The Henley High Poetry Club

by Jude Warne

  This last bit sounded especially familiar. I looked over at Carmelita, who was laughing with Tyler.

  You’ve been so serious lately. You know, you can be a great writer and still have fun.

  Right again, Carmelita, I thought to myself. You always are.

  Maybe what I thought I had wanted, I didn’t really want after all.

  I knew that I wanted to be a writer. I knew that I loved Jack Kerouac and the other Beat poets and their writing. When Wren and her dumbo sidekick Will came along with the poetry club, and then when the poetry contest happened, I must’ve gotten caught up in all of it.

  I had been crushing on Wren for months—since I had run into her at the library, right after she moved to Berkeley. When she singled out my poem and then invited me to her dad’s book party, it was like seeing my dream realized in a matter of weeks. It was all so perfect, even Wren.

  But what if perfection didn’t exist? A poem about perfection then, like my contest entry, could seem creepy, fake, boring—and overly serious.

  What if Wren really was a plagiarizer, or at the very least what if she had been involved in—antics that were questionable, as far as the authenticity of her poem went? It made me want to reconsider everything that had gone down these past few weeks.

  Mr. Cooper’s book party. Yes, it had been an incredibly cool event at an incredibly cool house attended by incredibly cool guests. Yes, Mr. Cooper wore incredibly cool glasses. But something had bothered me about the way he had reacted to the ice cream situation. It was true that I had goofed by forgetting to give it to Wren right away, but people goof up sometimes. It had been nice of me to bring something to the party. Wasn’t it super uncool to get uptight on me the way that he did?

  The first poetry club meeting. Yes, it had been full of theatrics that had been exciting and a bit shocking and seemed like something that the Beats might have been into. Yes, I had been proud of myself for writing a really good poem on the spot after the other one I wrote had been destroyed. Yes, I had enjoyed being singled out for my work, in front of the others and especially Wren. But something had bothered me about Will and how he’d jumped on Carmelita’s abilities the way that he did. Wasn’t it so not in line with the Beats’ attitude of freedom and acceptance?

  My longtime pals Tyler, Julian, and Carmelita. All of them had at one point or another expressed concern over getting involved in the club. Not that I made a habit out of caring too much about others’ opinions, but these weren’t just “others,” they were friends who knew me well and who I trusted. I had let my ego get the better of me and assumed that my friends’ reservations were just them being jealous of my success. Then I became a bewildered control freak, ruled by the fear that Carmelita would get close to another guy, closer than she was with me. It doesn’t get any more uncool than that!

  My coursework. I’d been neglecting it for nearly all of my other classes. I’d felt it didn’t apply to me because I only cared about writing. I did care about writing most, but I was still in school after all—high school—I’d have to apply to college next year. I’d have to take the SATs in a few months!

  I wasn’t off the hook. The awesome house, book party, friends, were all great—but they had to be mine, right? They had to be . . . authentic. I didn’t want to plagiarize a dream life, to take someone else’s that was already successful, stick my name on it, and hope that nobody found out. I didn’t want to do something like Wren had probably done.

  My contest entry poem had described how I wanted my adult life to be. Since the poem hadn’t made it into the next round, I almost felt like the ideas in it hadn’t either. It wasn’t just my poem that had been judged, it was all of my plans for the future, too.

  That same night, Monday, after Ms. Reese had made the semifinal announcements, I was supposed to go to Sausalito with Wren, making up for the date we had missed over the weekend. I texted her after school and asked if we could meet at Weir’s Weird Ice Cream Shop instead. I didn’t have time to go all the way to Sausalito on a school night, not with the catching up I had to do on my homework. Plus, I wanted to be in a comfortable and familiar environment when I asked Wren some questions about “Flowers on a Friday” or whatever it was called.

  I got to Weir’s around six and Wren was already there. She sat at a table by herself, typing something on her phone. Her face looked tired and devoid of emotion. It was strange to see her without an overwhelming grin. I wondered whether she had always looked kind of unhappy and I just hadn’t noticed it until now.

