Poemsia

by Lang Leav

  Raphael intervened, slapping my hand away. “It’s called contouring, darling. Now, let’s get you out of that godawful thing you’re wearing.”

  He glared at my light blue pinstriped dress. It had a low-cut neckline trimmed with lace and puffy sleeves. Back in Sydney, Jess and I had spent an entire day shopping for a dress to wear on my big night, and this one was the most expensive dress I had ever owned.

  Raphael started pulling at the clothing bags and came back with a stunning black dress with a Gucci label. He handed it to me without a word—my cue to put it on—and I made a beeline for the bathroom.

  A few minutes later, I came out with the dress on, and it was short and too tight. It felt as if it was restricting my circulation, and I tugged at the hem self-consciously.

  He looked me up and down.

  “Back straight, like you’ve been shot with an arrow, and suck your stomach in!”

  I did as told.

  “Much better.” Mena nodded.

  “Oh God, those shoes,” he moaned with a pained look.

  I glanced down at the strappy heels I’d found on eBay for a steal. They were cute, with a diamante motif by the toe, but the straps did look a little worn. I probably should have bought a new pair for the trip, but I couldn’t justify the expense.

  Mena sighed. “Damn, I can’t believe I didn’t think of that! Oh well, they’ll have to do. The shoes might look OK seen from the audience.”

  He threw up his hands and glared at me. “OK, not much to work with, but I did my best.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot!” Mena ruffled through her bag and pulled out the diamond cuff bracelet we saw in the window at Tiffany’s. “For luck,” she said, strapping it onto my wrist.

  Raphael mumbled something under his breath that sounded like “Pearls before swine.”

  I stared at the bracelet on my wrist, moving it so the stones glittered under the light. I was mesmerized. It must have cost a fortune.

  “It’s on loan, of course!” Mena added with a short laugh.

  She walked me to the walled mirror and stood me in front of it. I sucked in a breath. The dress, hair, and makeup had turned me into someone I didn’t recognize. Yes, I looked better than I ever had before—I just didn’t look like myself.

  “OK, I’m going now,” Raphael declared, packing up his things. Without another word, he picked up a cupcake from the table and headed for the door.

  Mena blew him a kiss. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

  He answered with a dismissive wave and disappeared.

  “Thanks, Raphael,” I called softly after him, a beat too late.

  “Is that you, Verity?” I turned to see Anya striding in. “You look like a million dollars!”

  “I got Raphael to come out on short notice. Isn’t he a darling?”

  “Wow, that’s some serious pull you’ve got.” Anya winked at Mena. She glanced at the clipboard in her hand. “You girls are on in ten. I’m going to introduce you both. Then you’ll walk onto the stage and take your seats. Verity, do you have a preference about what side you’d like to sit?”

  I shook my head.

  “OK, great. Your fans are so excited to see you! Oh, and your friend Jess is here, and we gave her the best seat—front row center. She’s sitting right next to Kerry, so she’s being well looked after. When the show’s over, we’ll fetch her for you and bring her backstage. Ready to go?”

  “Wait!” I grabbed Sash’s silk handkerchief from my purse, and because it wouldn’t fit anywhere else, I hurriedly stuffed it into my bra.

  Anya raised her eyebrows.

  “My lucky charm,” I explained.

  We followed Anya through winding corridors and up some steps. I could hear the murmuring of the audience, and it immediately triggered my fight-or-flight response.

  Anya then walked up the two steps that led onto the stage, and a hush fell over the crowd. “Thank you all for coming tonight.” She went on to recap how I was discovered by a fateful post Karla Swann had made on her Instagram, sending my poetry viral. “Now here she is, all the way from Sydney, Australia! Please put your hands together for . . . Verity Wolf!”

  All of a sudden, a microphone was pushed into my hand, and I put one foot after another, propelling myself forward to the tune of the chanting crowd. Then I was on the stage.

