“Me too. Good night, Jolie.”
After she flounced off into the darkened quad toward her own college, Alex adjusted the computer so he filled the frame. “She’s the one I was texting last night. I forgot to pick up my dress robes from the dry cleaners, and we had an event last night. John offered to let me borrow his since he wasn’t attending, so Jolie said she’d bring it up to me since she lives in the next college and John is staying at off-campus housing.”
I shook my head. “I’m so sorry for doubting you, Alex.”
He waved off my apology. “It’s only natural. Although, honestly, if she’s enamored of either of us, I think it’s you.”
I scoffed. “Me? How? She’s only just met me.”
Alex’s expression turned sheepish. “I may have been bragging about you a bit. I think she’s developed a little idol worship or maybe even a girl crush—whatever the kids are calling it nowadays. You made her day by inviting her to the poetry event.”
As cute as Jolie was, I was getting tired of talking about her. I didn’t want to waste any more of our precious time together, so I steered the conversation another way. “She said her dad is enjoying working with you. How’s the research going for you?”
Alex sighed. “Slow. There’s not a lot of time for it between two lectures, office hours, and grading papers.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m already looking forward to the end of term so we can dedicate our time to it.”
“And I’m looking forward to the end of summer so I can see you again.”
“It’ll be here before you know it. So two days to go before your big event. How are things?”
“Insane. I’m so tired I can barely see straight. We still have a lot to do. I have to do a run-through of the event with the crew and make sure all the details are in place. You’d think I’d have adrenaline singing through my veins, but it feels more like the sludge from an oil slick.”
Alex grimaced. “Oh, I know those days. What you need is a good night’s sleep. If I was there, I’d take you in my arms and hold you until you finally fell asleep.” His face lit up. “Actually, I have an idea. Put on your pajamas.”
I gave the computer a skeptical look. “What?”
“You heard me.” Alex stood, and the screen shook as he carried the laptop—and me—inside.
I ducked out of range of the camera—I didn’t know who could see the screen—and changed. When I was ready, I found Alex in his apartment, shirtless with the lights dimmed.
“Get into bed,” he commanded.
I did so, positioning the computer so that it was next to my head.
Six thousand miles away, he did the same thing. We were lying cheek to cheek, only two computer screens between us.
He put a hand up to the camera. “I may not be able to hold you, but I can be with you as you drift off.”
I touched his hand and closed my eyes.
He began to sing.
The last thing I heard before I surrendered to sleep was his promise that he’d never stop loving me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Two days later, outside the theatre, I glanced one more time at the text Alex had sent me that morning. Remember what Casanova said, ‘Be the flame not the moth.’ Everyone will love you. I took a deep breath, doing my best to believe he was right. Granted anything would have been an improvement on Nick’s lack of ideas, but I really wanted tonight to be a success.
I squared my shoulders and swung open the heavy door then took a deep breath as it hissed closed behind me. A sizable crowd had already gathered. Some of the older students and adults were sitting quietly or talking amongst themselves, while the prospective students preferred to lean across aisles, kneel backward on seats, and shout to one another. Normally such shenanigans would have annoyed me, but tonight these kids gave the event a celebratory air that was exactly what I’d been hoping for.
On stage, crew members clad head to toe in black were arranging stools and testing microphones with the gibberish intelligible only to roadies and soundboard technicians. Behind the standard red curtain, someone tuned a guitar. I climbed the spiraling staircase up to the sound and light booth.
“Hey, Annabeth,” one of the students called before barking a lighting cue into her headset.
“You guys having fun?” I asked, setting down my messenger bag and fishing out my script.
“Not as much fun as we will be when this thing gets started,” said an Asian girl with a flaming ombre dye job. “If they like this as much as I did, you’re going to rock the house!”
“Seriously,” the girl with the headset said, “you’re making me think I should take a poetry class. I do need an extra elective in fall.”
Ombre girl handed me what the theatre industry affectionately referred to as “the God mic.” It was the microphone usually reserved for house-wide announcements such as casting changes and reminders to silence cell phones. But tonight, I was using it to play the role of narrator.
“Ready?” she asked.
I nodded.
The house lights dimmed three times in the traditional signal the show was about to begin. Minutes later, the whole theatre was plunged into darkness.
From out of the black, my voice rang out. “When you think of poetry, is this what you envision?”
A spotlight illuminated Dean McAllister center stage, dressed in his most professorial tan tweed suit with a red sweater vest and gold pocket watch. He recited the first verse of William Blake’s poem “Auguries of Innocence” with as much vigor and enthusiasm as drying paint. I laughed along with the tittering crowd. He was hamming it up so much they knew he was doing it on purpose.
“Or maybe this is more of what you had in mind?” I intoned as the dean’s spotlight faded and another fell on Kendra playing the role of hipster to a tee from the coffee house setting to her black turtleneck and beret.
