by Scott, Emma
I went back to darts while Connor and Autumn racked up the pool balls again. Ruby and a few others joined them, and I tried to tune out the laughter and easy talk.
My foul mood made me a better dart player, and winning always made things better. Over the next twenty minutes, I beat my next two opponents easily; earning back the money I’d given Matt, and enough to come back to Yancy’s next weekend. My opponents skulked away and I shot solo.
I took aim, fired, hit the twenty.
“How did you get so good?” came Autumn’s soft voice from behind me.
I froze, another dart poised by my ear, and my eyes slowly swiveled over to her. She blinked back over the rim of her pint, her face flushed.
“I pretend the dartboard is the face of my enemy,” I said.
She laughed and sat herself on a stool, setting her drink down on a ledge. “Is that so? And who are you skewering tonight?”
Me.
“Do you want a game?” I asked. “Are you a secret dart pro, too?”
“Oh no,” she said and raised her glass. “This is my third. Or fourth? I can’t be trusted with sharp, pointy objects.”
“You seem to do alright wielding a long stick.” I glanced at her sideways then shot another dart. Eighteen. “So…taking a break from pool?”
And from my best friend?
Her hair glinted red and gold under the lamp as she nodded. “I had to quit while I was ahead. Before I started shooting badly and ruined my mystique.”
“Your Nebraska pool shark mystique.”
“It’s a little more exciting than my Nebraska farm girl mystique.”
“You grew up on a farm?”
“Born and raised. My father grows corn and wheat.”
My stupid mind conjured her standing in a field of wheat, her fingertips brushing the stalks, her coppery red hair glinting in the sun. A simple dress billowed around her knees in a breeze that made the wheat bend and sway around her like a sea of shallow waters…
“How was that?” I asked. “I mean, what was it like?”
“I loved it,” she said, her hazel eyes liquid. “I love the land. Love watching my father work to make things grow.”
She was tipsy with booze and it softened her further. Her speech slowed down and her Midwestern drawl crept back in.
“But it wasn’t enough for me. I always did really well in school and had always planned on getting out to do something important. I was voted ‘Most Likely to Save the World’.” She smiled shyly. “A slight exaggeration…”
I shrugged. “Better than Miss Congeniality.”
“What were you voted in high school?”
“Mr. Congeniality.”
She laughed. “Liar.”
“I wasn’t voted anything.”
She cocked her head. “No? Shame. I would have nominated you for Best Eyes.”
I flinched mid-throw and the dart careened off the metal edge of the board.
Autumn covered her mouth with her hand. “See, alcohol is like a truth serum for me.” She frowned suddenly, thinking. “What’s that song… ‘Ocean Eyes’?”
I picked up my fallen dart and gathered the rest from the board. “Haven’t heard it.”
She hummed a few notes. “Ocean eyes and diamond mind. It’s a great song. More than just one verse and chorus a hundred times over. Her lyrics are like poetry. You know? They have something real to say.”
“You like poetry?”
Please say no.
“I love it.” She pressed her hands into the stool she sat on, her legs swinging a little. “I love Dickinson and Keats, and e e cummings. I love how a few words, carefully chosen, can elicit deep reactions. Or evoke a certain mood, or make you feel something real, you know?”
Yes, I know. I know, exactly, Autumn.
She gave her head a shake. “Sorry, I wandered into the stars there for a moment. What were we talking about before? Oh, right. Why I left the farm.”
“You’re going to save the world.” I tossed a dart. Nineteen.
“Right,” she said. “I wanted to get out of Nebraska and take whatever aptitude I had and apply it toward something big.”
“So many causes need attention, and you only know you want to help.”
Her delicate brows came together. “How did you…?”
“You told me in the library.”
She laughed and raised her glass. “Booze. Eraser of filters and memory.”
