The Henley High Poetry Club

by Jude Warne

  “Well, that’s great news. Yes, I would like to say hello, just for a moment,” Dad answered.

  We entered into a huge room with the highest ceilings that I’d ever seen. There were candles everywhere and white Christmas lights hanging from the rafters. People, who seemed to be a mix of familiar-looking professors I’d seen Mom and Dad with and older rock and roll stars, occupied every corner of the huge space. The music that we had heard from outside now proved to have come from a guitarist who sat playing live in the middle of the room. One long banquet table held a feast of fancy-looking appetizers and snacks, another held bottles and bottles of champagne, and one more held stacks and stacks of what must have been Mr. Cooper’s new book. Boy, I thought, I want my book party to be exactly like this.

  “Wow, Wren, this is amazing.”

  “Thank you, Hunter. Yeah, this is probably the biggest soiree that we’ve had since we moved here. Hey, there’s my dad! Let’s go say hi.”

  Wren took my hand and led Dad and me over to the table of books. On the way I spotted a room to the left that appeared to house walls and walls of vinyl records. It must have been the collection that Tyler had mentioned; I wished that he could’ve seen it in person.

  My heart thumped loudly in my chest and I hoped that the guitar music would drown it out. Mr. Cooper stood talking to a couple who appeared to be fawning over him. He was smiling, flashing actor-white teeth and listening to what the man was telling him. Wren still held my hand as we reached him.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” he said to her. “I’ll see you later—stick around for the reading if you can, it’ll happen later tonight,” he told the couple as they shook his hand and walked off.

  Mr. Cooper was dressed all in denim and wore motorcycle boots. His hair was shockingly white and the frames of his large eyeglasses were American flag patterned. When he saw my Dad, his face lit up and he shook his hand enthusiastically.

  “Bert! How are you? I’m so glad you came.”

  “Good, good, it’s great to see you too, Sam. Congrats on the new book. From what I hear around campus, it’s supposed to hit the bestseller list in no time. And this is my son Hunter—I was dropping him off to see Wren here—”

  “Hunter!” Mr. Cooper suddenly turned his attention toward me and shook my hand. “Wren’s told me what a wonderful writer you are!”

  I felt myself blush again. I was kind of getting used to this reaction of mine. Maybe I could work it into my act, like part of my character appeal.

  “Well, I try. I’m sure you’re wonderful too. I mean, you have a book party. And a book!”

  I laughed nervously, but I wasn’t sure my charm was working on him. Something about Mr. Cooper reminded me of a Great White Shark . . . with many teeth.

  “I have several books, Hunter. This one, though, is my best yet, in my opinion. Time will tell what its effect on society and culture will be—once the reviews come in from the Chronicle and The LA Times and some East Coast outlets—”

  All of a sudden Mr. Cooper seemed to notice something near my feet and pointed. His tone changed and it made me a little nervous.

  “Something seems to be, uh, dripping, from your bag there. Just go into the kitchen if you could— these rugs are brand new.”

  How could I have forgotten—the cedar sage ice cream! I still held the quart in its shopping bag, which was now half filled with chocolate goop.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Cooper! I meant to . . . I brought this for you. It’s from Weir’s Weird Ice Cream Shop. My favorite flavor.”

  Mr. Cooper wore a vague look of disgust on his face but seemed to catch himself and forced a smile.

  “Thank you so much, Hunter, very thoughtful . . . Wren, can you take him into the kitchen, please? It’s just the rugs, they’re new . . . ”

  “Sure, Daddy. Come on, Hunter, I can show you the terrace then, too.”

  Wren guided me away from the ice creamed rug and into the kitchen. I felt really badly about the mess and worried that it had lessened my coolness effect. Still, Mr. Cooper seemed to be more uptight than I had imagined he would be.

