by Dean, Ali
“Did I miss much?” I whisper in Brit’s ear. She leans toward me.
“It just started. He read some rules, and talked about the people judging: some college professor and some guy who has written a hundred poems about the Great State of New Mexico,” she says with a roll in her eyes. The poet she’s talking about is actually quite famous, and the reason he writes about New Mexico so much is because his great, great grandfather was our state’s first governor. Brit doesn’t care about things like that, though, so I just respond with a short “thanks” and settle into my seat to flip through the pages of the program.
Everyone’s poem is printed inside, and I find mine—Jace’s—quickly. I read it to myself, ignoring the first person to recite. I read it again through the first contestant’s applause, but I close it when a blind girl steps up to the mic and begins to recite her work. Her piece is humorous, about the way she sees the world through sound, and how it doesn’t always paint the best picture. It makes me think of the noises I make—grunting through hard work, sniffling through runny-nose season, and talking more often than I should with my mouth open. By the time she’s done, the audience is roaring with laughter, and I pity the poor soul who has to follow her performance.
And then they announce Jace.
I slink deeper into my seat, wanting to hide what little of me can be seen behind Brit. She glances at me, rubbing her hands together, rooting for failure. She’s no doubt thrilled to see that he has to follow up the girl who is clearly now a crowd favorite, but now I only feel bad for him. I’m rushed with guilt over the fact that he only has half of a poem prepared, unless he found a way to do the other half. I feel sick because the words are personal, and about me, and Brit is going to see right through them. And I feel heartbroken because all his brother wanted to do was see his brother be great. As cloudy as my predictions are, this one seems pretty clear—Jace is going to fail.
“If it’s alright,” he begins, stopping to clear his throat as he puts his hand over the hot part of the microphone. His voice is half of what it is every other time in his life. He’s nervous, and it’s strange to see him this way for most people. I can tell because Brit’s posture has changed; she’s intrigued. I was in her shoes only days ago when I saw him unsteady and unsure. As easy as it is to root for Jace Padgett to fall to pieces, when faced with seeing it, you can’t help but root for him to succeed. At least, that’s how I feel, and I think that’s how Brit feels too, her fingernail lodged in her teeth and her eyes slits that are drenched in worry.
“Sorry,” he says to us all, his head cocked to one side, his eyes square on the table full of judges he doesn’t know, but more importantly who don’t know him and everything he’s up against right now. “If it’s alright, I have something new I would like to recite? Your rules said it had to be an original, and I…”
He pulls a folded paper from the pocket of his black dress pants. He’s wearing a gray shirt with a slender black tie; I bet he wore this exact same thing to homecoming. He wanted to look nice, if nothing else. He steps closer to the long table where the judges sit, and hands them his paper, the edges still untrimmed from where he tore it from a notebook. My hand finds my mouth, and I cup it to hide the uneasy expression I know I’m making. The tightness in my belly and chest only grows more potent as the first judge pulls glasses to the end of his nose, leaning to one side to confer with another judge over whatever is written on that page.
I can only imagine. I’ve seen his writing. It isn’t that it’s sloppy or illegible—it’s that it doesn’t really make sense. There are the occasional words spelled correctly, but they aren’t consistent, and I’m sure it’s only by accident.
The woman sitting in the center calls Jace in close, pointing to a few things on the page, and Jace nods, responding with a grimace that admits so much more than anyone down here in our vantage point realizes, except perhaps his mom. I turn in my seat, pushing up on the back and arms of the chair to see if I can find her, and, when I do, she’s looking at her son on the stage, her arms folded comfortable, her lips smiling with pride, despite the fatigue in her eyes. I think she may have helped him. At the very least, though, she’s fully aware of his plan on the stage tonight, as is Zack, whose eyes have now found mine. He smiles at me with the same kind of pride his mother is wearing, and, as sound hits the microphone behind me again, he points to the stage, nodding, and something in me tells me I need to devote all of my attention to every single syllable that’s about to be said.
“Thank you, judges,” Jace says, clearing his throat once more.
He centers his feet on either side of the mic, while his hands fall deep into his pockets and his chin tucks against his chest. I watch his posture fill and deflate with a few deep breaths, and when his head lifts again, somehow his eyes find me in the shadows, not hidden enough it seems. But rather than hide, I sit up taller, wanting him to fly.
“I know the poem I gave you isn’t what you’re used to seeing in this thing,” he says, stopping to chuckle, his right foot kicking at the stage as he stares at it. “Ha, in fact, I’m sure you’re wondering if this is all some joke, or if I’m trying to pull off some performance art thing or whatever. I assure you I’m not. And that paper—that’s the real me. The work that got me here…it wasn’t mine. And I’m not proud of that, but…”
He takes a quick step away, his head falling back and his eyes searching the ceiling as he breathes in a short, fast breath to stave away the emotions attacking him in this remarkably quiet room. He looks to the mic again and moves closer.
