The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
“Different” by Marian Hill
The luxury apartments in East Point are covered in snow, and all the units look the same at this end. It is nothing like Midtown out here, where the trees stand taller than the buildings.
“Please, don’t do that again,” the boy mumbles, putting his arm tightly around the girl.
“I can handle myself, babe,” the girl giggles.
“You scared me.”
The blanket the girl carries drags on the ground, tripping her feet up. The boy makes sure she does not fall, but a faint smile graces his face as he watches her stumble.
“This place looks different in the day, and all the snow makes it difficult to find the right apartment,” the girl remarks, “and my Uber driver! He dropped me off at the wrong—”
“You can give me all your excuses, but the fact is you got yourself lost out here, and that terrified me.”
“I love you,” she fawns, “and I’ll get lost again if it means you’ll be the one to find me.”
“I love you too, but you’re trying to be cute, and it ain’t helping,” he scowls, “I’m serious… You’re different from people around here.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” she sighs.
He believes her. Even so, he needs her to understand.
“We just need to get back to my place, okay?”
“Okay.”
They continue walking, and she continues tripping. The boy still finds it very cute, and now it is getting harder for him to stay mad.
“I’ve been all over the world, you know,” she begins, “I’ve been to the Amazon and back! I can handle a stranger, doesn’t matter where I am or what they look like.”
“Babe, look around! Have you seen one person that looks like you?” he retorts. She does not answer at first, but she is starting to understand.
“You don’t look like me, and I’m not scared of you.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he laughs, “I hope you’re right.”
The girl laughs too, scrunching her nose and tripping over the blanket again. She is starting to see things in the complex she has never noticed before, like an office with ionic columns and a brightly colored playground in a bed of mulch.
“This place is pretty,” she mentions.
“It’s not pretty.”
“You’re right, it’s not. But you are.”
“Guys like me aren’t pretty, babe,” the boy spits.
She does not believe him.
They are at the right apartment now, and he reaches into his pocket for the keys. But the girl grabs his hand, interlocking her small white fingers into his large black ones. To her, the boy really is pretty. If only he would see it for himself.