The Language of Stars

by Louise Hawes

  Quiet for too long? I laughed, if only to myself. No such thing in the Wheeler manse, where my mother practically jumped out of her skin every time I turned on the stereo or forgot to shut my door if I was on the phone.

  “Nicotine and caffeine in one day?” Our poet sounded just a little impressed, which was all H needed.

  “Yeah, that was my father’s idea. My mom? She’s no good at being tough, but when she called my dad, he brought home a carton of cigarettes and told her to put on a pot of coffee.”

  I couldn’t help it. I felt that little-girl hurt, the bittersweet pinprick I used to get when I watched daddies and kids together. I’d met H’s parents, sure—they were sweet and shy and couldn’t pronounce their j’s. But here was a whole different picture: a mom and dad working together, caring about their kid.

  “ ‘You want to smoke, hijo?’ That’s what my dad tells me.” H sounded like he was watching the movie of his life, giving us a blow-by-blow. “ ‘Smoke these. Every single one.’ He opens the carton, takes out a cigarette, and lights it.

  “ ‘You want to be a big man?’ He has Mami pour me a cup of coffee from the pot. I can see the steam coming out of the top. ‘Drink this. Every last drop.’ ”

  Some kids were laughing now. But not Rufus. “So did you?” he asked.

  “I tried,” H told him. “But I only made it through half a cigarette and maybe six sips of coffee. Then I went to the bathroom and threw everything up.”

  Now practically everyone in class laughed. “So what’s it like?” our poet asked, when the room was quiet again. “Tasting coffee after all this time?”

  “Well, sir,” H said in his deeper, older voice, “at first, I thought about spitting this candy out. But I don’t know, maybe it’s the sugar.” He paused. “Or maybe it’s the way it made me remember. They meant well, my parents.”

  I could hear he’d turned his head away from Rufus and faced the rest of the class. “If you don’t have to swallow it whole, if you can just let it melt in your mouth . . . I don’t know, it’s all about love, right?”

  No laughter now. No slurping. No sound at all, unless you counted a roomful of kids doing an internal Wow. It wasn’t like Mr. Cool’s first lieutenant to talk this way. And since no one, except me and Fry, really knew H that well, no one was sure whether he was serious or not.

  He was.

  Rufus must have leaned over H’s desk then, because a shadow moved across us. I could see it, even through my blindfold. “I like that,” the shadow said. “I like that a great deal.

  “Myself?” Our poet straightened up again, thinking it over. “The things I’ve swallowed go a lot farther back. But that may be ’cause I’m closer to the end than the beginning.” Was there a catch in his voice? “Less time to savor, you know?”

  Suddenly, it was like being in Mamselle’s dining room again, and seeing that white-haired man seated in my station. The yearning in his voice, the sadness, made him seem old.

  “And you, Miss Wheeler?” I looked up, toward the sound of him, the dark shape of him, through my blindfold. “Where did you go?”

  I told him, told the whole room, about my lemon cutting adventure, how it turned out to be a Sarah cutting, instead. But saying it out loud like that, it felt silly, not important like H’s memory. “I guess this smell gave me a laugh, not a poem,” I said when I’d finished.

  “So you think that isn’t serious enough for a poem?” The smile was still in Rufus’s voice, but it was smaller, softer. “How did that cut feel, Sarah?”

  “It hurt.” Duh.

  Our poet said nothing, and neither did anyone else.

  “Well, it didn’t really hurt too much,” I added, “until my mother started screaming. Then I got scared.” I remembered the blood, how it had seemed pretty at first, how it had made a shape like a dragon on the cutting board. A tiny dragon with a curly tongue.

  But when Mom yelled like that? That’s when I’d wanted to cry. It had frightened me, the way her hands flew to her mouth, the way she looked like she wished she could run away. “Don’t be scared,” I had told her. “I’m okay.”

  “Hurt isn’t always on the outside,” Rufus’s shadow said. Mind reading again.

  Later at the hospital, when they were giving me the tetanus shot, Mom had started scolding me. She said I wasn’t old enough to help, after all. That I was still a baby she couldn’t trust, a baby she had to watch every second.

