“Hello, name’s Aster. I hate textbooks, and love to cause trouble. I’m a home chief so before I leave in the morning, I make breakfast. Wait, wrong resume. I’m your substitute teacher, please disregard my dating profile.” The man was young, looking to be no older his mid-twenties, not remarkably older than the junior high students in class. Sprawled across the white board was his name near indistinguishable from a cursive computer font.

“Mr. Holland told me you guys were starting on hooks today.” He informed as he walked around to the other side of the deck. “He gave me this lesson plan, even left what your homework is.” He continued with a pensive smile.

“Page 135 of your textbook; can a volunteer read the first paragraph?” Unsurprisingly no student raised their hand at his request.

“A hook is the section of a text meant to really grab the reader’s attention; compelling them to read further into the text. Blah blah blah. You get the idea.” Aster read from over a student’s shoulder. He let out a snicker, “They couldn’t even be bothered to write a hook in the section about hooks.”

A few students in the front row smiled at this joke but the majority were not intrigued. He walked through the rows of desks, “A hook is like an enchanting pair of eyes, which ensnare the onlooker. The song of the siren for the sailor to jump overboard. A hook is meant to control your attention, guide you to the next line.” He stopped as he walked the back row of the class, his whisky eyes locked with a phone a kid used to text.

“Close the textbook, let’s not waste time here. You don’t want to read this; and I don’t want to be preaching this dreadful dogma. Instead, I want one guy and girl to be part of a small play.” Much like before no one offered their services.

Expecting this Aster laid his hand on the shoulder of boy with his phone hidden under the desk. “Thank you for being the first volunteer. For the second, you. Now up to the front of the class both of you.” He placed his hand on the girl sat next to him. With muffled grumbles they weaved through the seats to the front.

 “A hook is not limited to stories. Think of it as a first interaction. How do you make yourself standout? Is it your clothes? Make up? Voice? There is a myriad of ways to go about it. So show me a first interaction.” He took a seat in the boy’s chair.

“Uhhh…hi, name’s Kyle, pleasure to meet you.” The boy was ridged, stuttering too much for a greeting.

“Justine, pleasure is mine.” She was poised, but she was flustered given her carmine cheeks.

“Cut Cut Cut. Go back to your seats you two.” Aster interrupted as he squeezed passed the two on way back to their desk.

“A first interaction, who can describe to me the importance of it.”

A girl in the front raised her hand, “A first interactions is the basis of your opinion on another person. In romance we call it love at first sight.”

“Splendid explanation…”

“Serena.”

“To continue on what Serena was saying, a first interaction defines your perception of another. Be it what puppy you look to adopt from the shelter. Which girl do you go flirt with at the bar. Which course to take in college. Is all based on that first interaction with the topic. For example, let’s say I wanted to be cliché and flirt with Serena here.”

“The first thing would be to identify the setting of the interaction. This would change what would or would not be warranted for the pickup line. In a classroom setting as such where a teacher and student are under the watchful eyes of others, the actions are limited. Listening to my ramblings will long go so far, so I’ll show you.”

“Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame,” Aster read from the opened page of her notebook his voice deeper and slower than previously. “It is a wonderful sonnet, I must suggest sonnet 116 as it’s couple.” He kneeled to be at eyes level with her.

“Love not Time’s fool,” Serena answered with a giddy smile.

“Loves alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. Let’s not take up any more of the class time and instead you stop by during lunch break to talk more about this.” He flashed a charming smile as he returned to focusing on the class.

“It’s plain, simple, yet engaging. You might state it was chance, or luck that she had a sonnet opened on his desk for me to quote and build a conversation out of. It be not luck that defines the man; but what he does with it. My actions cater towards the audience of 1, Serena.” He continued as all the students were enamored by his lecture, “Take out whatever you write using, a phone, laptop, pen and paper. Whatever it is that you want to write with.”

Most students flipped in their notebooks to a fresh paper, while a small minority, less than five, took out their phones. “I want everyone to write at most five sentences. It can be any topic, done in any written form. The only task is to make me want to read more, to hook me on your topic.”

