Page 42 of The Deepest Lake

And then one voice in the dark, a user named @brdtype23, said this: “If you could find one successful writer willing to personally teach you, to guide you, to get you past those gatekeepers who block the other 99%, it would be worth more than a graduate degree.”

And I thought: You’re right. And I no longer want to pay even a $50 application fee, much less $50,000 for tuition.

I thought: Let me travel first. Let me figure out what I want to write, what I want to say.

I didn’t think: And I’ll track down a famous writer!

But of course I knew that Eva Marshall lived in Guatemala. Of course I left Guatemala for last—the final hope, the final test, the final plea for destiny to step in and relieve me of both my mediocrity and my confusion.

A cloud covers the sun. I’m wishing I brought my Roxy cover-up down to the dock, because my T-shirt isn’t warm enough for these lakeside breezes. I’m still sleepy from staying up too late. Up at the house, people might be looking for me. I could use another coffee. Frankly, I could use a hug—or a face slap.

Wake up, Jules! You’re fucking this whole thing up!

I linger for five more minutes, listening to the shush of water against the dock. I glance over at my closed laptop with the half-started essay Eva hasn’t yet read. I don’t even need to boot it up. I can remember the first line I typed last night—When I first heard my father was remarrying . . .

In comparison with the workshop pieces—bold and poignant, despite their imperfections—my essay is lifeless. No one will want to read it. I don’t even want to read it.

I envision the delete key moving backward, one letter at a time, taking me back to the blank page and the blinking cursor, whose every pulse announces:

Imposter.

Imposter.

You are an imposter.

Marked-up manuscripts and summary notes for Eva in hand, I stroll up the garden path to the yellow door, where I catch the first hushed words of someone talking with Eduardo, the gardener. As I come closer, the questions become louder. Not just Is Mauricio there? But Is he getting paid? and How often does Mauricio come to town?

They stop talking when they spot me.

The guy is wearing a Hollister long-sleeve T-shirt, tight jogger pants and big white tennis shoes. His jet-black hair is short on the side, longer and gelled back on the top, the sharp lines of a comb still visible.

“Is Mauricio in the house?” the stranger asks me in English, as if he isn’t happy enough with Eduardo’s answers.

“No. Are you a friend?”

He turns back to Eduardo and says in rapid-fire Spanish that he’ll come back this afternoon or tomorrow.

“¿Y quién es ella?” the guy asks Eduardo.

The gardener looks at me, expression blank. Eduardo has seen Mauricio and me holding hands—and maybe more than that.

“Una turista, nada más.”

An hour later, when I see a water taxi advancing toward the dock, I run down the steps to greet it. It’s Mauricio, returning from a trip to town to purchase shrimp and extra bags of ice.

When I describe the man who came looking for him, Mauricio says in Spanish, “That was my uncle. He doesn’t look happy about it.”

“Uncle? He looks so young.”

“Only four years older than me. My mom’s little brother.”

“Why is he looking for you?”

“He wants me to move to Guate.”

I’m not afraid of many cities, but I’ve heard enough about Guatemala City to steer clear. I also know Mauricio has extended family in the capital, but I guess I thought they were distant cousins or something. An uncle isn’t distant.

“He wants me to work for him,” Mauricio says.