I let my eyes rake her up and down while she was occupied with her pint. She was so slender; small, delicate. Her body was lithe as a dancer’s and I knew it would take nothing to lift her, pin her against the wall while I kissed the pear-flavored tinge on her lips and tongue…
Then write you a poem about how you felt against me, and how sweet you tasted…
“…Boston?”
I jerked my mind out of the fantasy. “What?”
“I asked if you were a Massachusetts native. Your accent sounds like Boston.”
“Yeah.” I flung a dart, hard. Ten. “I was raised in Woburn, just outside Boston. My mom moved us to Southie when I was seven.”
“Just your mom?”
I glanced behind us, to where Connor, Ruby, and some people were talking and laughing.
“I’m sorry,” Autumn said. “That’s a little personal—”
“Yeah, just my mom.”
The question of my dad dangled in the air. The answer hesitated on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to tell her. But Saturday night at Yancy’s didn’t feel like the time or place to tell the sad, pitiful tale of Sock Boy.
“Is my accent that obvious?” I said.
“Ummmm…” She looked away, chewing on a corner of a sheepish grin. “Scale of one to Matt Damon-in-Good Will Hunting?”
I laughed. “Sure.”
“I’d say eight. Not quite Matt Damon. But keep working on it.”
“Hell no, I’d rather ditch it.”
“Don’t you dare,” she said. “It’s cute.”
My accent is cute and she likes my eyes.
I wished we were alone. And sober. Not that half-in-the-bag Autumn wasn’t enjoyable, but I wanted to talk to the girl I’d met in the library, the one who was having a hard time choosing which broken piece of the world to fix first.
Autumn drained her glass and swayed a little on her stool. “Jeez, I’m a cheap date.”
“You want something to eat?” I asked. “I’ll get us—get you something. If you want.”
“Not that I’m on a date,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard me. “I’m just having some fun. Ruby’s always telling me I need to get out more.” She bit her lip. “That makes me sound like a recluse or like all I do is study, doesn’t it? I don’t just study. I mean, I do study a lot but also I just got out of a relationship, so I am most definitely not interested in starting up something else.”
With Connor? Or…anyone?
Autumn covered her eyes with her hand. “Oh my God, I’m over-sharing like a madwoman, and I’m sure you don’t want to hear any of this. I was supposed to keep it to two drinks…”
She slipped off the stool and stumbled. I was too far away, but oh thank the fucking heavens above, Connor was there to catch her.
“Whoa, there,” he said with a grin. “You okay?”
Autumn clung to his arm for a second. Then her cheeks reddened and she pulled away to preserve her pride.
“I’m fine,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “I should go. It’s late.” She looked around. “Where’s Ruby?”
“Present.” Ruby slipped in between Connor and Autumn, linking arms. “Time to call it a night.”
“I’ll walk you out and get you an Uber,” Connor said, reaching for his phone.
“No, thanks,” Autumn said. “We got this.”
“I got this,” Ruby said.
“Well, hold up,” Connor said. He dimmed his smile to make it private, as if he and Autumn were alone in the crowded bar. “Am I going to see you again?”
Autumn’s ja
w moved up and down. “I don’t know. I have a lot of work this semester.”
“Oh, hey, I’ve got it,” Connor said, louder. “Come to Wes’s track meet next Saturday.”
I blinked. “Do what now?”
Autumn’s glance danced between us. “Next Saturday?”
“It’ll be fun,” Connor said. “We can cheer our boy on and hang out. Just chill.”
“It’s just a prelim,” I said. “Not a big deal.”
Please come.
Please don’t.
I gritted my teeth; it didn’t matter either way. I was screwed equally in both scenarios.
“Maybe,” Autumn said. “We’ll see if I’ve regained my sobriety by then.” She smiled at Connor. “Thanks for the cider. And the pool.” She looked to me. “Bye, Weston.”
“Yep,” I said, and watched her walk out, her arm still linked in Ruby’s.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Connor whipped around to me. “Holy shit, she’s perfect.”
“Perfect for what?”
