Every Last Word

by Tamara Ireland Stone

  “No. I wouldn’t do that, Sue.”

  I remember how I used to be before we found the right meds. I used to fixate on something—it could be anything—something one of my teachers said, or something one of the Eights said, or something I heard on the news. I knew the thoughts were irrational, but one thought led to another, and to another, and once the spiral started, I couldn’t control it.

  It was horrible. I’d yell at my parents. Throw tantrums like a six-year-old. I was tired all the time, because trying to function while you’re trying to ignore all those swirling thoughts is physically and mentally draining. I’m still myself on the meds, but they help me control the thought spirals. I wouldn’t go back to a life without them.

  “This matters to you, doesn’t it?” I must look confused, because Sue adds, “The poetry.”

  “Yeah. More than I expected it to.”

  It’s not only the writing I crave; it’s everything that goes along with it. It’s the look of anticipation on people’s faces when I step up on that stage. It’s the way Caroline tells me I’m getting better with every new poem, that I’m finding my voice. It’s the way I can construct verses during a one-hundred-meter fly.

  It’s everyone downstairs, too. How invested I now feel in their lives. How my heart aches when Emily tells us that her mom is getting worse, not better. How Sydney’s poems always put me in a good mood. How Chelsea hits me right in the feels with her pieces about her ex-boyfriend. It’s the way Poet’s Corner is changing my life, exactly like Caroline said it would.

  More than ever before, I feel compelled to tell Sue about that room. I feel guilty about not telling her. And, aside from Mom, she’s the only one who would truly understand how walking into that room feels like diving into the pool; how the paper on the walls gives me such an overwhelming sense of peace.

  But I can’t break my promise.

  Sue must see something in my expression, because hers softens and she starts tapping her mechanical pencil against her knee like she does when she’s thinking.

  “What if we compromise?” she asks. “I have another sleep medication I’d like you to try. It’s fairly new. It’s fast-acting and has a short half-life, so it’ll be out of your system quickly. You could write until midnight, then take it, and you’ll get at least seven hours of sleep. You can write, and also give your brain and body the rest they need. What do you think?”

  I like the idea of writing when I need to. Mostly, I like doing it with Sue’s permission. “Sure,” I say.

  She hunches over and scratches out a prescription. “Take this every night at midnight or earlier.” She hands it to me. “Now, I have something important to say.”

  Uh-oh. Here it comes.

  “Things are going really well for you right now, Sam. That’s because you’re making some positive changes in your life, but it’s also because we’ve found a treatment plan that’s working. Weekly talk therapy, medication to help you sleep, and medication to keep invasive thoughts from turning into anxiety attacks. You are not allowed to modify this combination on your own.”

  “Okay.”

  “In the future, you talk to me before you stop taking any of your meds. Are we clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” She sits up straight and crosses her legs. “Now, is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” She folds her hands in her lap and waits. I sneak another peek at the clock. Crap. How could I still have thirty minutes left in this session?

  I fall back against the chair and close my eyes. “AJ,” I say matter-of-factly.

  “The one you and Kaitlyn used to tease.”

  I nod.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  I do the math in my head. It’s been more than two months since Caroline first led me down those stairs and introduced me to him. A month since he let me back into Poet’s Corner. A week since he invited me to his house and declared us “friends.”

  “For me? A couple of months. For him…there’s nothing ‘going on’ because, as with all my other crushes, this one’s completely one-sided.”

  “Why do you say that?” she asks.

  “We’re friends.” I think about the way he touched my arm in the hallway today, and I feel the corners of my mouth turn up against my will. “But I like him. He’s nice to me. The whole thing feels…normal.”

  “How does it feel normal?” she asks softly, using the tone of her voice to get me to tell her more.

  I want to tell her everything.

  I stretch my putty in my hands, trying to decide where to begin. Finally, I stop searching for the right thing to say—the thing I think Sue wants to hear—and instead I just start talking in that scary, filterless way. “I don’t think I’m obsessed with him. I mean, okay…I might be kind of fixated on his ex-girlfriend, Devon. I started looking her up last week, and it was pretty bad at first. But I’m starting to get it under control.” I tell Sue about Caroline’s baseball trick. Sue writes it down.

  “But so many things feel better lately. I’m not spending half my evening wondering if I’m going to pick the wrong thing to wear the next day. During class, I’m not worrying that I might say something at lunch that will piss off one of my friends so they all gang up against me and ignore me for three days straight. For the first time in a long time, I don’t care what they think. And it’s not because of this guy or the writing or Caroline, or, I don’t know, maybe it is. Maybe it’s about all those things.”

  I’m getting all fired up now and I can’t sit still, so I leave my chair and walk over to the window overlooking the parking lot.

  “All I know is that I feel good about myself for the first time in ages. I might still be obsessing, but I’m obsessing about poetry and words. I’m swimming almost every day, and my body feels strong and my mind is so clear. And I like this really nice guy who might not think of me as more than a friend, but at least he’s not a jerk like Kurt, or completely unattainable like Brandon.”

  She drops her portfolio on her seat and walks over to join me at the window.