  Fourteen

  As I looked at the sea of people, a roar of applause broke out; they were clapping and calling out my name. All at once, I knew Mena was right. I had crossed over into another world. Somewhere between the steps and the stage, I’d left my old self behind.

  Mena grinned, waving at the crowd. “Are we all excited?”

  “Yes!” they chorused.

  My heart was pounding. I tried to make out some of the faces, but the bright lights disoriented me, so I put my hand up and waved. To my surprise, that seemed to send shockwaves through the audience. “Hello, New York!” I called, in a voice that rang with more confidence than I felt, and a roar went up. I scanned the front row and spotted Jess, sitting proud. She grinned and gave me the thumbs-up sign. Mena and I then took our seats, and I sat up as straight as I could.

  The show was on.

  A few minutes into my show, Mena asked. “Verity, how are you finding your newfound fame?”

  I ducked my head shyly. “Well, I don’t know if I’m really all that famous . . .”

  “Wow—humble and talented!” Mena addressed the audience. “Do you think Verity’s famous?”

  A resounding yes came back from the crowd.

  She cupped her hand over one ear. “What was that? I don’t think Verity heard you!”

  “Yes!” came the collective cry, followed by loud clapping. I marveled at how Mena seemed so comfortable on stage. Even though this was my show, there was no question who was in charge. She handled the audience like a conductor in front of an orchestra.

  With a gesture outward, she said, “This is it, Verity—your big moment! Look at all the people who are here for you! Who love and support your work because it’s made a difference in their lives. How does that make you feel?”

  I answered honestly. “Like a princess in a fairy tale.”

  “You’ve definitely lived my definition of that—growing up in a bookstore. Can you tell us more about that?”

  “Wolf Books is my grandad’s bookshop, where I’ve lived since I was a little girl. It’s so old and practically dilapidated—but to me, it’s home. Books have always felt like home to me.”

  “Oh my God, I’ve got goose bumps. You’ve just put into words what most people feel but can’t describe. I’m sure everyone here knows what it’s like to be nostalgic for books. It’s like that poem you posted on your Instagram—the one from that book, Poemsia. Sometimes fiction is more real to us than reality.”

  I thought back to when I discussed Poemsia with Mena. “Yes, and these days the lines feel even more blurred. It’s getting harder to tell what’s real and what isn’t.”

  “Tell me about it! I know from personal experience how tough female authors have it in our post-truth world. But let’s not focus on the negatives! We’re lucky to have so many strong, powerful women lighting the way.”

  “That’s exactly what you’ve done for me, Mena! You’re my trailblazer. Before I picked up Cult of Two, I didn’t know I could be a poet. You’ve shown me what was possible, and I owe it all to you.”

  Light clapping and murmurs of agreement followed.

  “Aw, you’re a sweetheart. I’m just pleased that the world is reading poetry again! And I’m sure there are people in the audience who are just dying to ask you about your amazing work. Does anyone have a question for Verity?”

  Hands shot in the air.

  Mena pointed at a geeky, teenage boy with braces. Someone passed him a microphone, and he cleared his throat. “Do you write your poems by han
d or do you use an app?”

  “Actually,” I laughed, “I usually write my poems in an old receipt book. My granddad keeps a box of them behind the counter of his bookshop.”

  An appreciative murmur went through the audience, as though this small, mundane detail about my writing was something precious—though I was no different these past few days, hanging on to Mena’s every word.

  A girl wearing a Ramones t-shirt and denim jacket stood up and gushed. “Verity, I’m such a huge fan! I’d love to know how you got up the courage to share your work. Were you afraid people might steal it?”

  “Of course, I was! But my fear was just an excuse, and I allowed it to hold me back. For a long time, the thought of sharing my work terrified me. I wanted to stay in a cocoon where I could dream about being a poet, without ever having to put myself out there. Then one day, I confided in my best friend about my fears and she said something that struck me.” I stopped, as I caught Jess’s eye in the front row and pointed her out. “There she is—my best friend, Jess.” She turned and waved, eliciting cheers and whistles from the crowd. I asked the audience, “Do you want to know what Jess said?”