“To date, you moron. She’s a humanitarian. Did you know that?”
“Yes.” I took up the handful of darts and took aim. “I knew that.”
Connor sat on the stool Autumn had just occupied. “She’s beautiful, smart. Probably comes from a good family.”
“She’s from a farm in Nebraska,” I said and tossed a dart. Four.
“Yeah, but some of those farms are like empires,” Connor said. “If her family has a business—”
“She doesn’t have any money,” I said. “She’s here on scholarship.”
“Oh.” Connor thought for a second, then shrugged. “Even better. She’s salt of the earth. Can you just see me bringing her home to meet my parents? They’ll eat that shit up.”
I glanced around at him. “What are you talking about?”
“They’re on my ass, Wes.” Connor absently took up Autumn’s half-full pint of cider. “They think I’m just fucking around out here, not getting serious about anything.”
“Because you are fucking around out here, not getting serious about anything.”
“I know, I know. But I picked a damn major I’ll never use.”
Connor had picked Economics too, ostensibly so I could help him with the course load, but mostly because it was the only one his parents approved of.
“So drop out,” I said. “Open your sports bar.”
“You know they won’t release my trust fund until I graduate. And even then, I have my doubts…”
“We’ve had this conversation a hundred times,” I said. “Forget the trust. Take out a loan and do it yourself.”
“Sure. Because walking away from six million dollars is that easy.”
I shrugged. “I don’t see how Autumn helps your case. If you’re only using her to impress your parents…” I tossed a dart. Eighteen. “That’s messed up.”
“I wouldn’t. But she’s not like anyone I’ve dated before.” He sipped her cider and made a face. “Holy shit, this pear-water got her drunk? That’s cute as hell.” He chuckled. “I really like her.”
I froze. “You do?”
“Sure. Who wouldn’t?”
I clenched my teeth. Who wouldn’t?
My dart flew.
Bullseye.
Weston
“Goddamn,” Connor grumbled as he came out of his bedroom in flannel pants and an undershirt the following Friday morning. He tossed his cell phone onto the designer couch his parents had bought us. “It’s too damn early in the morning for their bullshit.”
I looked up from where I knelt by the front door, tying my running shoes. “Whose bullshit?”
Connor yawned, scrubbed his hands through his dark hair. “Dear Mom and Dad have decided that they want monthly reports on how I’m doing in my Econ classes.”
“What for?” I tied my other shoe, then bounced up and down on the balls of my feet to warm up.
“To make sure I’m not fucking it up. What else?” Connor yawned again and squinted tiredly at me. “Christ, Wes, it’s not even light out.”
“Ten miles, rain or shine,” I said.
“I know, but I’m usually not awake to witness it. I’m exhausted just looking at you.”
“I think jealous is the word…”
He snorted a laugh. “Seriously, though. I’m screwed. I suck at math.”
I leaned on the console table near the door, arms crossed, giving him my full attention. “Exactly what did they say?”
“They said I needed to demonstrate responsibility. And to prove that I can apply what I learn in Econ, and that I didn’t choose it as my major only because you did.”
“Busted.”
He laughed. “Shut up.”
“So do the work,” I said. “When you’ve got the degree, you’ll be able to use it to run your sports bar.”
Connor’s normally mega-watt smile was bitter. “On top of that little ultimatum, they gave me an earful about how Jefferson’s going to graduate Harvard with honors. As if I’d forgotten that since the last time they told me. And he’s dating some socialite from Connecticut. Looks like they’ll probably get engaged.”
“Poor bastard.”
My gut told me Connor would be better off without his parents’ money. I was grateful for all the times they bailed my mom out of trouble, and Connor and I lived like goddamn kings in the off-campus apartment the Drakes paid for. But it all felt like unpaid debt.
I moved to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to stay at Amherst?”
“Of course I do,” he said, his grin returning. “You’d be lost without me.”
I smirked. “Do your best. I’ll help you out if you need it.”