  “The wounds we feel when we’re children last the longest of all.” I felt our poet’s hand on my shoulder, strong and sure, not shaky or old. “And they make the best poems. The kind I know you can write.”

  There were lots more memories, of course, lots more stories. And when I listened to kids, blindfolded kids who didn’t have to look at each other, turn into little children as they talked, I heard poems. Maybe they weren’t as perfect, as secret and profound, as the one Fry had texted me. Maybe they wouldn’t all get written down, but nearly every one deserved to be. Each was different, each was important.

  And I guess that was Rufus’s point, “the lesson of the day,” he called it. “There’s nothing you feel, nothing you see or hear or taste or touch,” he told us, “that can’t be a poem.”

  So we wrote them. We all took our blindfolds off, and there he was, grinning at us, welcoming us back to the light. We kept sucking on what was left of our candy, and wrote and wrote. You realize, of course, that when I say “we,” I mean the contingent that cared. Or at least felt so bad about what we’d done, we wanted to keep our poet smiling, keep him from remembering that burned-up pile of rubble he used to live in. Naturally, there were a few kids who zoned instead of wrote. Or joined Thatcher and his friends for an undercover texting fest. But most of us? We were hard at work for twenty minutes by our poet’s wristwatch. (Twenty minutes that I forgot to steal a look at my cell. Twenty minutes without near hands, dear hands. Without one breath, one sigh.)

  When we finished, Rufus told us anyone who wanted to share what they’d written, could. Three people did, but I wasn’t one of them. I’d made so many corrections and crossed out so much, I could hardly read my own writing. Then time was up, and Rufus told us to hand him our poems on the way out. When someone asked if they had to, he said no. “If you feel uncomfortable with what you did on the spot here, you can take it home and make it better.” He grinned. “Otherwise? You’ve already done your homework!”

  Naturally, nearly the whole class handed him their poems, ready or not. I mean, there’s such a thing as carrying perfectionism too far. And giving up a pass on homework is way too far. Rufus just smiled and gave everyone a patented double handshake before they filed out the door. Fry was right, of course. He hadn’t taken roll, probably didn’t even know he’d just taught one less felon than he had the week before.

  I stayed at the end of the line. First, I wanted to see if Dr. Fenshaw would hand our poet a poem. (He did.) And second, I wanted to explain why I couldn’t. (If I couldn’t read my writing, how could Rufus?)

  I almost lost my nerve, though. Not because I was worried about talking one-on-one with our famous teacher—I’d already done that, and found it was easy as breathing. It was the group of boys hanging around outside the classroom door that made me think twice. It was the way they were standing, the undercover insolence of their hands in their pockets, their eyes glued to me. Sure enough, Thatcher was there, leader of the rat pack. Even without Fry, that looming deadhead was saying it for him, Teacher’s pet. Only Thatcher was pantomiming something not quite as genteel. He turned at an angle to the door, and when he was sure Baylor wasn’t looking, he patted his oversize butt, then smiled and blew me a kiss.

  “Ah, Sarah.” Our poet swallowed my hands in both his. “I’d like to talk to you about your poem.”

  “It’s not that I didn’t write it,” I explained. “It’s just that it’s taking longer than I thought.”

  “Longer?” Baylor glanced back toward the big desk at the front of the room, the one I’d never
seen him stand behind. That was when I noticed our love poems from last week, our assignments, arranged in a neat pile on top. “I thought it was just the right length.

  “I liked the way the two verses ended with a question, not an answer.” He walked back to the desk, stacked the new poems he’d collected beside the old. “And I liked the way you didn’t beat me over the head with those rhymes, just let me feel them for myself.”

  He wasn’t talking about what I’d written today. He was talking about what I’d handed in at the beginning of class. “You read my poem already?!”

  “While y’all were sniffing around, so was I.” He grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t get to everyone’s just yet, but I knew yours would be special. And it was.”

  “It was?” I followed him to the desk, feeling like a little kid with something big to say. “Actually,” I told him, “there’s more.”

  “There is?” He didn’t even look up from the pile of papers he was patting into shape.