A girl in the third row, raised her hand. “Yes?” He pointed and asked.

“Do that mean we can use poetry instead of traditional sentence structure?” She inquired.

“Of course, as a clarification, write whatever you want. Just make it so I want to read more after the last sentence. Your ten minutes, start now.” Most students stared at the blank page unsure of where to start, twirled their writing utensils for the first word. Others were already scribbling away, done the task moments after the buzzer. A pair of guys in the back whispered about they jotted down. Students scrolled through their phones for a boost of inspiration. A couple not even lifting their pen for pretending to care. Aster was unbothered by the outcasts, his own hook placed aside as he watched the teens.

The ten minutes crawled by, the quiet broken by the sub, “That is time. Does anyone to read what they wrote aloud?” The girl who asked about poetry raised her hand.

“The story of I, one you can not deny. Hidden behind lock and key, now for the world to see. I’m back dear King, and I’m going to tell them everything.” She eloquently spoke the poetry, excellently articulating the venom of her piece.

“That is nicely done, a mystery hook so to say. The intrigue stemming from the asymmetric information of the reader and speaker. Anyone else want to read theirs?” A boy in the back raised his hand.

“My friends called my fear of mustard irrational. That my duck and cover when the hot dog cart rolled by was irrational. But now condiments have taken over the world and my fear is seemingly warranted.” The boy spoke with stiffened laughter, that was reciprocated by the audience.  

“A great laugh, a comedy hook is the most apt descriptor. Intrigued stemmed from the absurdity of the piece and the laughter that comes from it.” Aster wrote this under mystery hook on the white board. “Anyone else?” This continued for a handful more students, each of the hook types written up on the board: mystery, comedy, cliché, exposition, and action.

“Lots of wonderful writings, to move along I’ll read mine. Holden, I need you to listen to me! They have been lying to us, about all of it! Frank what are you talking about! Holden what I’m about to tell you is the most important sentence of your entire life.” He paused and asked, “By a show of hands, who found that intriguing?” Select few didn’t raise their hand.

“No hook is perfect, as you can immediately see. So, you must first decide your intended audience before writing the hook. But it formal or casual, there is an intended crowd you are trying to cater towards. Always remember, no writing is flawless. Find your intended readers and write accordingly.”

“There is still plenty of time left to class, and honestly there is not much more to go over. The lesson was on hooks, and he wanted us to go through the textbook for the most part. I however find doing is much better than regurgitating. So how about a small game instead?” At the prospect of a game the students were visibly more engaged.

“It’s like whisper down lane but I want you all to write one sentence and then pass it off to the person next to you, who will write another sentence. By the end of it, there will be ten sentences. The row who has the best story, wins.” It was a simple game.

“What do we get for winning?” A boy chimed in.

“The row that wins, leave class early. Mr. Holland wanted you to answer questions 1-10 on page 156 of the textbook. Such a dreary old man, so I made answer keys for everyone in class. When your row wins you can leave and take the answer key with you. So, you all ready?” An offer accepted by them all.

===

“Aster! You made it!” A white-haired man waved at his friend who was walking up the dinner table. Sat with him was another man, and two girls.

“Wouldn’t miss your birthday, happy 27^th man!” Aster replied with a hearty laugh and white teeth smile.

“Katherine not with you?” The man inquired further as Aster took a seat.

“We broke up not long ago, different opinions on where to go in life.” He shrugged off the news.

“How many is that now?”

The black-haired guy piped in, “Well there was, Kelsey, Chelsea, Rain, Jenny, Amanda, Abby, and a few others. My bet is 13.”

“My bet is 17.”

The girls not to be left out threw in their own guesses, “20” “14”

Aster was unbothered by interaction as he began mouthing names and counting on his fingers. “Katherine makes 17. So the birthday boy was right. As a prize you get a good ol’ slap on the back.”

Before he could give the prize, the birthday boy interjected, “No no, it’s fine. I’m okay without the prize.”

“But you did such a wonderful thing, you deserve a reward.”

“Aster there is no reason to bully Derrick on his birthday.” The girl next to him retorted.

“No fun Ashley. No fun.” Aster shook his head.