“Just like old times?” he asked. “Except not as many papers to write.”
“True. But I’m pretty good at math.”
“You’re pretty good at everything.”
“No argument there.” I went to the door.
“Hey, Wes?”
I turned. “Yep.”
“Thanks.”
A smartass remark was on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it down. My best friend slouched on the couch, pressed down by the weight of his parents’ expectations.
“No problem, man,” I said.
“Enjoy your torture.” Connor stretched out on the couch, slung his arm over his eyes. “Which reminds me, I hope Autumn shows up at your meet tomorrow.”
My hand gripped the doorknob. “Oh. Right.”
Connor’s worry melted away into a sleepy smile. “Can’t stop thinking about that girl.”
Take a number.
Without another word, I stepped out into a chilly September morning. The dawn was just beginning to glow in the east. I shivered a little in my black long-sleeve shirt and fitted running shorts that came down to my knees. The coppery sunlight spread as I started my run along the outskirts of the campus.
Running was like meditation. It cleared my mind and burned through some of the anger and pain that still haunted me. If I wasn’t in the mood for music, I paced myself with a mantra:
Fuck him.
Forget him.
He’s gone.
But since meeting Autumn, my feet hit the pavement to a new chant while the streets slipped underneath me.
Get over it.
Forget her.
Move on.
It made no fucking sense that I couldn’t stop thinking about this girl. Amherst was filled with smart, pretty women, many of whom I’d known in the Biblical sense. Yet Autumn Caldwell’s beautiful smile and sweetness suffused my every waking moment. Something good and whole in her spoke to something rotted and broken in me.
Get over it.
Forget her.
Move on.
I blended the words into the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement. Slipped them between the huffing of my breath.
It didn’t work that day. Autumn Caldwell was alive in my thoughts and I couldn’t run away from her.
Later that afternoo
n, I sat in my favorite course: Poetry, Essay, and Lyrical Writing. I hid behind my Econ major with an English Lit minor, where I could take the classes I truly cared about.
At the end of his lesson on form, Professor Ondiwuje assigned us a poem.
“Object of Devotion,” he said from the front of the lecture hall. He was in his mid-thirties, with smooth, dark skin and eyes that were sharp with intelligence and observation. Dreadlocks spilled over the lapels of his gray suit.
“I want you to expand your creativity. The object can be a person, of course. Or a dream. A goal. A physical item. The latest iPhone…”
A current of laughter rolled lightly through the class of sixty students.
“Dig deep, and leave nothing on the table,” he said. “Because in art, there are no limits. If you have only one takeaway from my class at the end of the year, let it be that poetry—the words by which we give shape to our thoughts—is as limitless as our thoughts themselves.”
The small auditorium rippled with enthusiasm.
“Mr. Turner,” Professor Ondiwuje called over the shuffling of students leaving after class. “Can I see you a moment?”
I shouldered my backpack and took the side stairs down to his desk. Trying to keep my cool. Michael Ondiwuje was quite possibly the only man on the planet I looked up to. He had won the William Carlos Williams Award for poetry at the age of twenty-four. A well-worn, dog-eared, highlighted and underlined copy of his collection, The Last Song of Africa, resided on my bookshelf.
The professor sat on the edge of his desk, rifling through some papers.
“I read the essay and the poem you submitted two weeks ago,” he said. “They were both very good. Excellent, even.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, every cell in my body screaming, Holy shit. Michael Ondiwuje just said my work was excellent.
The professor raised his eyes from the papers to meet mine. Studying me. Taking me in. “English Lit is your minor, yes?” he finally asked.
“That’s right.”
“What do you plan to do with an Economics major?”
“I don’t know. Work on Wall Street.”
“That’s what you wish to do?”
“It would be better for my family situation,” I said slowly, “if I had a good job and steady income.”
He nodded. “I get that, but I can’t let talent like yours slink out the back of my class without saying something.”