  “I’m not obsessing about my friends turning on me or kicking me out of their little club. I no longer care if they do.”

  It feels freeing to say the words out loud, and as I do, it occurs to me how true they are: I care more about what AJ and Caroline and the rest of the people in Poet’s Corner think of me. If they kicked me out or stopped talking to me, I’d be devastated, but, of course, they’d never do that in the first place. I feel safe with them.

  “And maybe it’s obsession. Maybe it’s not ‘normal’ at all. But I feel good when I’m with them.”

  “I can tell.”

  And without revealing the secret room underneath the school theater, I spend the rest of the session telling her about AJ, Caroline, Sydney, Cameron, Abigail, Jessica, Emily, and Chelsea. My eight new friends.

  The parking lot is practically empty. I swipe my card key across the panel, the gate clicks open, and I step inside, looking around and wondering why there’s no one here. Team practices ended hours ago, but even though it’s after eight o’clock, there are usually a few adults swimming laps when I arrive. Tonight, there’s one person in the pool. I’m relieved she isn’t in lane three.

  I drop my swim bag on a chair near the edge and unzip the side pocket that holds my cap and goggles. From the main compartment, I grab my towel, and when I do, I spot my blue notebook. It’s such a nice night, so I stuffed it in here at the last minute, thinking I might sit on the lawn and write for a while after my workout.

  I’ve never actually written at the pool before. My poems come to me as I’m swimming, and I put them on paper when I get home, but they never sound quite as good as they did in my head. This way, I figure I won’t lose my groove.

  I’m only halfway through my workout when the other swimmer leaves the pool and heads for the outdoor shower. A few laps later, I see her unlatching the gate and disappearing into the parking lot.

  I’m alone. I hop out of the poo
l and walk over to the chair, grab my blue notebook and a pen, and set them on the edge of the pool under the diving block.

  By the end of my workout, the paper is soaked through at one corner and some of the ink is smudged, but I can still read my latest poem clearly. I add the final line and read the whole thing through, top to bottom, crossing out a word here and another there, swapping them out for better ones as I go. When I’m done, my toes are sore from sliding them back and forth against the wall, but I don’t care. This poem is actually pretty good.

  I wrap myself up in my towel, jam my notebook back into my bag, rinse off in the shower, and head into the locker room to change into my sweats. I’m piling my hair into a ponytail when my phone chirps. I grab it off the counter and read the text:

  you were really good today

  It’s from a number that’s local but unknown. I type:

  who is this?

  I rest the phone on the counter next to the sink and gather the rest of my things together. I’m throwing my bag over my shoulder when the phone chirps again.

  AJ

  My bag slips to the floor and lands with a thud. I check the string. This isn’t a message to the whole group; it’s a message for me. My eyebrows pinch together as I reply.

  hey

  It’s been two weeks since that day at his house, when he taught me how to play guitar, told me about his ex-girlfriend, and we became friends and nothing more. I’m not sure what to say, so I stand there, leaning against the bathroom sink, holding the phone with both hands, and waiting for his reply. Finally one comes.

  what are you up to?

  I can’t really tell him that I’m standing in a semipublic bathroom, my hair still wet from the shower, wearing sweats and no makeup, so I fall back on what I was doing fifteen minutes earlier.

  not much. just writing

  sorry. didn’t mean to interrupt

  you didn’t

  I’ll let you get back, just had to tell you I really liked your poem

  Yesterday, when I took the stage for the sixth time, I read a poem about unreliable friends, people you love and feel bonded to but can never truly trust. It was about feeling alone and vulnerable, and never being able to fully let your guard down. When I read it, my voice was clear and loud and direct, and I’ve never felt more confident on that stage, but I’ve never felt more exposed either. Everyone clapped and I slapped the paper on the wall, officially giving myself another contribution to Poet’s Corner. And it felt good. Really good.

  thanks

  I’m not sure what to say next, but I don’t want the conversation to end, so I decide to keep it going, being mysterious, or flirtatious, or maybe a little of both.

  remember when you asked me if I had a favorite place to write

  yeah

  that’s where I am

  As I type the words, I’m thinking about what AJ said that day I was alone in Poet’s Corner with him. When I asked him why everyone starts by saying where they wrote their piece, he said that the places matter, and by voicing them, they become part of the poem. I liked that idea.

  I’m intrigued…

  I bite my lip. Is this still friendly chatter? Or are we flirting now? He might be flirting. I’m not sure.

  Just in case we are flirting, I wait for a minute before I reply, letting his words hang in the air a bit longer, keeping him “intrigued.”

  are you going to tell me?

  I stare at the screen for a long time, gathering my nerve to reply with the first thing that pops into my head, which is definitely flirtatious, no way around it. I leave the locker room, throw my bag down on the grass, and then sit, legs folded underneath me, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. He’s the one who keeps telling me to blurt. And blurting in a text is way easier than blurting face-to-face. Feeling shaky all over, I type:

  want me to tell you or show you?