  On the kitchen counters were trays and trays of mini cupcakes with rainbow icing, which would go well with the ice cream, I imagined—if it hadn’t completely melted. I reached into the bag and pulled the container out. It was still dripping profusely so I held it over the kitchen sink as Wren grabbed some paper towels. She started to wipe off the bottom but suddenly the whole thing slipped from my hand and dropped into the sink, splattering on the counter—and of course, onto my face.

  We both froze, until Wren burst out laughing. I couldn’t help but join; the moment was too hysterical.

  It always seemed that when a guy tried to be his coolest self, an outside force swept in and tripped him up.

  In one fast move, Wren picked up the container again, wiped it off, and stuck it in the freezer, heaving a sigh of relief as she shut its door.

  “Thank you . . . I think,” she joked.

  “It’s really good; you’ll like it. Weir’s is the best.”

  “I kept meaning to check it out; I’m always riding my bike past the shop.”

  Wren gave me the onceover and raised an eyebrow before she spoke again.

  “Wow, Hunter. You’re a mess.”

  I looked down and saw that my shirt was splattered with chocolate sage. Wren dampened a paper towel with water from the sink and tried wiping it off. Her glittery gold face paint made her look unreal in all of the candlelight. The closer that she got to me, the more I could smell her flowery scent.

  “There, that’s better,” Wren said as she tossed the paper towel onto the kitchen counter. “Come on, let’s check out the balcony.”

  It was more than a balcony; in fact, I classified it as a straight-up patio.

  As we approached the edge, it all came into view—the hills below, the whole city, Berkeley’s clock tower, and the bay beyond—all lit up by the descending sun. I was sure that I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

  An idea for a new poem suddenly came to me and all at once I knew what I would write about for my entry into the poetry contest at school. It would be called “The Second Part” and would be told from my point of view as a successful author, hosting my own book party like this one, living in a house like this one, being with a girl like Wren.

  I turned to face her. The evening breeze had picked up and it caused her midnight-black hair to dance around her glittered face. I suddenly felt a surge of confidence that my recent inspiration had brought on.

  Wren smiled up at me and inched closer. My heartbeat grew even louder to my ears and I tried to pretend that I was Jack Kerouac hanging out with one of the pretty girls that his characters always seemed to run into in his stories. Wren inched closer again.

  I had to do it, I had to lean in and kiss her. So I took a deep breath, wrapped my arms around her, and did.

  The next few days, at home and at school, sped by in a blur.

  That Friday morning the rain poured down hard and it was the last thing I needed. I was late for school, I had neglected to take an umbrella with me, and I was trying and failing to keep my book bag dry. In it was a very precious item.

  I was on my way to Ms. Reese’s first period Lit class, where I would turn in my entry for the Junior Year Poetry Contest. I had worked constantly on the poem for the past week and I was certain that it was the best I had written yet. In the process, I had kind of pushed the work for my other courses to the side. I had asked my Government teacher if my presentation could be rescheduled, and I hadn’t done my Trig homework in a few days. I was lucky that Mr. Kim only checked homework assignments weekly, meaning that he wouldn’t expect any work turned in until next week. I would have to do it over the weekend.

  Apart from Lit class every morning, and the Thursday Poetry Club meeting, I had seen Wren only once. After school on Wednesday we had gone to Weir’s Weird Ice Cream Shop to share some actually-frozen Cedar Sage Chocolate. She loved it—as everyone in his or her righ
t mind did—and we got to share the poems that we were working on with each other.

  I had been surprised at how good Wren’s was. I knew that she was talented at most things, and I was head over heels for her. I had even taken to snooping around her Facebook page, something I usually tried to avoid. Since the book party, I thought about her all the time. On Thursday I took her to meet Bobcat the Bartender at Vesuvio, after the Poetry Club meeting. He served us ginger ales and told Wren all about the history of the place. I showed her the upstairs portion, with its cool black-and-white photographs and retro posters.

  Wren read her poem to me and it was incredible, all about this magnolia tree in a garden somewhere in Georgia. When I asked her if she liked Georgia, she said that she had never been there before. I was amazed—but then again, my sci-fi story on the mer-people wasn’t based on real events either.

