with thousands of people every night, but unfortunately, there’s no college major for that. 

 

With a groan, I turn off my alarm and force myself to stand up, dodging the dirty laundry all over my floor. I walk to the bathroom across the hall and curse myself for waking up too late to wash my hair. I guess I’ll have to settle for combing it down and wearing a hat.

 

I’m normally up way earlier to make sure Reese gets up and leaves for school on time, but I had a late night. After I had a gig at yet another shitty bar, I came home to find that Reese’s car was still gone and it was almost midnight. I called her panicking but it turns out she decided to stay out with her friends a bit longer because she didn’t think I’d be home for a few more hours.

 

After she came home, I tried my best to talk calmly about why she can’t scare me like that, and then sent her to bed. 

 

I stayed up for a few more hours, staring at the same ceiling I’d slept under my whole life, contemplating everything I had just said. I always tended to do this after I had disciplined her. That just comes with the struggle of balancing “Cool Older Brother” and “Responsible Guardian.” Now, I’m holding my breath waiting to see how she feels about our fight this morning.

 

Once I’ve dealt with the hair situation and brushed my teeth, I walk back to my room to get dressed. I hardly notice the room at the end of the hall anymore, the white door is identical to all the other doors in the house, and the silver handle to the door is never touched. My fight with Reese last night is the only reason I’m thinking about it now. I had thought about going in and just sitting there, waiting for knowledge to hit me, but I decided against it because it’s not like the walls or the unused bed could give me parenting advice. 

 

By the time I get downstairs, Reese is ready to go in her hoodie, ripped jeans, beat-up Converse, and backpack. “Good morning, kid. How’d you sleep?”

 

“Better than you, it looks like.” 

 

God, she could be such a smartass. “I thought I was the one who made you breakfast,” I said, realizing that the plate of scrambled eggs on the table was waiting for me. All the built-up nerves of what our morning would look like leave my body; she forgives me enough to make me breakfast. 

 

“Yeah, I figured it’s the least I could do considering I scared you last night,” she says, grabbing her keys off the counter and heading for the door.

 

“Hey, don’t worry about it. You’re sixteen, you should be out enjoying yourself. Just please call next time,” I say quietly, still unsure of how to handle raising a teenager when I just turned twenty. 

 

“You got it. I’m gonna be late if I don’t leave now. See you later!”

 

“Have a good day! ” I call out as I sit down to eat the apology breakfast.

 

Chapter Three: Sasha

 

Somehow, I managed to push through another Creative Writing class by smiling and nodding when Professor Davis reminded us that we should, at the very least, have an idea for our novel by now. I ignored my internal screaming and focused on our short assignment for the day, which I finished in less than an hour. 

 

After class, I grabbed some food from the dining hall and went to eat it in my dorm so I could call my mom. I sit at my wooden desk under my lofted bed and take a deep breath before picking up my phone. Although I’m enjoying the freedom of being on my own, I still feel obligated to call home at least once a day. 

 

As the baby of the family, I know that moving out had a major effect on my parents. Even though my departure is what made the house empty, I know that my older brother's absence affected my parents’ lives more. Don't get me wrong, I know they love me, but my brother, Levi, was the one who participated in a different sport every season. I think they miss cheering him on at his games more than they miss coming home to see me in my room reading or doing homework. I graduated just one year after my brother, but if I had a dollar for every time I heard my mom say she wished she could see Levi play one more time, I’d have enough money to pay off my student loans. 

 

Considering how different we are, people are usually surprised to find out that my brother and I are very close. He was the team captain for all four of his seasonal sports and homecoming king, whereas I was well-liked, but not exactly popular, and was too busy reading and writing to worry about having fun.

 

That’s yet another thing my parents question about me–my writing. My mom makes sure to ask every time she sees me if I’ve figured out how to make money telling stories yet. I think they’re trying to support me, but they simply don’t understand people who rely on their creativity rather than taking a job where all the rules are laid out. 

 

She picks up on the third ring. I straighten my posture and plaster on a fake smile as if she can see me. 

 

“Sash! I’m so glad you called. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

 

I almost don’t want to know the reason, but I do the polite thing, just like always. “Oh yeah? About what?”

 

“Well, in case you forgot, it is your birthday in a couple of weeks, and I wanted to let you know that we will be coming down to visit and have dinner.”

