Shit.
Now, my breathing feels shallow and uneven again, and I rest my hand on my stomach. I think I’m going to be sick. I fix my gaze on the poem I wrote down here last week, and the words blur and spin. I blink fast and try to focus again. But I can’t.
I can’t do this.
I’m about to make an excuse and step down, when I feel a hand on my left shoulder. I turn my head and see Caroline standing there. I want to say something, but the inside of my mouth feels like I’ve been chewing on a piece of chalk.
“Close your eyes,” she whispers. “Don’t look at anyone. Don’t even look at the paper. Close your eyes and speak.” I start to object, but she cuts me off before I can say anything. “You don’t need to read it. You know this poem cold. Just close your eyes. Don’t think. Go.”
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. And begin.
“It’s titled ‘Building Better Walls,’” I say.
All these words
On these walls.
Beautiful, inspired, funny,
Because they’re yours.
Words terrify me.
To hear, speak,
To think about.
Wish they didn’t.
I stay quiet.
Keeping words in
Where they fester
and control me.
I’m here now.
Letting them out.
Freeing my words
Building better walls.
I didn’t feel Caroline’s hand leave my shoulder, but when I open my eyes I spot her in the back of the room again. She’s clapping and screaming along with everyone else, and although I’m still shaky, it feels different now, more like euphoria than fear.
Chelsea. Her name comes to me the second I see her smiling.
And suddenly there are glue sticks flying at me from all directions, and I’m laughing as I deflect them. Finally, I catch one in midair.
AJ steps onto the stage and comes in close. “Congratulations,” he says.
I lean in even closer. “I thought you needed to vote?” I whisper.
He nudges me with his elbow. “We just did,” he says, gesturing toward the glue sticks scattered all over the stage. Then AJ points to the one in my hand. “Go ahead. Make it official.”
I run the glue across the back of my poem, and then I step off the stage and walk toward the back of the room, past all of them. I stop right next to Caroline, find an empty spot on the wall, and slap my words against it.
Three weeks later, I’m beaming as I open my locker after lunch.
Today, I read a simple, six-word poem I wrote on a hot pink, happy-looking Post-it. On one side, it said: What you see…And on the other side: It isn’t me.
I wondered if the Poets might consider a six-word poem to be a cop-out, but I forced myself not to question it, and when I read, I stood tall and didn’t even break a sweat. When I finished, they were up on their feet, cheering loudly like they always do. As I mounted my poem to the wall, I bent the paper so it stuck straight out, making both sides visible.
Four times on stage. Four poems on the wall. I don’t quite feel like one of them yet, but at least I’m contributing.
I grab the block of pink Post-its out of my backpack and carefully write out the same poem, and then I stand back and stare at my locker door, looking for the perfect home for it. I move a few things around until those three photos Shrink-Sue asked me to print slightly overlap the ones of the Eights and me. The noise ordinance looks out of place, so I crumple it into a ball and stuff it into my backpack. I move the picture of me standing on the blocks right next to the small mirror, and let the words “What you see…” bridge the gap between the two.
I’m leaving campus that afternoon as the Indian summer sun beats down. It’s late October, but it’s got to be almost ninety degrees out here. After I open my car door, I let my head fall back, face toward the sky, and close my eyes, feeling the rays heat my cheeks. It feels calming. But the water will feel even better. I can’t wait to get to the pool.
Throwing my backpack on the passenger seat, I turn the key in the ignition, but before I back out, I thumb through my playlists, trying to find something that matches my mood. I settle on Make it Bounce.
The student lot is almost empty, so it doesn’t take long to get out through the gates and onto the street. I’m humming along while I wait for the light to change, and when it does, I take a left onto the main road that leads through town and toward the swim club. I’ve only made it a block when I hit another red light. I turn the volume up another notch. As I’m waiting, I look out the passenger window. My breath catches in my throat.
AJ is sitting at the bus stop with his arm around a girl, and I squint to get a better look. Her head is down, so I can’t see her face, but I recognize her by her build and the way her dark hair flips up at her shoulders. It has to be Emily. Out of all of them, I know her the least. She always sits in the back with Chelsea, and I’ve never heard her read on stage, but I often think about her warm greeting the day I joined.
She slides her fingertips under her eyes and I realize she’s crying. I glance over at AJ. He’s staring right at me.
I turn away quickly, but when I look back again, he’s signaling me to pull over. As I approach, I cut the music and roll the window down. AJ leans in.
“Hey, can I ask a favor? Em needs a ride.” He looks back over at her and I follow his gaze in my rearview mirror. “Her mom is really sick, and her dad sent this text telling her to come straight home, which…can’t be good.”
I look at the odometer.
I’m not supposed to have passengers.
I glance into the rearview mirror again and see Emily typing away on her phone and brushing away tears at the same time. “Sure. Of course.”
When AJ returns with Emily, he climbs in back.
Wait. He’s coming too?
“Hi. Are you okay?” I ask, and she gives me a weak, “Yeah. Thanks.”