  I finished the last bit of my ginger ale as Wren read the last line of her poem. We were the only ones in the shop and she looked up at me.

  “Well—what do you think? I’m going to enter it into the contest on Friday.”

  “I love it,” I told her, because I really did.

  Wren had liked my poem too, the one I had gotten the idea for at her dad’s party. It was my way of creating my future, or at least how I wanted it to be—living in an awesome house in Berkeley with views of the city, publishing book after book of my own material and having celebratory book parties, and living with a joyful gorgeous girl who dug me and who I dug right back. I had typed the final copy last night at eleven o’clock after multiple versions, with Sal the Cat eyeing me suspiciously from his perch on the windowsill. I hadn’t had much time to play with him lately because of my devotion to working on the poem, and he always got moody when that happened. I trusted that he would come back around.

  The rain was still pouring down relentlessly as I got to school. I rushed in through the main entrance, threw my junk in my locker, and ran into Ms. Reese’s classroom. Even though I was getting there nearly fifteen minutes late, it seemed that I hadn’t missed much. Wren waved at me as I took my seat next to Tyler and Carmelita. Ms. Reese was still writing assignment dates and topic points up on the board.

  “Hey, guys,” I said as I dug through my bag for the poem. Once I found it, I felt relieved to find it only slightly wet from the rain. “Where do I—“

  “Right there,” Tyler answered, pointing to a stack of papers on Ms. Reese’s desk. I threw my poem in and sat back on my ottoman to take a moment and relax. I had worked hard on it and needed sleep desperately.

  “Best of luck, my man,” Tyler said.

  “Thanks. How did your poems come out, you guys?”

  “I felt sort of strained, man, I don’t know,” Tyler answered. “Ever since this poetry club stuff I think too much about the whole thing, you know? It’s harder to ease into a brilliant idea now.”

  “Hmm, I think I get you, Tyler. What about it, Car?”

  She looked over at me and deeply into my eyes. We hadn’t seen each other that much lately, and I wasn’t sure if she knew what had gone down between Wren and me last weekend. Carmelita had decided to walk to school alone this week, saying something about dropping packages off at the post office for her mom every morning, which would have taken us too far out of the way. But this was ridiculous; the post office never opened before nine.

  Today Carmelita wore the denim skirt that made it difficult for me to concentrate on anything else whenever I glanced at her. She looked extra pretty— but probably because I hadn’t seen her enough lately.

  “Hunter?” Carmelita reached across Tyler and touched my arm to make sure that she had my attention. She did.

  “Yeah?”

  “Wait for me after last period okay? We can walk home together, maybe stop off at Weir’s.”

  The way that she said it gave me a funny feeling in my stomach. What was going on?

  “Sure thing, Car. I’ll see you later.”

  It stopped raining at around three-thirty that afternoon, when the sun began to poke out from behind swarms of grey clouds.

  “What do you want, Carmelita?”

  We had just entered Weir’s and taken a table near the back of the store. Car stared at me in disbelief.

  “Really? What do I always order, Hunter?”

  “One scoop of cedar sage chocolate, one scoop of cherry cardamom.”

  “Well there it is, that’s what I want.”

  She laughed as I went up to the counter. Maybe Carmelita didn’t notice anything different about us, but I did.

  Since spending more time with Wren, I had become super aware of a girl and a guy being out together and what that might mean. Even though Car had been my close friend for years and we had been out together many times, it suddenly felt more significant. It almost felt like a date.

  I brought back the orders to the table and Car reached into her wallet to pay me.

  “Ah no—don’t worry about it,” I said.

  “Hunter please, you do not have to pay for me,” she responded, still digging around in her wallet.

  “I know.” My face felt hot again. “I want to.”

  “Okay, well . . . thanks.”

  We ate in silence for a few moments before Carmelita spoke again.

  “Are you gonna see your girlfriend again this weekend?”

  “Who, you mean Wren?”