“I can’t help but feel bad for you being the only one here alone.” The blondette sympathized.

Derrick chuckled with his response, “Aster has never cared about being single. He is why I contemplated staying single.”

“If I didn’t want to be single, I wouldn’t.” Flippant to the concern as he took in the menu.

“You make it sound mindless.” She responded.

“It is. The lobster tails look really good.” He didn’t pay any mind to the conversation.

“I find myself more a fan of the lamb chops.” Ashley informed trying to move off the topic.

The other girl didn’t let up, agitated by the disregard from Aster. “Getting a date is not so simple.”

“Jessie, honey, it’s Aster, it is that simple.” Her boyfriend interrupted before the conversation went further. His pale hand placed atop her wheat tone one.

Jessie released a sigh as her blue eyes mellowed. She stared at Aster expectantly awaiting his counter. One that never came, as he diverted from the line of dialogue.

The tension was quickly dissolved as food was served; paired with laughter from idle chatter.

===

The apartment was pitch black at Aster’s entrance.

“Honey I’m home!” He called in a chipper voice but there was no reply. He chuckled at the silence as he pushed the auburn hair away from his left eye that it was threatening to poke.

“Maybe one day a ghost will respond. That would be interesting.” He talked to himself as he moseyed through the condo. It was simplistic in nature, a hallway leading to the kitchen connected to a dining room, and a longue room. While upstairs was his bedroom and a second unused room empty since the day, he bought the place.

He didn’t say anything more as he sat himself at the walnut desk stained merlot with silver accents with a pair of monitors that opened to word documents. It was Aster’s recent passion project, a new novel that he hoped to finish. He told himself this would be the one, that he would finish this work. That was five months ago, and he only just concluded chapter one. Everyday he sat in front of the screen and forced himself to write, hopefully for a burst of inspiration that never came.

With a whiskey not any darker than his eyes he slowly typed out sentences that were soon after deleted. A pattern only broken from his ringing phone, his sister.

“Aurora? What are you doing calling at this hour?” Aster answered with a yawn.

“Aster…” Her voice was hoarse, and the short silence was filled with her sniffles.

“Aurora? What is wrong? Talk to me.” His voiced oozed concern.

“Mom…Mom…”

“What about her? Did something happen?” His voice was calm as he suppressed the worry in efforts to ease her fears.

“She died. Mom died.” She blurted out immediately followed by an outcry of painful wails.

“I’ll be over shortly.” Aster informed without hesitation.

===

“Hide behind the smile and don’t let the world see you cry. She told me that an uncountable number of times. I remember the first time though, right when her sister passed away. I was only 6 then, but she sat me down and told me to never cry in front of the world. They would think less of you if you let out tears. So when news broke of her passing I could let out any tears. I knew if I did she would come back to life and tell me it one more time. Which in retrospect doesn’t sound like such a bad deal, maybe then we would all get to say goodbye. She would never want that; instead find the time to berate us for the weakness. She never asked for help, never informed anyone of the looming ailments, and left us in a flash. I’m sure she is watching us, waiting for us to slip up so she can correct it upon our passings. She will be the first to greet us with a list of every fault. I look forward to it, Mom.” Aster stood behind the podium with a forced smile with pink quivering lips. His normally mellow eyes glossy and red from hidden tears.

As the door with his mother closed, another was fated to open.

“What is she doing here?” Whispers filled the moratorium, gossip directed at the outcast girl segregated from the crowd.

“Hey little girl, what’s your name?” Aster kneeled in front of her as he wiped stray tears from the corner of her eyes.

“Lu-Lu-Luna.” She spurted out with a stutter. She was a beautiful child with slender features. Large and bright green eyes with long onyx hair that contrasted her porcelain pale complexion.

“My name is Aster, where are you parents?” His voice high pitched and slow in hopes to calm her. She didn’t reply as she lunged forward and wailed against his chest, her tears coloring his white dress shirt.

Without missing a beat, he embraced her tight and rubbed her back; while he hummed an improv tone to lull her. She quickly quieted down as they both were under the watchful eyes of the audience.