  I patted another pile, remembering the ragged eyes, the lost hope. “I guess,” I told him, “it’s something that needs saying, not writing.” I willed him to look at me before I lost my nerve.

  “Go ahead.” He met me halfway, his eyes finding mine as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Easy as stepping into your old, comfy slippers when you slide out of bed. “Shoot.”

  I nodded. “I’m so sorry about what we . . . about what I did. Your house, your pictures, your—”

  “Thank you, Sarah.” He didn’t look away, didn’t pretend I hadn’t started crying. Instead, he reached out with one of those big hands of his, and brushed the wet from both my cheeks, first one, then the other. “I’m sorry about what happened, too.” He considered what he’d said and he smiled, just enough. “From the other end, of course. Maybe we can add up all our ‘sorrys’ and build something new?”

  I nodded again. I thought of the cleanup. Maybe it made sense, after all. The first to look away, I busied myself, helping to stuff the rest of the poems into the canvas bag he used instead of a briefcase. As I did, a pink paper fell out. It was full of girly script, and something made me glance at the name on the bottom: Julie M. Kinney. Miss Kinney!

  “You read our teacher’s letter?” I stared at the page of fairy script before I gave it back. “She’s so excited that you’re wri—that you’re here.”

  “I’m excited that I’m writing, too, Sarah.” Baylor folded Miss Kinney’s letter and slipped it back into his bag. “And I owe it to poems like this one.” He reached into the pocket of his shirt, took out another piece of paper. It was typed, but I recognized it, too. He’d put my poem in his pocket.

  Our poet unfolded the poem and held it close, the way people do when they need glasses to read but don’t have them on. “ ‘Where are the tears,’ ” he read aloud, “ ‘in this first poem / for a broken house, / memories trampled, / a way home?’

  “I sent your teacher a note.” He folded the poem up again, returned it to his pocket, tapping it as if he wanted to make sure it was still there. “I’ve told her what an inspiration y’all have been.”

  I could picture Miss Kinney’s face when she opened the poet’s letter, her eyes misting as she read it. I wondered if she’d keep it in a diary. Put it under glass. Start a shrine?

  “Shall we?” Rufus was standing by the door now, bag in hand, waiting for me. The kids by the door were gone. I floated out of the classroom, then onto the covered patio outside. Almost everyone had left, but H was waiting—not very patiently—on a bench by the entrance. I couldn’t worry about H right now, though. It wasn’t too late to be sorry, after all. Our poet had forgiven me. And he liked my poem.

  Sometimes you can actually feel your own happiness. As if you were filling up like one of Aunt J.’s rain jars. Who could blame me for nearly forgetting my ride home? I would probably have been hard pressed to remember the words to Fry’s poem just then. Or even my own name. Rufus had let me tell him. He’d let me cry. I’d lived through both. And on top of that, my extremely full and very proud heart kept reminding me, The most famous poet in the world LIKED my poem.

  His tongue soaks licks? the cutting board,

  The dragon of blood that crawls

  Out from my finger.

  The half-cut lemon

  Still smells like sun,

  Still promises lemonade.

  But then she screams and

  Hides her eyes from my cut, hand, covers her eyes,

  Looks as though she’ll run away.

  “Don’t cry,” I tell her, frightened now,

  “Mommy, please don’t cry.”

  I hide my hands behind my back.

  But it’s too late, she’s seen the blood,

  She knows I’ve been I’m clumsy, wrong.

  “How could you?” she asks and

  And I don’t know. How could I cut

  Cut myself instead of the that lemon,

  And hurt her like this? instead of me?

  Our Poet Asks for Help, and My Prince Makes an Offer

  Walking into the real world outside our classroom after talking one-on-one with a legend, a legend who thought I’d written a good poem, was like taking that blindfold off. Before I was ready, there was too much light, too much noise. And too much H. He made a pathetic cartoon on that bench, tapping his foot like a father waiting up late for his daughter. (If any father wore black hoopers with oversize neon tongues.) As soon as he saw me, he stood and raced toward us. “My dad,” he said, waving his cell. “He’s called three times. He needs me home right away.”