  “That’s right.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend, Car—”

  “Well, whatever the heck she is—”

  “Not my girlfriend, we’re just . . . hanging out.”

  Carmelita furrowed her brow and seemed to go deep in thought.

  “Right,” she said, “but isn’t that what we do? Just hang out?”

  She looked up at me and seemed to suggest something with her eyes that I didn’t want to think about.

  “Well, sure, I guess.”

  Car put her spoon down in a decided way and looked at me intensely again. I had seen her like this only once before—when she had told me about breaking up with her ex, the math tutor nerd Walter Preiner, in freshman year. And I had a feeling that I knew where she was headed with this, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to head there with her. I was going through a lot at the moment—with my writing, and Wren—and I didn’t need this too.

  “Look Hunter, I’m sure you know by now that I’ve been into you for a long time.”

  I nearly choked on my ice cream. “What?”

  Car threw her head back and laughed. I couldn’t imagine what was so funny; this felt like a very important moment.

  “Oh come on, you’ve always known it! I’ve tried to hint at it, to feel you out over the past year after I realized how I felt, but you didn’t pick it up.”

  “What do you mean, ‘didn’t pick it up’? Were you super obvious about it or something?”

  Carmelita sighed and looked to either side of her, like she didn’t want to have to explain further.

  “I thought that I was . . . I don’t know. I do know that we have a great friendship and I don’t want to mess that up. And I know that you’re into this crazy chick from class and that’s fine. Even if we don’t agree on everything, I don’t want to lose you . . . you know, as my friend.”

  I felt a sudden flash of memory as I remembered Carmelita coming to my apartment during freshman year, weeping. She had torn me away from the girl I wanted at the time, torn me away from Mara. I remembered Car spending the night with me in my room, after she had told me all about Walter and the break-up. Us falling asleep on opposite sides of the bed in the outfits we had worn to school that day. Car running out in the morning. How empty my room had felt once she’d left.

  I didn’t know what to say. All of this was a lot to take in. It annoyed me that Carmelita was acting like it was all over and done with, like of course I knew that she had feelings for me, and of course I had turned her down many times. When had all this happened, really? Where had I been?

  “Well, it sounds like you’ve got it all
figured out, then. Thanks for your blessing.” My tone sounded harsher and more sarcastic than I had intended, but I was ticked off.

  “Oh stop, Hunter. I’ve always had guy friends. I’m used to this happening. Just friends is fine.”

  I sighed in annoyance.

  Why was she articulating all of this? Why was Carmelita bringing this up now, now that I had a romantic possibility with Wren?

  Now Car wanted to tell me that she should be dating me instead? Even though she’d known me for years and could have brought the issue up at any time? She made everything messy and difficult. She made it sound like I had missed an opportunity of some great worth, which was total news to me.

  Well, I wouldn’t make this easy for her then. I would play dumb.

  “Look, Car, frankly, I don’t really know what you’re talking about here.”

  She knew me too well and eyed me skeptically.

  “Fine then, just forget I said anything.”

  “Okay, great.”

  Carmelita folded her arms across her chest in defiance and sighed.

  “I’ve got to go, Hunter. I’m supposed to meet Julian to check out this concert in Oakland. His brother plays guitar in some rock band with a weird name—the Lemon Lennons or something.”

  Julian Frey, that double-crossing—so, he wanted Carmelita now.

  “Julian, huh? Not so sure about him these days.”

  “You love Julian, Ziv—”

  “I used to, but lately he seems uber-paranoid, don’t you think?”

  Carmelita laughed and stood up to leave.

  “Whatever you say, Ziv. Have a great weekend. Let’s walk to school together again on Monday, okay?”

  She smiled at me and I felt my cheeks get hot. I looked away fast, hoping that she hadn’t noticed.

  “Okay. You too.” I stood up to hug her goodbye like I usually did. Suddenly I didn’t want her to leave. Suddenly I didn’t want to let her go. But I had to.

  When I got home, Mom and Dad told me that Amelia had left a note for me.