  I walked into Weir’s as the door entry bell jingle announced my arrival. Wren turned to see who it was and instantly smiled when she saw me. I went to her and she stood to greet me, kissing me on the cheek and hugging me tightly. I still had feelings for her; maybe I always would. But I wished that she would let me go.

  “Did you order yet?” I asked her.

  “No, I wanted to wait for you. I’d love some of that stellar flavor that you brought to the party! I forgot my wallet at home though.”

  She made an over-the-top sad face as she said this, in an attempt to be cute, I thought. I felt like I couldn’t trust her now. Was she trying to manipulate me? Had she always been?

  “It’s okay, I got it.”

  I walked up to the counter, about to order two of the same. No, I thought to myself. Time to change it up.

  “One cup of cedar sage chocolate, and one cup of raspberry thyme, please.”

  I paid using the last of the month’s allowance—I had been spending too much money evidently, as it was only the nineteenth of October—and brought the cups to our table.

  “Thanks, Hunter!” Wren said enthusiastically as she dug into her ice cream. “Wow, this is the best, ab-so-lute-ly.”

  I didn’t have much of an appetite but attempted to make some headway on the raspberry thyme, my second favorite flavor at Weir’s. I was trying to figure out the best way to ask about the source of Wren’s poem without insulting her.

  “I guess this is really a celebratory dessert, isn’t it, Hunter?” she asked.

  “Oh yeah, the contest. Um . . . congratulations! Do you think you’ll win?”

  “I think so—I mean, probably. Based on the work that I’ve seen so far of the other semi-finalists, anyway. Wow, publication! I am ex-ciiiited.”

  How to go about this? I could ask about her inspiration for “Flowers on a Friday.” I stuffed a huge scoop of raspberry thyme into my mouth and got an instant and intense ice cream headache.

  “Well, Carmelita’s work has always been pretty consistent,” I said. “I’m not surprised that she made it at all.”

  Wren looked simultaneously annoyed and nervous.

  “Oh yeah, well, I know you guys are friends. She’s okay, I guess. The poem she turned in to Will at the club meeting though,” she said, making a disgusted face, “was wayyyyy too angry. A turn-off, you know? Not like yours. Yours was . . . positive.”

  You mean it was about you? I thought to myself.

  She had finished her ice cream and reached across the table to take my hand. I left it there for a second but then took it away, pretending that I had to scratch my shoulder. I didn’t want my feelings for Wren, murky as they were at the moment, to get in the way of finding out what I needed to find out.

  “Thanks. Well, at least Carmelita’s was probably original, authentic. True—even if it was angry.”

  I looked down at my ice cream and took another big scoop. Frozen brain, again. Wren watched me in seeming curiosity before she tried to change the subject.

  “Hunter, you still have to take me to Sausalito! I’ve been wanting to go since we moved here. How about this weekend? What’s the best way to get there from Berkeley?”

  I was finding it difficult to come to the point, the point that I wanted to make. The question that I wanted to ask Wren. Maybe I was being paranoid about this too, maybe she had written the poem. It was possible, wasn’t it? Then, what would I do about Carmelita? Ignore what I felt, and stay with Wren?
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br />   What would I do about Carmelita either way?

  “The BART’s best,” I answered. “The BART to the city and then the ferry from Fisherman’s Wharf.” I cleared my throat. “Wren—”

  She looked up at me, straight-on, and I found it difficult to ask what I wanted to ask.

  “—do you want more ice cream?” I started.

  “No, that’s okay, thanks. I’ve had enough.”

  Good thing too, because I was plain out of funds at the moment. I’d have to get to it.

  “So Wren, how did you get the idea for your poem, the ‘Flowers’ one? It was really fantastic I thought, almost—like it was written in another time. Like, decades earlier.”

  She smiled, seeming to be flattered.

  “Well you know that I absolutely love flowers. All kinds. I write about them a lot. This idea, this poem, it just sort of came to me, you know?”

  I was still suspicious and didn’t say anything but tried to appear nonchalant. She continued.