“I’m not proud, but I’m hoping this will explain some of it. I’m hoping it will change a few things, maybe change things for me. I don’t know. I…I’m sure this doesn’t make sense right now, but just…there’s a name at the bottom of that page,” he says, looking at the judges one last time. “She’s who should be up here. I’m begging you to talk to her when this is all over. That’s her address and phone number. I’m not sure what your rules say, but I think you need to make an exception, because that person…”
My heart races. His head turns. He finds me.
“She’s…exceptional.”
I feel Brit’s eyes on me, and I feel the energy shift in the room as the rest of the crowd whispers and cranes necks and speculates about this exceptional girl, wondering who she could possibly be. All I do is let the tears collect on the brink of falling, and then hold my breath as Jace Padgett begins his humble attempt to fix everything.
“My new poem is called Luck, and I’m sorry because it isn’t very good,” he laughs, and a few people in the audience laugh with him.
“Luck…is a four-letter word. It’s short and sweet, and simple to spell on paper with pen. For most people. But finding it? Having it? Enjoying it? Luck is for the privileged. It’s for the haves. It’s for those who have it in droves, who don’t need it, who don’t see it, who don’t recognize it when they hold it in their hands. Luck is fickle. It comes and goes, entering your life for meaningless things like touchdown throws and overtime wins, for homecoming crowns, for popularity and free things because you happen to know someone who knows someone.”
“Luck isn’t for home. It isn’t for putting the right dad with the right mom. It isn’t for boys who can’t spell it. Luck isn’t for people like me—people who can’t read, who can’t write, who can’t learn, who coast because luck falls on their side everywhere else except for this one place they really, really needed it. Luck keeps you company when you’re doing well; it leaves you in the dark when you want something more. It ignores wishes, and dishes out harsh reality. It makes you think luck really doesn’t exist at all.”
“But then luck. Luck puts her on your street. Luck makes her your age. Luck gives you her kind heart to keep you from bottom. It pushes you high, and makes you almost feel normal. Luck makes her say yes, and it makes her say yes again and again and again, until you forget how lucky you are that she ever said yes in the first place.”
“Luck…” he say
s, his breath faltering and his hands now fists at his side. His voice becomes raw and nervous as his eyes close. “Luck slaps you hard in the chest. It punches you in the face. It suffocates you to near death then shakes you awake with warning—one last warning—that you are going to blow it. It kicks you. It stabs you. It reminds you. It begs you and cautions you. You are going to lose her, and you’re almost out of luck. It can’t save you this time. You can’t blame luck if you mess this one up. Luck is just a four-letter word, but regret…that’s a lifetime.”
His eyes open as his head leans just enough to the side for his vision to find me. I wipe the threat of tears away fast, only to feel more moving in to replace them, and, as my friend opens her mouth to say something, I grab her arm with my hand and squeeze, a non-verbal plea for her to not ruin this, to not try to understand it, or question it, or ask me to fill in the blanks that I have plenty of on my own.
The applause happens in the background, and it’s sporadic and awkward, just as it should be. Jace thanks the judges, dismissing himself to the side of the stage where he takes the short set of steps to my level then out an exit to the side. My hands squeeze the wood of my armrests, and the presentation continues on stage in the background, a new student being announced, a new poem beginning. I’m sure what Jace wrote on that paper would never convey the words he just spoke. I’m sure the people judging him have no idea what to do with his entry now, and I’m sure they think he’s a hopeless case—simply some punk who riffed a bunch of one-liners that tricked everyone into thinking he’s something special.
But I know they’re wrong. Because he is special. That was special. That was something I wish I was capable of, and it has me full of other four-lettered words, just like the original poem I wrote.
Envy.
Hope.
Heart is one letter too many, so maybe it’s…
Love.
“Go,” Brit finally says in my ear, her whisper loud enough that a few others near us hear and shush her.
Hush.
I glare at them, my eyes wide and my heart pounding, but then turn back to my friend and nod, rushing to the door on the side.
Fast.
When I push it open, I quickly realize I’m near the back side of the auditorium, and the darkness makes it hard to find him. The door behind me slams to a close, and, instantly, I’m cut off. There is no going back from here.
He was waiting. He was hoping. He was wishing.
His voice guides me to where he sits on a wall, his tie now loose around his neck, the top button undone on his shirt and the bottoms untucked from his slacks. Disheveled, exhausted and beautiful—this is my Jace, the boy almost a man, fighting to find himself in the middle of chaos.
“All I knew was the title of your first poem, so I tried to be…I don’t know…inspired, I guess. How’d I do?” he asks, the slight quiver in his voice a clue that he isn’t sure of anything.
A hint.
“I think they really liked it,” I say, stepping to him.