  Before I can chicken out, I press SEND, and my heart starts beating faster and harder than it had been when I was swimming laps. I drop the phone on the grass and shake out my arms, wishing I could un-send that text. But I can’t. It’s out there. I can’t take it back now. Crap.

  I can see the screen. There’s no response. He doesn’t know what to say. I pushed it too far. I wind my wet ponytail around my finger, feeling stupid and starting to wonder if he’s ever going to reply, when the words appear in a speech bubble on my screen:

  show me.

  I fall back on the grass and reach for the phone, covering my mouth with my hand to hide the stupid grin that just appeared out of nowhere. Play it cool. Play. It. Cool.

  tomorrow night?

  pick you up at 8

  He’ll be in my car again. I start to panic about the odometer, but then I force the thought away with a nice memory of the day he sat in my passenger seat, listening to me talk about my playlists and how I named them. Telling me how he learned to play guitar, even though it was painful to hear. My parents would kill me if they knew I was driving around with passengers. So would Sue. But I can’t pass up this chance. I want him to sit in that seat again, to talk to me like he did that day.

  see ya then

  I stare at the screen for what feels like a long time, wondering what this whole thing means. Wondering if it means anything.

  It’s not a date. It’s me showing a fellow poet where I like to write. That’s it. But the thought of bringing AJ here makes me feel giddy and light-headed. I look around the empty club, hoping it will be this quiet tomorrow night.

  bring your swimsuit

  I press SEND and wait until the ellipses finally appear on the screen, telling me he’s typing his reply.

  I’m not sure I’m intrigued anymore

  I laugh. I’m not ready for this conversation to end, so I read back through the string as if that will keep it alive, and to double-check to be sure I didn’t misread anything. I don’t think I did. He started it. I kept it going and turned a friendly check-in into something else. “It’s not a date,” I say aloud as I run my finger along the glass. “We’re friends.”

  Even if that’s all we are, it’s okay. This is already more than I ever expected from AJ Olsen.

  Last night, I took the sleep meds that knock me out for eight solid hours, and set my alarm to wake me up fifteen minutes earlier than usual. This morning, I showered quickly and rushed through breakfast with Mom and Paige, all so I could get to school early and talk to Caroline before first bell. I can’t wait to tell her about my non-date tonight with my friend-and-nothing-more AJ.

  I’m ten minutes ahead of schedule, buckling my seatbelt and about to pull out of the driveway, when I get an all-caps text from Kaitlyn, telling me she hates Hailey. I let out an annoyed sigh as I put the car back in park. I should have known the drama-free state of existence wouldn’t last long.

  I’m replying when I get a text from Hailey, telling me that Kaitlyn is going to kill her. The text contains a link and I click it. It leads me to a photo of the eight of us, taken in Sarah’s backyard the summer before third grade. We’re all in our swimsuits, but Kaitlyn is wearing her bottoms and nothing else. It already has more than thirty likes.

  I separately tell them both I’m on my way.

  By the time I arrive at Hailey’s locker, Kaitlyn and Alexis are already there, screaming at her about practicing proper judgment and considering the feelings of others. My palms feel sweaty as I near the scene, and a horrible chill travels up my spine when I get close enough to hear Hailey’s voice crack as she tries to defend herself without breaking down into tears. I get it. I’ve been in her position before, too many times to count.

  Without even thinking about what I’m doing, I step in front of Hailey and push Kaitlyn away, holding her at arm’s length. “Calm down, you guys.”

  “Do you even know what she did?” Kaitlyn yells at me. Then she returns her attention to Hailey. “What were you thinking?” she screams over my shoulder.

  “I thought it was funny. I thought you’d think it was funny.” Hailey’s voice
is low and unsteady. “I’m sorry. I took the picture down.”

  “After it got more than fifty likes!” Alexis says, jumping in to support Kaitlyn like she always does.

  “You looked pretty,” Hailey tries, but that makes Kaitlyn even more infuriated.

  “No one’s looking at my face, Hailey!”

  “Oh, come on. We were little kids.”

  “Kaitlyn.” We make eye contact and I don’t let her go. It feels weird. I don’t think I’ve ever looked her in the eye with such conviction before. “You have every right to be angry, but you have to calm down, okay? Let’s talk about this at lunch.”

  “No, Samantha!” she yells in my face. “We’ll talk about it now.”

  “No, Kaitlyn. We won’t.” I don’t even blink.

  I grab Hailey’s hand and pull her away before either one of them has a chance to respond, and steer her around the corner, down the hallway, and over to the bathroom in the next building. Hopefully they won’t think to look for us there. Once we’re inside, Hailey slams her hand against the bathroom door as tears start streaming down her face.

  “You know what sucks?” Hailey yells. “She would have done that to me. Or to you. And if we got upset or embarrassed she would have called us ‘oversensitive’ and told us ‘not take everything so personally.’” She mimics Kaitlyn’s voice on that last part and nails it.

  Black streaks of mascara slide down Hailey’s bright red cheeks, and I grab a paper towel from the dispenser and run it under the cold water. I hand her the towel. “Still. You had to know Kaitlyn would be upset. That was kind of messed up.”