  “First thought, best thought! Like the Beats went for, like the club goes for! Don’t overthink it, just trust your inspiration.”

  As long as it’s yours, I thought. Maybe it was best to come right out and say it. Maybe it was just a misunderstanding. Maybe we’d be laughing about the whole thing in two minutes.

  “Right. Of course. Wren, have you . . . have you ever read any 1930s poetry? Do you like that sort of thing?”

  She looked into my eyes and then furrowed her brow.

  “I guess so, sure . . . I like most poetry I read.”

  “Ever read anything by Larson? Gladys Larson?”

  She had been playing with her ice cream spoon and dropped it on the first “Larson.” It seemed that she had heard of her before.

  “Who?”

  “Larson. Gladys Larson. She wrote a poem called ‘Magnolia Monday?’ It’s kind of obscure now, not taught in schools or anything, I don’t think.”

  Wren looked terrified, like the wind could no longer hold up her sails.

  “Hunter . . . Hunter, I . . . ” She paused and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I can explain everything.”

  Even though I had been pretty sure that this was going to happen, even though my major shock had been when I found the Larson poem on the internet, I was still saddened by Wren’s admittance. A small part of me somewhere inside had wanted to be wrong. A part of me wanted to go on liking Wren, to go on dating her. It was such a funny thing, too. I could still feel my crush on her—it hadn’t disappeared! It just seemed impossible now, impossible for us to go any further. Which made me feel incredibly sad.

  “See, Hunter, Will and I became hardcore poetry fans over the last few months,” Wren said. “We read constantly, all of the poetry that we could get our hands on. He was the first friend that I made here in Berkeley. I didn’t know too much about poetry before, only the basics, the greatest hits. Shakespeare, Keats, Dickinson, Frost, that sort of thing. We would take anthologies out of the university library and spend the weekends reading them straight through. This was about a month and a half ago, around the time that we got the idea to start a poetry club at school. Will’s mom was friends with Ms. Reese and she was super into the idea when we told her. And the more that I read, the more that I wanted to wow people with my stuff.”

  I thought of myself suddenly, how I had wanted to do the same thing with my poem.

  “My dad, too. You met him at the party. He’s . . . well he’s got high standards for writing. I have them too. And I ran out of time with all of my other assignments.”

  Wren spoke faster and faster and her eyes darted every which way. She was even breathing faster. I thought back to my first moments with her. I thought back to first seeing her outside the campus library that day. She had seemed like the most carefree girl in the world, a hippie princess. Now, Wren was a nervous wreck.

  “The night before the contest entries were due,” Wren continued, “I tried my best to pull something together. I was pretty happy with something I had written, and then I showed it to my dad . . . and I could tell that he didn’t think it was any good. I could just . . . tell. And then it was one in the morning, Hunter, and I panicked. That’s when it happened.”

  Wren had tears in her eyes, and it surprised me how scared she still was. I knew I had gotten bad vibes from Mr. Cooper, and having him as a dad . . . Well, I could see how he could freak Wren out about writing in general.

  “What about Will? Was he in on this?”

  “No, he . . . he doesn’t know,” she answered. Then she turned sharply toward me. “Don’t tell him, okay? I just . . . I ran out of time! I did it with a Global Studies paper once, too, back in LA—”

  “A paper? You mean you took one from the internet?”

  I was feeling extremely tired out from this by now; the story seemed to be getting worse. Still, I felt badly for Wren.

  “Just once, it was a while ago now.”

  I sat and stared down at my melted cup of raspberry thyme. For all of my presuming and planning, I didn’t really know what to say now. I more or less understood Wren’s larger issue. I understood what it felt like to be pressed for time on assignments. I spent most of my time working on schoolwork and my writing. But Wren had still plagiarized someone’s poem. That had been optional, too. I mean, if Wren had really run out of time, she should’ve skipped submitting an entry into the contest. It hadn’t been required by Ms. Reese. Wren’s outlook was wrong . . . wasn’t it?