  “Yes!” they chorused back.

  “When I told her I was afraid someone would steal my work, Jess said, ‘So what if someone does? You’ll just keep writing better stuff.’ And she was right. The truth is, those who lack authenticity, and write for all the wrong reasons, are building their future on shaky ground. If you have to steal from others to win, then you have already lost. Anything you gain, any sense of victory you feel, will be hollow because you know you haven’t really earned it. You can convince the whole world, but the one person you’ll never convince is yourself.”

  Mena nodded. “You’re absolutely right, Verity! They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and if you have work that is worth stealing, that just proves how talented you really are.”

  Question after question came from the audience, each more thought provoking than the next. I felt such joy sharing my inner world with a roomful of strangers, knowing they had experienced many of the same things I did. It thrilled me to imagine that there were writers and poets in the crowd who would one day be sitting where I was.

  “One last question for Verity,” Mena nodded at me.

  A pretty brunette with a pixie cut asked me in a shaky voice, “Verity, I’m an aspiring poet. Do you have any advice on how I could be a famous poet just like you?”

  For a moment I wasn’t sure how to answer. Doubt began to creep into my mind. Am I really a famous poet? Did I deserve to be here? Have I earned this? As these thoughts raced through my mind, a cold panic held me in its grip. I looked out at the audience and gulped. Then I caught sight of Jess again, and suddenly, I saw myself through her eyes and knew she would never question my place on this stage for a second.

  The brunette girl fidgeted, and the audience seemed to hold their breath in anticipation. I opened my mouth, and the answer came to me the way a poem sometimes did—from a place that centuries of writers before me have attributed to the mysterious and divine. “There’s no way to be a poet. You can’t choose it because it chooses you. Maybe your soul refracts the universe in all its complex beauty and you are a shard of light in its great hallway of mirrors. The universe calls and compels you to write poetry because with every ounce of its being, it yearns to know itself through you.”

  “Verity, that was insane—congratulations!” Anya kissed me warmly on the cheek. “You are a star!” The curtain had just dropped, and I knew my show had been a raging success.

  “Thank you,” I beamed, and I couldn’t believe it was over.

  “The way you handled that last question . . .” she shook her head. “You’re frickin’ nineteen! Where the hell does that wisdom come from?”

  I shrugged and laughed. “I have no idea.”

  “Look who I have here!” Kerry appeared with Jess in tow.

  I threw my arms around her, and she hugged me tightly.

  “You were amazing! Seriously, who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?”

  We giggled.

  “What do you think of the hair?” I patted the sides of my head.

  “I love it. And your dress—do you get to keep it?”

  “It’s Gucci, so I doubt it!”

  Mena ambled up. “Verity, I organized a little get-together for you at my house—just a few close friends. You’re coming, right?”

  “Of course! Can Jess come?” Mena’s eyes darted to Jess, then back to me. She sighed. “Look, normally, I would say yes.” She was talking as though Jess wasn’t even there. “But, well, I’ve had complaints recently from the tenants in my building. A bunch of stuffy retirees. So I’m kind of trying to limit my guests.”

  “It’s cool,” said Jess. “You go ahead, Verity. Uncle Gerry wants to take us to this new Italian place anyway. I’ll see you at the hotel when you get back.”

  “But . . .” I looked from Mena to Jess, conflicted. I didn’t want to celebrate my big night without my best friend.

  Mena wove her arm through mine. “Guess who’s coming? Sal Dollinger. Didn’t you say he was your grandad’s favorite poet? I told him to bring a couple of his books for you.”

  I glanced at Jess again, and she smiled. “Pop would love that so much, Vare.”

  “Um, OK.” I still had an anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Kerry tapped my shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt you Verity—Helen from the New York Times is keen to speak with you. Do you have a few moments?”