 

“Oh, right. Levi told me about that. 

 

“Oh, I didn’t realize you had already talked to your brother. I have to practically blow up his phone to get him to talk to me.”

 

I hold back the major sigh I want to let out, but I allow myself to roll my eyes since she can’t see me. “Well, you know how busy he gets.” And how he gets overwhelmed and can’t handle your constant nagging. 

 

“Right… well, speaking of busy, I should get back to work. My break is almost over.”

 

“Ok, have a good day. I love you.”

 

“I love you, too, sweetie.”

 

I always find myself closing my eyes in relief when she hangs up. I know she means well, but I hate feeling like I’m constantly being watched by her judgmental eyes, even from a hundred miles away. That was definitely one of our more bearable conversations. Most of them have consisted of her reminding me that I’m the child of a nurse and an engineer and the little sister of a soon-to-be physical therapist but I’m still choosing to waste all those smart genes on being a writer. 

 

Her usual lines are things like Not many people can make a living telling stories and Let’s hope you find a husband with a stable job and good income. On the off chance I ever step out of my comfort zone enough to even talk to a guy, he certainly won’t be some workaholic robot whose only personality trait is his job. 

 

He’ll be someone real. Someone who is creative like me and proud of it. He’ll be larger than life and light up any room he walks into. But between work, school, and holding my family together, I don’t have the time to fall in love.

​

Chapter Four: Riker

 

I get home from my community college class around ten a.m. and have under two hours to clean up the breakfast dishes and shower for work. I have a shift at noon, right in the middle of the lunch rush, at Twisted, a pasta restaurant. I took the job for extra money and a desperate attempt to bring Reese some of their food home for dinner so she’s not living off ramen noodles and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the entirety of her teenage years. 

 

The job is pretty great overall. I get to stay brushed up on my cooking skill, and the old Italian couple who own the restaurant treat me like a son; I miss that feeling. 

 

I pick up my used plate and silverware and set them in the sink along with the pan and spatula Reese used to cook my eggs.

 

My phone dings to tell me I have a text just as I’m finishing the dishes.

 

Reese: When do I get dinner tonight?

Me: Bold of you to assume you get dinner.

Reese: You think you’re funny?

Me: I try.

Reese: Then I’d stick to music because no comedy clubs are hiring you anytime soon.

 

See? Smartass. 

 

Me: Ouch. I get off work at 5:30 so I’ll bring some food before I go to my gig.

Reese: Another gig?

Me: Yeah, some bar called Top Shelf, probably the same as all the other ones.

Reese: Well, I’m hanging out with some friends after dinner. You should try that sometime.

Me: What’s that supposed to mean?

Reese: That's all you ever do is go to class, work, play gigs, and take care of me. Try having fun once in a while.

 

What has my life come to that my 16-year-old sister is pointing out my nonexistent social life? I mean, she has a point, but I don’t need her worrying about me. It’s supposed to be the other way around.

 

Me: Stop texting me about my social life while you’re supposed to be in class.

Reese: You’re the worst.

 

I close out of our message string then because I can’t be the reason she gets in trouble for texting in class. 

 

The whole time I’m getting ready for work, I think about that whole social life thing. I know most 20-year-olds are partying and going on dates, but most 20-year-olds aren’t also working towards their college degree while trying to support themselves and their little sister.

 

I live the way I do in hopes that Reese gets to be one of those regular 20-year-olds someday. She’s good enough at basketball to get a scholarship to almost any state school, even though she could go to the University of Iowa and be right by home. But I want more for her. She’s all I have, and that should give me every reason to want to keep her close. I also love her too much to think like that. She’s always had her heart set on going out of state, and if she works for a scholarship that gets her there, I’ll support her all the way. 

 

… 

 

“Riker! How’s that chicken parm coming?”

 

“Almost done, Gia!”

 

My feet move quickly across the old linoleum floor as I rush to the produce fridge, grabbing the herbs to top off this order’s final dish. Most younger cooks get stressed by the rush of the kitchen, but it makes me feel right at home. My parents loved to cook, and they passed that passion down to me. Some of my best childhood memories are watching my parents cook together. Their love was so perfect, they barely even had to talk when they were in the kitchen; they had a language of their own. Unfortunately, the cooking gene was not passed down to Reese, which is why I will probably spend the rest of my life worrying if she’s getting proper nutrients.