He pulls his hands from his pockets, holding them out and open toward me, but my guard is still there from his week of silence. He senses it.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so…gone. And not just lately, but…you know,” he says, breathing in deep and settling his gaze on mine, his eyes working around my face in a way that shows he’s sincere. “I wanted to do something big. I wanted to earn it…earn you.”
My fingers touch against the tips of his and fall into place. The fit is perfect, and everything suddenly feels right. My heart finds a new rhythm.
Beat.
“My brother got you to come,” he admits through a crooked grin.
I mimic him.
“He did,” I say, suddenly understanding the things Zack didn’t say—that Jace wanted me here, that I needed to be here, that I had to hear him out and see for myself.
“I’m glad,” he says, his head falling against mine as I sink into him, my hands loosening their hold on his, and sliding up and around his neck. His touch comes to my face, his thumbs stroking hair behind my ears and feeling the evidence left behind from tears.
“I hear there’s a meteor shower tonight,” he says, his smile causing his jaw to flex and shift against the inside of my arm.
“Yeah? You maybe want to stay up late and see what we can see?” I nervously laugh.
I’m flirting.
I’m falling.
I’m giving in.
I’m forgiving.
I’m four letters away…
“I can’t think of anything I’d love more,” he says, stopping only to brush his lips lightly on mine. My breath halts, and my lashes sweep against his cheek, as I tuck myself completely into his hold.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and see one stretch across the sky,” I say against his heart and chest.
He only chuckles and wraps his arms around me tighter, eventually kissing the top of my head.
“Maybe,” he says. “I’m kind of a lucky guy, or so I’ve learned.”
I laugh lightly with him, but think about how little luck has had to do with anything in his life. Persistence, for sure, and charm, definitely. But I can’t believe that the bruises and harsh words and hiding and feeling inadequate had anything remotely to do with luck. Adversity, yes. Luck? No.
We walk to the front of the school where his mom is waiting along with Zack. I tease his brother for tricking me, as Jace and his mom talk near her car, but kiss Zack lightly on the cheek and thank him before he steps away and joins his mother, leaving me to drive. When Jace’s hand finds mine again in the car, I can’t help but look at it and think about the speech he made moments ago and what led to this moment—the right now.
Maybe it was luck. Perhaps it was chance. But I kind of think it was Jace.
And I think maybe…just maybe…he might just be mine.
THE END
About the Authors
Ali Dean grew up in Vermont and now lives in Colorado withher husband, twin toddlers, and golden retriever. Ali write young adult sports romance. She is the author of the Pepper Jones series and the Stark Springs series. When she's not writing orchasing toddlers, Ali runs with a double-wide jogging stroller most days, andon others she attempts to keep up with her husband on a bike while he pulls thekids on his, or on cross-country skis, depending on the season. She ispassionate about ice cream, coffee, and pedicures. To be the first to get Ali Dean's news, join her email list here: http://eepurl.com/bI-0kv
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Kristen Kehoe grew up in West Eugene and went to school in Corvallis, Oregon. After eight years in the desert, a place which granted her her husband and her beautiful daughter, she’s finally moved back to the Pacific Northwest. She reads and write love stories because despite the ugliness that the world holds, it also holds so much love, and so much grace, and everyone needs a happy ending. She loves coffee, books, big dogs, and rainy days.
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Cassie Mae (who dons the name Becca Ann on occasion) is the author of a few hundred… okay, maybe not that many… books. Some of which became popular for their quirky titles, characters, and stories. She likes writing about nerds, geeks, the awkward, the fluffy, the short, the shy, the loud, the fun.
Since publishing her bestselling debut
, Reasons I Fell for the Funny Fat Friend, she has published and sold books to Random House, Swoon Romance, and is the founder of CookieLynn Publishing Services. She is represented by Sharon Pelletier at Dystel and Goderich Literary Management. She has a favorite of all her book babies, but no, she won’t tell you what it is. (Mainly because it changes depending on the day.)
Along with writing, Cassie likes to binge watch Once Upon A Time and The Flash. She can quote Harry Potter lines quick as a whip. And she likes kissing her hubby, but only if his facial hair is trimmed. She also likes cheesecake to a very obsessive degree.
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Tessa Marie aka Theresa Paolo lives on Long Island, NY with her fiancé and their fish. She is the author of NA and YA contemporary romances. Her debut novel (NEVER) AGAIN, released in Fall 2013 with Berkley (Penguin) and the companion novel (ONCE) AGAIN released Summer 2014. Both her books HOME IS WHERE YOU ARE and PROVE ME WRONG are Amazon bestsellers. She is also the coauthor of the Amazon bestselling Beds Series. She has a hard time accepting the fact she’s in her early thirties (very early), and uses her characters to relive the best and worst years of her life. She put her love of writing on hold while she received her Bachelor’s Degree in Marketing from Dowling College. When she’s not writing, she’s behind a camera, reading, watching Vampire Diaries and Pretty Little Liars, or can be found on Twitter, Pinterest and Facebook.