  “Verity, over here, big smile!” A photographer began firing shot after shot.

  A woman then appeared out of nowhere and grabbed my hand, “Oh my God, you were amazing, Verity! I’m Stacey, the manager here at Sojourn. My daughter is one of your biggest fans—can you autograph this for her?” She thrust a pen and my event poster at me.

  “Verity, I’m Jimmy—an agent from Stabscotch, public relations. Here’s my card! Maybe we can have a chat sometime—”

  “Verity . . . over here . . .”

  Suddenly, I was aware of the people around me jostling for my attention. I felt like I was spinning out of control. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jess leaving. I opened my mouth to stop her, but someone grabbed my arm, and I was being led somewhere. It was like the tsunami Mena had predicted, and I let myself get swept up.

  Fifteen

  Mena’s place was thumping with loud dance music when we arrived. Her apartment on the thirty-first floor of a high-rise in Midtown Manhattan was filled with beautiful people laughing and dancing. I had expected a small get-together and was surprised. It did not look like an intimate affair. No one batted an eyelid when we walked in, suggesting the party wasn’t actually thrown in my honor, as Mena had said.

  “Let me give you the grand tour!” she declared, tossing her handbag on a buffet table in the hall.

  The place was impressive, with high ceilings and wide, sweeping views of the city skyline. Pinpricks of light twinkled everywhere as though the night sky had been turned upside down. I noted a small gathering smoking and drinking outside on the balcony, lost in conversation. At the edge of the balcony grew a row of hedge trees pruned into tiny woodland creatures like elks, owls, and foxes.

  “Your place is gorgeous,” I exclaimed.

  “I bought it a couple months back.”

  “You bought this?” I was incredulous. The idea of actually owning a place seemed so impossible to me, like winning the lottery.

  “It cost a fortune,” she moaned. “I’m literally broke now!”

  Then I glanced at the diamond cuff bracelet she’d loaned me, and she followed my gaze.

  “Maxed out my credit card,” she explained with a shrug. “But I’m expecting my next royalty check later this month.”

  “So how is French Fry liking your new place?” I asked look
ing around the apartment, hoping to spot her famous French bulldog.

  “Oh, I had to give him away. I can’t manage a dog in this building. Don’t judge me.”

  “Mena!” A guy in a white short-sleeve shirt tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and threw her arms around his neck.

  “André!” She cried, with delight. “Verity, meet my special friend.” Her voice was full of pride as she ran her hands over his bulging muscles. “Flex for me, baby,” she cooed before turning to me. “Isn’t he hot? Do you want to borrow him?”

  “Um, I have a boyfriend.”

  Mena burst into laughter. “She’s such an innocent—we have to find a way to corrupt her.”

  He leered at me. “Maybe I can help with that.”

  All of a sudden, I felt totally uncomfortable and wished I had been insistent that Jess come along. An extra person would not have made a difference to Mena, but it would have meant the world to me. I hated not knowing anyone here.

  Mena must have caught my look. “Relax, we’re just fucking with you. Jesus Christ, go have a drink.” She seemed like a completely different person, and I wondered if I had said something to upset her.

  “Oh, um, I—”

  She cut me off. “I always like to blow off a little steam post-show, so I’m going to take this hunk into my bedroom and do some very bad things to him. Why don’t you hang out and enjoy yourself? It’s your party, for Chrissake!”

  “It is?” André said, brow furrowed.

  “Babe, of course it is! She’s Verity Wolf—don’t you know who she is?”

  He shook his head stupidly.

  “She’s me, of course. Just five years behind.”

  After Mena disappeared, I made my way to the dining table laden with finger food. I hadn’t eaten since morning and suddenly realized how hungry I was. In the center of the table was a silver bowl filled with ice that held a small gold tin of caviar. I’d never had it before and always wondered what it was like.

  “Are you Verity?” I looked up to see a girl with short cropped hair and bright red lipstick. “Were you at the Sojourn tonight with Mena?”