 

“Here’s that order for you, Gia,” I say as I reach through the window between the kitchen and the dining area to hand her the final plate.

 

“Thanks, honey,” she replies in that sweet old-lady voice of hers.

 

Today, I’m working with Gia and Nico, the owners, and their grandson, Elliot, who is seventeen. Working at a family-owned restaurant is the closest thing I have to feeling like I’m cooking at home with a big family. 

…

 

I get home from work around six, and my gig across town is at seven. When I arrive, Reese is sitting on the couch with the TV playing basketball highlights, but is completely focused on her laptop. 

 

“I brought you dinner,” I hand her the box to get her attention.

 

“Thanks, can you grab me a fork?” she glances up for only a moment as I pass her the box, then looks right back down at her screen. 

 

I head to the kitchen to grab her a fork and call over my shoulder, “You look pretty focused there.”

 

“Yeah, just some homework,” I can almost hear her tense up.

 

“Seriously? You never have homework.”

 

“I do, I just never do it.”

 

“So what makes you want to do it now?”

 

“Because I’ll never get a basketball scholarship if I’m failing chemistry and geometry.”

 

I nearly drop the fork and glass of water I’m holding. “You’re failing?”

 

“It’s fine, Riker. I’m doing some extra credit stuff and getting it worked out.”

 

“Reese, you’re way too smart to be failing and I don’t think I need to remind you that you need to get scholarships.”

 

“So don’t remind me!” The sudden snap in her tone shocks me. “I told you I’m figuring it out.

 

“Reese…” 

 

“Thanks for the dinner, but I think I’ll go eat in my room. Have fun at your gig.” She grabs her food and laptop and storms up the stairs.

 

Chapter Five: Sasha 

 

“You sure you can’t skip work just this once?” Stella wraps her arms around my shoulders and gives me sad puppy eyes in my mirror. 

 

“Stell, it might come as a surprise to you considering how much I complain about it, but I do like having a job.”

 

She does the dramatic eye roll and big sigh combination she always gives me when I won’t go to a party with her. She goes over to her desk and moves some of the makeup products and pencils that are scattered randomly across the surface so she can lean against it and face me. 

 

“How are you ever going to write something new if you don’t experience anything new?”

 

“What?” I look at her, completely caught off guard.

 

“Come on, Sash, you only mentioned that creative writing project to me once when it was first assigned, but I’ve seen you sit at your desk every night since then. You scribble words in your notebook just to rip the pages out, crumple them up, and throw them away. We’re both creative people. I might not be much of a writer, but I would imagine writer's block is about the same as artist's block. There have been plenty of times I drew a sketch and wanted nothing more than to rip it to shreds and throw it out.”
 

“Ok, and what do you do to fix artist’s block?” I lean into my mirror to put on my mascara. 

 

“I take a break and find a new angle. I take a walk in an area I’ve never been to before. I go to a new restaurant or bar and have a conversation with a random person. I hope that something I see or hear will spark a new idea.”

 

“And that works?” I ask, applying lip gloss and reaching for my hairbrush. 

 

“Always. Sasha, I’m telling you, you will never get past this bad case of writer’s block if you keep the same routine day after day.”

 

I tie my hair up in a ponytail and sit down to put on my work shoes.

 

“Ok, so maybe you’re right. But I don’t have time to start a life of new experiences now. I really have to go to work, there’s live music tonight so we’re gonna be packed.”

 

“Sasha Doxley, I’m giving you homework.” Stella’s arms sit in a hard cross, and her lips are a firm line.

 

“Excuse me?” This catches my attention enough to make me look up from tying my shoes. Stella has never been one to do homework, let alone give it.

 

“You heard me. Tonight, your homework assignment is to talk to one new person. I don’t care who it is or what you talk about, just have one friendly conversation and send me a picture of you with them so I know they’re real.”

 

“You want me to bother some stranger so I can have inspiration for a story?”

 

“You don’t know that you’ll be bothering them. In fact, you might actually meet someone cool. And if it’s awful, I’ll buy you dinner.”

 

Despite my best efforts, I let out a soft laugh. “It’s a deal,” I nod in confirmation as I leave our room and shut the door behind me.