  “Wren . . . I mean . . . I just don’t know. To me, it still seems . . . ”

  She sat up straight and focused her attention on me, interrupting.

  “I think that Gladys Larson and these . . . these old nobodies would want their work out there for the world too, you know? I mean, it’s not all bad!”

  This was getting ridiculous.

  “Well . . . maybe?” I answered, trying to stay calm. I felt like I had to stand up for old nobodies everywhere. “It’s still wrong though. I mean, you’re lying, putting your name on material that isn’t yours! You’re misleading your readers. Don’t you see the . . . the immorality there?”

  My voice had grown louder and the other people in Weir’s were eyeing us curiously. I had gone too far. I seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Or maybe I was just being myself. Maybe I was tired of trying to be so cool all of the time. Maybe my face turned red when I got embarrassed. Maybe I was human.

  Wren had folded her arms across her chest while I was ranting. She seemed to be very angry.

  “Would you please . . . get out of here, Hunter? Just go. Leave me alone.”

  I stood up slowly. I didn’t want to just leave her there.

  “And don’t text me ever again,” she added.

  “Wren, come on. Maybe . . . maybe I can help you. Help you figure out what to do, how to talk to Ms. Reese.”

  I touched Wren softly on the shoulder, trying to comfort her. I had tears in my eyes now, too. Was the only answer to never see each other again? She was still sure that she was right?

  “I don’t need your help, okay?” she insisted. “If you’re the only one who knows, maybe I won’t even have to talk to Ms. Reese at all.”

  “But what if you win?”

  “Well, then I’d figure out what to do about it. You won’t tell, Hunter—promise? If my dad found out, I don’t think he’d ever forgive me!”

  Wren grabbed my hand and held it as she looked into my eyes, pleading.

  “You won’t tell Will, right?” she went on.

  I suddenly felt really badly for Wren. She didn’t get it.

  “No,” I replied as I opened the door, “I won’t tell anyone.”

  I hurried out of there and walked as fast as I could down University Avenue toward home. I popped my jacket collar to deflect the chill of the October night air, with the worst of tastes in my mouth.

  I wouldn’t tell anyone; I wasn’t a snitch. The winner would be announced the next day. I just hoped that Wren wasn’t it. I didn’t think my consc
ience could let that slide. Especially when Carmelita was involved.

  “Now, is everyone ready? I have the results here in my hands, straight from the Dandicat Press editors.”

  Ms. Reese sat in her director’s chair, the kind that belonged on a movie set, at the front of the classroom. She opened a sealed manila envelope, slowly and deliberately, as our whole class watched in silence. Carmelita drummed her fingertips along the notebook in her lap, faster and faster. Kate Shankar clicked her jaw every three seconds in a steady and reliable rhythm. Wren was nowhere in sight.

  “I’d like to congratulate everyone who submitted entries into the contest,” Ms. Reese went on. “The editors at Dandicat Press told me how impressed they were with all of the poems from you guys. I’m excited to spend the rest of the academic year together. Even with the SAT prep coming up soon.”

  Everyone, including me, groaned at that last bit. Ms. Reese put her hands up in defense.

  “All right everybody, that’s enough.”

  Suddenly her manner and tone grew more serious and official. She put the envelope to the side for a moment.

  “I’d also like to point out some unfortunate business that has come up in relation to the contest.”

  Ms. Reese paused, apparently searching for the right words. She had the whole class’s attention now. I had a funny sensation in my stomach again. Ms. Reese took a deep breath and continued.

  “One of the Dandicat editors discovered that one of the contest entry poems was less than original. It was proven to have been plagiarized from an alternate source.”

  Expressions of shock and surprise rose up from everyone except me. I was taken aback by how fast Ms. Reese and the Dandicat editors had found out. Relief swept over me too, knowing that I wouldn’t have to decide whether or not to turn Wren in for plagiarism. I wished I could’ve explained to her myself that . . . well, that I’d rather turn in the worst poem I’d ever written than anything of someone else’s. Because at the end of the day, it was just a dumb high school contest! I mean, it didn’t matter that much in the big scheme of things!