She tilted her chunky glasses down on her nose and recited the same poem with a performance artist’s rage and bizarre sensibilities.
“To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.
A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.”
Here she roared for effect and hopped onto her chair, failing her arms wildly like a trapped bird.
“A dove house fill’d with doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thro’ all its regions.”
She jumped off her chair and flapped her arms as though she were flying. The spotlight went out, leaving the stage in darkness. Pulleys whined, and the central curtain rose.
“But did you know that poetry is often the basis for music? For what is a song but a poem set to music? Surely you’ve heard this version.”
A lone guitar picked out a Spanish-style rhythm, and colored lights illuminated a tall blond singer doing his best Sting impression as he crooned “Send Your Love,” a hit song whose first verse was based on the same poem.
I still didn’t know how the dean had gotten permission for them to play this song, but I was grateful that he had no matter how much it had cost. Soon the audience was on its feet, clapping to the rhythm. A few girls were dancing in the aisles while others were even singing along.
The crowd cheered when the song ended, and I had to wait for them to quiet down before I could continue. “If you thought that was cool, tell me—how many of you ever thought of rap as poetry?”
A few tentative claps followed two hoots.
“Don’t buy it?” I asked them. “Then check this.”
Center stage was lit again, this time with two spotlights, one on Miles and the other on Kendra, both of whom were dressed in hoodies and jeans. Miles grabbed his mic and started rapping. It took a few seconds for the audience to realize he was reciting the same poem. Kendra answered with the second verse as though they were competitors, and by the middle of the poem, we had a full-on rap battle on our hands.
<
br /> The kids were eating it up, getting out of their seats to stand in front of the stage as if they were at a concert, picking sides based on where they stood and jeering at the rappers and one another in turn.
When they were done, I asked, “Want to do it again?”
They yelled an enthusiastic “Yes!” and so we went through the same versions with Max Dunn’s poem “I Danced Before I Had Two Feet,” which was later turned into the song “I Danced” by the Violent Femmes.
While the band played, I crept down the aisle to backstage. When the final drum beats and cheers faded away, I stepped onto the stage and into the spotlight.
Fighting the urge to shield my eyes, I announced, “Now it’s your turn. This is kinda going to be like the Broadway round of So You Think You Can Dance. You can either adapt Dunn’s poem for a rap battle or write your own poem to be performed in any of the three main styles. No, Dean McAllister will not make your poem boring, but any of the others are fair game. As an added incentive, professors in the audience will judge each of the original poems for creativity. If they like yours enough, it’ll be included in the year-end literary journal and will count as one of the writing samples required with your admission application.”
Professor Aine Schopfman stood and yelled, without the aid of a microphone, “Plus, we have gift cards for iTunes and Starbucks for those who really wow us.”
Below me, students where already dividing into groups and pointing at one another as they formed teams.
“Are you ready? You have sixty minutes. We’ll be back here and online then. Those of you joining us online, you can compete as well. Just email your poem to the address on the screen. We’ll cue you in when it’s your turn. Oh, I almost forgot—both free verse and rhyming poems are fine.”
The kids split up, some claiming seats in the theatre or on the stage while others followed the professors into the hall. I shut off my mic and wandered backstage, ready to wait ten minutes then mill among the groups to answer questions.
Dean McAllister greeted me with a huge bear hug before I even cleared the stage left curtains. “You were right, Annabeth. They love this. I doubt any of them have ever thought about poetry quite like this.”
“I’m glad you’re happy with it, sir. You seemed to be having quite a good time.”
“Are you kidding me? I now have something I can threaten my students with the next time they misbehave. ‘Don’t make me do the poetry teacher voice.’” He chuckled.
A group of university students nervously approached the dean in a cluster of long hair, perfume, and giggles.
“Dean McAllister, if we perform our poem, can we get extra credit in your Poetry and Poetics class?” the bravest girl asked.
“I don’t see why not.”
One of the girls squealed.
“Thank you,” they chorused.
The dean turned to me. “What about you? You’re a writer. Will you be performing anything?”
I gaped at him. I hadn’t thought about it.
I glanced at my watch, but the dean placed a hand over it. “Don’t worry about them. I’ll make the rounds if you want to write.”
An hour later, ten groups of would-be students competed, with four earning places in the literary journal and all getting gift cards. We had two online submissions. One was from Jolie, and it resulted in an argument among the professors over who would be her advisor if she decided to come to school here. The dean’s freshman girls did a surprisingly moving a capella rendition of their poem that earned them a standing ovation.
Then it was my turn. I closed my eyes and let the words pour out in chant:
“Hear me now, oh gods of night
You who govern the moon’s pale light.
Listen, too, oh gods of noon,
Who writ my path with words of ruin:
‘Loneliness shall be her fate
Through endless ages shall she wait.
For one who never shall appear.
Lost, to pass away in greatest fear.’