  High drama, Losada-style. And Baylor played along. “You’d better hurry then,” he told us, heading for his own car. The sky was flirting with sunset, and on the sidewalk I watched the poet’s long shadow pull away from ours. Watched it wave good-bye with its cane. After only a few steps, though, Baylor and his shadow both turned. “Oh, before you leave,” he called after us, “could you tell me where there’s a good music store in town?”

  It seems he wanted our class to wax poetic (or as poetic as we could) with all five senses. We’d already looked at ourselves in a mirror, and smelled and tasted candy, but we still had touch and hearing to go. “I know the kind of music I like might not fit the bill for y’all,” he told us. “I thought I’d sort through some tapes, see what I can find.”

  “Tapes?!” H couldn’t hide his surprise, his astonishment that the Great One was so far out of touch. “Do you mean CDs, sir?”

  Rufus snapped his fingers. “Of course, I do,” he said, then looked lost, like a kindergartner trying to keep up. “At least, I think I do?”

  One glance at our faces must have told him he was in way over his head. “I guess I could use some advice. Do you suppose you might come with me to the music store, Sarah?”

  “Me?” Me and a legend at J. Z. Fab’s? Me and Rufus Baylor shopping for tunes?

  “I’d be glad to give you a ride home afterward,” our poet added, with a smile that brought back the kid in him. How did he do that?

  “Well, I . . .” I glanced at H, who was torn between his father and his big chance to score with Baylor. It was painfully clear he didn’t trust me as musical consultant to the stars.

  “Sir,” H explained, his voice low and patient. “It might be better to wait until I can go with you, too.” His cell started playing “Cyclone Heartache” from inside his hip pocket, and he winced. “Listen, I gotta go, but you could call me from the store, right?” He looked at me, not Baylor, for confirmation.

  “Sure,” I told him as he backed toward the lot. I knew the chances of my calling were about the same as the odds of my making the Olympics. In any sport. Any year. Any lifetime.

  “Nothing obvious, you know?” H was still walking backward, shouting instructions. “No metal or Dylan or DNC.” You could tell he hated to leave the choice in my hands. “And absolutely no film scores, okay?”

  “Don’t worry,” I shouted back. “I’ve got it covered.” I waved, then turned and winked
at Baylor. He looked amused, happy, I’m not sure what. But I had the definite feeling he was glad of the company, and that made two of us. I loved matching his long stride across the parking lot, loved getting into that mess of a car he drove, and I loved walking into J. Z. Fab’s with the most famous poet on Earth.

  * * * *

  Said famous poet, it was soon very clear, needed a lot of help finding music that wouldn’t turn off his class. The first problem was navigating him through the bins of CDs, all with titles too tiny for him to read, in plastic cases too small for his huge hands. But after he took out the pair of glasses in his shirt pocket, and after I explained, leaning close so we could talk over the music from fifty zillion speakers around the store, how things were laid out, he was a lot more comfortable finding what he wanted. That was when things got really dicey.

  I wished Fry were with us. Not just because I wanted to tell him how I felt about the poem he’d texted. And not just because he knew a lot about music. But because he knew a lot about people, too. He would have figured out just what to say, how to deflect Rufus with a funny joke or a smart remark. He would have been a lot better than I was at steering our poet away from self-destructive choices. But of course, Fry would never have agreed to come with us, even if I’d had the nerve to ask him. He would have laughed at the whole idea, then made some snide remark about old bards and young girls.

  So I was in this alone. And it wasn’t going well. No matter what I said, Rufus gravitated toward show tunes. Old show tunes. Okay, ancient show tunes. And worse. Mozart. “The Jupiter Symphony might work,” he told me, in all seriousness. “It has a very dramatic opening.”

  “I don’t think . . .” I wanted to let him down easy, edge him toward something by someone alive.

  “You’re right, you’re right,” he agreed before I’d finished. He looked at the case he’d picked up, studied the cover, which showed the profile of a conductor making calligraphy in the air. “The second movement is too melancholy.” He dropped the CD back in the bin and sighed as if he’d just made a very hard choice. “Perhaps something a bit more modern?”