From the backseat, AJ feeds his arm over her shoulder and she wraps her fingers through his. I look at their hands, intertwined.
Of course he has a girlfriend. How could I have missed that?
I feel a pang of sadness, but I push the thought away, forcing myself to think of Emily and whatever’s going on in her life so I don’t fixate on anything else. It works.
AJ navigates. Left here, right here, straight for about a mile, and stop, it’s this house, the white one on the left. I look at the odometer, resting on zero.
I overshoot the driveway on purpose. I pass two more houses, turn around in a court, and double-back. Three. Perfect.
Emily’s house is small but cute, cottagey-looking, complete with a white picket fence, a big oak tree smack in the middle of the lawn, and a tire swing hanging from the thickest branch. It’s painted white with bright blue trim and bright blue shutters, and it looks so cheery, it strikes me as odd that anyone could be sick or sad on the other side of that bright blue door.
“Thanks, Sam,” Emily mumbles as she climbs out of the car. AJ steps out onto her driveway, and when he hugs her, she buries her face in his chest. He says something I can’t hear, and she comes up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.
He climbs into the front seat next to me, and together, we watch Emily open the door and step inside. “Thanks,” he says. “That was really cool of you.”
“Of course.”
Wait. He’s not staying with Emily? I have to do the odometer thing all over again?
“Is she okay?” I ask as I back out of the driveway.
“I don’t know.” He’s quiet for a long time, staring out the window. “Her mom has stage four lung cancer,” he finally adds.
Now I really don’t know what to say. I’m curious to know more about Emily’s mom, but I don’t want to ask, and AJ doesn’t seem to be planning on sharing any more information, so we’re both silent for the next few blocks as I snake through the residential neighborhood, back the way I came, heading toward the main r
oad. He tells me to take a right—I assume to get to his house—and then goes back to staring out the window.
I’m sad he has a girlfriend, but watching him right now reinforces what I already suspected about him: he’s a good guy.
“How long have you been together?” I ask.
“We’re not together.” He doesn’t look at me. “We’re just friends. We’ve been good friends for a long time.”
They’re friends.
It reminds me of what he said in Poet’s Corner that day, warning me not to push the friends thing with him.
Out of nowhere, he shakes his head hard and sits straight up. “Sorry. I’m worried about her. I’ll snap out of it.” He twists in his seat to face me. “Subject change. I liked the poem you read this afternoon.”
“Thanks.” I picture the Post-it in its new home on my locker door, and smile to myself. “Sometimes there’s a whole side of your personality you don’t always show everyone, you know?” I glance down at the odometer. It’s on seven. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately.”
He leans back in his seat and I steal a glance at him. He’s watching me with an inquisitive look in his eye. “It’s interesting. Usually, after people read a few times, they start to make more sense to me, but every time you read, I find myself…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “More curious about you.”
“Good. Then we’re even,” I say.
“Are we?” he asks.
“I’ve been curious about you for a while now.” I’m not sure where this boldness is coming from, but it feels pretty natural. I look over at him. “Sorry. That was all your fault.”
“Mine?” He laughs. “How so?”
“Blurting.” I take a left at the light and merge into traffic, picking up a little speed. “I’ve been practicing.”
“And how’s that going for you?”
“Not so great. I probably took it too far today.”
He raises his eyebrows. “How so?”
“Kaitlyn isn’t speaking to me because she told me my hair looked ridiculous like this.” I point at the braided, twisty thing I did this morning. I wanted to try something new. “And instead of heading off to the bathroom to change it like I normally would, I told her that her blush was too heavy and she looked like a mime.”
“Well, if she looked like a mime, it makes perfect sense that she’s not speaking to you,” he says.
That cracks me up.
“I shouldn’t have said that to her,” I say, grimacing. “It was probably more bitchy than blurty, wasn’t it?”
“Maybe. Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it.” He grabs my phone from the cup holder. “Want me to put on some music to kill this awkward silence?” he asks with a grin.
Normally I’d be irritated by the idea of someone poking around in my music—it seems personal, like rifling through my underwear drawer—so I’m surprised when I hear myself say, “Sure” and then tell him my password, like I do that all the time. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him sliding his finger across the screen. I don’t even feel the urge to grab the phone out of his hand.
“Hmm,” he says.
“What?”
“Oblivious to Yourself. A Cryptic Word. It’s a Reinvention. Are these playlist titles, or a creative way to study for the SATs?”
I’ve never let anyone see my playlists, and I’ve never told anyone how I name them, but he’s looking at me like he’s genuinely curious.
“You’ll think it’s weird.”
“Try me.”
I can tell from the expression on his face that he’s not going to let me off the hook.
“Fine. When I was in fifth grade, my mom and I went to see this linguist speak at the public library. I fought with her about going, but once I got there, I was completely fascinated.
“He talked about words—where they come from, how new ones evolve, how politicians and advertising executives and even journalists use them to subtly manipulate people’s opinions. I’ve had this thing for words ever since. Especially lyrics. I don’t just listen to songs, I study them. It’s kind of a hobby.”
