I’m trying to use a condescending voice, but I can’t maintain it because I am happy someone is actually asking me about the way I do things.

“Then I recommend you write your intro and conclusion sections to ensure—”

“Doesn’t it make more sense to start at the beginning and work through it?”

This arrangement is starting to feel more one-sided by the minute. Not only is he borrowing my brain but my patience as well.

“I’ve found it’s best to write them both together because the conclusion is supposed to reiterate the introduction, not necessarily add to the paper.” My voice is a few notes higher because I’m trying to maintain the false politeness between the two of us. “You could accidentally put new information in, which will cost you points.”

“We certainly wouldn’t want that,” Dylan mocks.

I shove the laptop back toward him so that he can work on his paper. I pick up my own computer, deciding I’ll use the time to try my method on my personal essay for the Press.

Once he has given me the internet password and I’ve approved his outline, we work quietly side by side. He’s typing quickly and easily, and I’m actually jealous at the sound of the quick keystrokes. If the Press would have asked me for an argumentative paper instead of a personal essay, I would be keeping up with him just fine.

I click away from the blank white document and decide to seek out other essays online. Maybe they’ll help guide me into finding my own voice somehow.

I quickly discover that there are so many good examples and writers attached to them that I feel stupid for the ineptitude to tell my own story.

When I’m looking at stuff that has already been written, it seems so easy, like it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world to be able to do.

But the stories I read are full of conflict, childhood complications, and obstacles that the writers overcame.

What do I have to share?

Nothing.

I frown.

“Is your computer making that noise?” Dylan asks.

The overworking of the fan is white noise to me, but given that Dylan is using a sleek Apple product instead of an eight-year-old Dell, he’s probably used to being able to have multiple windows open at once without consequence.

“Sorry,” I mutter, closing everything until it’s just me and the blank document once more.

Dylan’s interest in what I’m doing doesn’t fade once the noise of the fan does. “I thought you were all caught up on your work and then some?”

“Correct.”

“So, what are you working on?”

“A personal essay.”

“For what?”

I swallow, deciding it’s just better to get it all out at once than deal with his interrogation on my half-truths. “The Pittsburgh Press has this writing contest open to high school seniors. I’m trying to win so I can intern with them next summer. I have to write a personal essay, but I’m struggling with it.”

“I would too if I was trying to use a computer from the nineties,” he retorts immediately.

I glare at the boy who has probably never touched anything secondhand in his life. “It’s my sister’s old one. It works just fine for what I need it to do.”

“Except work in peace, apparently,” Dylan says, eyes narrowing on my laptop. “No wonder you can’t get it done.”

I wish it were that simple. Blaming technology instead of the resistance I can’t break through in my head.

As much as Dylan challenges me, he does have a habit of spurring me into action. He doesn’t have time for nonsense, and despite my best judgment, I’m wondering if he can actually help me with this.

I turn and tuck my legs underneath me so I can see the way he reacts to my next set of words.

“Well, it’s not exactly that,” I say lightly, although it guts me to admit to him. “I’m struggling with what to write about.”

His eyebrow ticks up. “You’re lecturing me on writing a paper, and you can’t even write an essay?”

That was not the reaction I was hoping for. “It’s not that simple,” I start.

He wrinkles his nose and attempts to mimic me. “First, you start with the outline…”

“Funny.”

I shouldn’t have put any hope in getting anything other than mockery from Dylan Archer.

“You have a plan for everything then, Reed?” he asks. “Lining up internships before you even graduate high school. Already figuring out your entire career and life at age seventeen.”

I’m definitely a little abnormal with how I’ve mapped out the entirety of my life all the way to the end, but I doubt there’s a person in our grade who hasn’t thought about their own future well into their twenties.

But Dylan could be an exception.

“You haven’t put any thought whatsoever into what you’re going to be doing post-college?” I ask him.

He has no biting retort other than mumbling, “Touché,” before he goes back to his own work.

Dylan’s advice, if I could even call it that, was to actually just follow my own process. I sigh, resigning to try it out.

I start by writing out what should exist, an introductory paragraph, first point, etc., until I reach the conclusion. It took me thirty seconds to do, but I already feel so much better, like I’m at least starting to put the work in instead of sitting around groaning about it.

And it’s then I have to mentally give credit to Dylan.

It’s hard to admit you’re failing and even more difficult to ask someone you barely tolerate for help.

There’s something endearing about his serious expression as he focuses on the words on the screen in front of him. His fingers fly, letting the thoughts flow through his hands, and I watch the movements, mesmerized slightly.

His blazer, a key component of our school uniform, is nowhere to be found. His sleeves are rolled up, and I’m fascinated by his hands and wrists, especially when he moves up a hand to brush his hair to the side.

My phone vibrates on the table, breaking me out of the gratuitous staring I’ve been doing.

It’s James. Can I come over?

I’m not home. All he would have to do is look outside his window and see my car isn’t parked in the street. We don’t have standing plans, but it’s almost dinnertime, so maybe he’s hoping to get away from his parents.

Normally, though, he’d just walk in the side door and make himself at home in the kitchen instead of texting me, so I send him another message. Are you okay?

Yeah. The typing bubbles don’t stop until he sends his next message. You at B&B?

No. I glance at Dylan and the lines slicing across his forehead in concentration. Helping Dylan.

I wait a few minutes for James to respond, but he doesn’t. I twiddle my thumbs, considering texting him again, but I don’t.

“There,” Dylan says with a note of resolve. “Done.”

“With the first draft,” I say, unable to suppress my grin.

He groans. “If you’re going to make me do more of this, I’m going to need food first.”

Whenever James and I do homework, it’s usually either at one of our kitchen tables or bedroom floors, and we’re often surrounded by more bags of chips and cookies than books.