Hear me now all powers above
For she you’ve cursed as found love.
The one thing that can break your vows
Here and now do I espouse.
For I have found my missing key,
He who shall for’ere be joined to me.
Harken now, your fears are true
I, in my weakness, have bested you.
For love has melted my heart as snow,
And given me more joy than you can know.
So may your own words now reverse.
That you may feel the bitterness of curse.
Be gone from me o’ wretched bane,
And in your place may love remain.”
When I opened my eyes again, the theatre was completely silent, as though the audience was afraid to breathe. In many ways, it was like a recurring nightmare. I actually looked down to make sure I wasn’t naked. Nope. My clothes were all in their rightful places. Then someone clapped at the back of the crowd, a gesture soon picked up by others. Before I knew it, the whole audience was applauding. As ombre girl dimmed the spotlight, I took my bow.
I turned to where the webcam betrayed itself with a single speck of blue light and blew it a kiss. “I love you,” I mouthed, knowing Alex would get the message when he awoke.
I stumbled into the office the next morning, eyes shielded by oversized sunglasses, a large gourmet coffee in one hand and fast food breakfast in the other. I hadn’t gotten home until after midnight, and with the excitement of the event buzzing through my veins, it had been several more hours before I finally fell asleep.
Kendra accosted me in the hallway, practically spinning me around in a hug. “You are a genius. Do you know what our social media numbers look like? We were a local trending topic on Twitter last night for more than two hours, plus the university reported a significant uptick in traffic to our site. We had more than thirty thousand views on the live stream, and we expect that number to grow today as people continue to talk. We’re doing several media interviews today, so you might be famous if they use the B-roll of your poem.”
I pulled my sunglasses up into my hair. “Oh God, please don’t. This should be about the students not me. No, you cannot use my footage. I forbid it.”
Kendra’s face fell. “But you were so strong, so fierce.”
“I said no, and you are legally required to get my permission, which you don’t have.”
“No one wants to hear your shitty poem anyway,” Nick called from the bowels of his office.
I stopped, confused as to what I was seeing. He was loading his few personal belongings in a cardboard box.
“What’s yours called? ‘Bitter, lazy, and fired’?” Kendra asked.
He gave a small sarcastic laugh. “Shut it, Kendra.”
She kept on walking, calling over her shoulder, “I’m just saying if you had done your job in the first place…”
He silently flipped the bird at her retreating figure, then he glared at me. “I suppose you’re here to gloat.”
I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Nope. Actually, I didn’t know about it until just now. What happened?”
“I won the lottery.” His voice was dripping with ire. “What do you think happened? Laini came in singing your praises with the board chorusing behind her. Hence, I no longer have a job.”
“You’re blaming me for your lack of planning? That’s brilliant. Well, you can’t say I didn’t try to help.”
“Just get out of here. I don’t want to see you again.”
I shoved off the wall. “Famous last words.”
He looked up.
“Isn’t that what you said to me after Rome?”
“Whatever.” He slammed down the light switch and walked off in the opposite direction.
Miles was grinning when I finally made it to our shared space. “Ding dong, the evil bastard is dead,” he sang. “So how does it feel to be belle of the ball?”
I grinned at him. “Pretty d
amn good actually.”
Laini stopped in our doorway, arms folded but wearing a triumphant smile. “I see you made it through unscathed.”
“It was just one night.” I dropped my gaze to the floor, hoping to appear humble.
“I was talking about the last four months.”
My head snapped up.
“Congratulations, Annabeth, you’re officially an account executive.” Laini held out her hand.
“I—what?”
“I knew he wouldn’t last once the reorganization happened. And you’ve proven yourself. You can move into Jenna’s old office on Monday.”
“That’s also Nick’s old office. You may want to smudge it or do some kind of anti-voodoo cleansing ritual before you move in,” Miles joked.
Laini snorted then left, presumably for her next meeting.
I sank into my chair, stunned.
Miles high-fived me. “See? I told you it was worth waiting him out.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I grumbled, already dialing my phone. “You’re a know-it-all all right.”
“Who are you calling?”
“Alex. I can’t wait to share the news.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
May
My phone dinged just before my alarm went off.
Peering groggily out of one half-open eye, I stretched toward the phone on my nightstand and promptly knocked it onto the floor. I cursed, leaned out of bed, and grabbed it, wondering what loving thought Alex had sent my way from across the pond this morning.
But when I finally focused on the screen, I sighed, shoulders hunching. It wasn’t from Alex. It was from Mia.
As soon as I opened the text, a blurry image dominated the screen along with Mia’s brief message: I thought you should see this from a friend. Call me.
I didn’t need to enlarge the image to tell it was from one of England’s tawdry gossip rags. At first, I thought the guy leaning into a tanned blond with long hair and a short camel skirt was Bradley Cooper, but then I realized this was no Hollywood star. I recognized him for a wholly different reason.
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