Shrink-Sue doesn’t call it a hobby. She calls it an obsession. A ritual. Whatever.
AJ looks like he approves. He still seems interested. So I keep talking.
“I’ve mentioned that I have this thing for the number three, right? Well, when I’m done making a new playlist, I pick one song that, sort of, captures the mood, you know? And then I find three words I like within those lyrics, and that becomes the title.
“Like the playlist Melt with You. It’s a bunch of upbeat eighties dance tunes, and kicks off with the song Melt with You. And I love the word ‘melt’…it’s so visual, right? And the songs are kind of cheesy, so it fits. Melllllt.” I say the word slowly, drawing it out, and I feel my mouth turn up into a satisfied smile. “See. It makes me happy every time I say it.”
I look over my right shoulder, wondering if he’s considering asking me to pull over and let him out of the crazy girl’s car. Instead I find him sliding his thumb up and down the screen again. “Okay, I’ve got to know about Grab the Yoke.” He glances at me. “Yoke. Great word. Limited uses.”
Hmm. I’m not sure how to explain this playlist without admitting more than I’m ready to. I go for it anyway. “Track four, ‘Young Pilgrims’ by the Shins.”
“Excellent song.” I catch his head bouncing lightly, in time with the beat, and I can tell he’s thinking through the lyrics, hunting for the word “yoke.”
I spare him the effort and feed him the line. “I know I’ve got this side of me that wants to grab the yoke from the pilot and just fly the whole mess into the sea.” I pull up to a red light. “I love that line. I don’t often want to grab the yoke and crash into the sea, but sometimes I do.”
Great. Now he’s staring at me like he’s worried about my safety or something. “That one’s kind of a depressing playlist. I listen to it when I need a good cry. But don’t worry, I’m not about to off myself or anything.”
“What’s Song for You?” he asks, and I feel the blush heat my cheeks when I think about the playlist filled with acoustic guitar songs I selected because I could see him on stage, playing them, singing them. At night, I sometimes pop in my earbuds, close my eyes, and imagine him playing them and singing them to me.
“Nothing. Just a playlist,” I say, hoping he won’t open it up to check its contents.
He doesn’t respond right away. There still isn’t any music on, and now he’s telling me to turn onto his street.
“So your fascination with words isn’t a new thing?”
“No. Just the poetry part.”
I can tell we’re getting close to his house, but I’m not ready for him to get out of my car. I try to think of a question that will keep him talking even after we reach his driveway.
“When did you start playing guitar?” I ask.
“Seventh grade,” he says.
Keep him talking. Keep him talking.
“What made you choose guitar?”
“You.” He’s still running his fingertip along my phone, and he doesn’t take his eyes off the screen after he says it.
“Me? What do you mean ‘me’?”
“Do you really want to know?”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “I think so.”
“It’s this one here,” he says, pointing up at a long, steep driveway. I check the odometer. It’s almost on three. I turn left, step on the gas, and stop in front of his garage door. When I pull the parking brake, the odometer hasn’t moved much, but it’s close enough.
Three. Yes!
I cut the engine and twist in my seat so I can see him better. “So, what do I have to do with you playing guitar?” I ask. I was bursting with curiosity, but now that I study his face, I’m not sure I should be.
“Well, not you, per se. But a bunch of people like you were when we were kids.”
Uh-oh. My stomach drops.
He tosses my pho
ne into the cup holder. “I transferred to a new school in fifth grade, but as you can probably imagine, I was a big target there, too.” He laughs a little, even though it’s not funny at all. “My mom finally took me to see a speech therapist. I went every week, but I didn’t make much progress. Eventually, it seemed easier to just stop talking.”
I suck in a breath and press my lips together.
“But then, in seventh grade, I had this incredible music teacher. She handed me a guitar. She worked with me after school, every day, all year long, teaching me how to play. It gave me something I didn’t have before, you know? It kind of…gave me a voice, I guess.”
“Yeah,” I say, hanging on every word he says.
“Then, one day, I started singing. And when I did, the stutter disappeared completely.”
“Really?”
“It was like I needed to trick my brain, to distract it with something else. After that, my speech therapist starting working music into our sessions, and ever since then, it’s gotten better. Now it only hits me when I get really nervous. Like, when I’m sitting in my driveway in a girl’s car.” He peeks up at me from behind his thick lashes. “Then I trick my brain by doing this.”
He looks down at his hands and I follow his gaze. He’s got his finger and thumb pressed together, brushing them against the seam on his jeans. “No one realizes it, but when I have to talk in class, I’m always playing invisible guitar strings under my desk.”
“AJ…” I begin, but I don’t know how to finish. I have no idea what to say.
He reaches behind him, feeling for his backpack. “Do you want to come in?”
I look up at the house for the first time. It’s a small single-story nestled into the trees, like one of the original cabins built in our Northern California town back in the 1940s. There are lots of houses like this around here, but most have been added on to, remodeled, or knocked down completely. This one doesn’t appear to have had any work done to it.
Every Last Word Page 11