After my detour to the north side of campus, I rush back to reality. I attend the rest of my classes in a certain daze, here one second but gone the next. It’s odd, to say the least.
By the end of the day, I’m still trapped in those flaming eyes, looking at the world through a blue fog.
He’s magic.
I don’t know why, but that word affects me so much. Once all my classes are done, I find myself at the bookstore again. This time around, I don’t want to buy a required book or create chaos. I want to get to know him through his words.
His book is called Anesthesia: Collected Poems. According to Wikipedia, this is his first full-length collection of poems. It was released almost a year ago and since then, it has been named one of the best poetry books of the year and has received a bunch of awards. Most specifically, he is the youngest recipient of the McLeod genius grant at the age of twenty-nine. He’s a big deal.
I hold the thin, leafy book in my hands. The pages are crisp white with black, bold letters. I flick through them as Lana’s “Blue Jeans” plays in my ears. My fingers trace the curly letters of his name on the front.
Thomas Abrams.
Thomas, dark smoker and blue-eyed professor.
This side of the store is almost empty. There are a bunch of stragglers in the popular fiction section, over to the left side, partially hidden behind the sprawling staircase and flanking bricked pillars.
Knowing the coast is clear, I bring the book to my nose and smell the clean, sharp pages. I take a large sniff and strangely, catch a scent of warm smoke. I sway with the rush of warmth skating down my spine and the rhythm of the music echoing in my ears. Beginnings of a moan surprise me and I whip my eyes open.
There he is, as if conjured by my own imagination.
The eyes that have been haunting me, following me everywhere today, bore into me and slowly sweep down to the book currently covering the lower half of my face. I feel a tug in my stomach, behind my navel, as though someone is pulling on the silver ring adorning my belly. I clear my throat and lower the book, taking my headphones off.
“I love the smell of books.”
He doesn’t look like he believes me. His contemplative stare makes me aware that I’m wearing layers upon layers of clothing. Too many layers. Too much heat.
I put the book away with trembling hands and shrug. “You can say it.”
“Say what?” He cocks his head, as if analyzing me.
Kara does the same. She tries to figure me out and I hate it, but hate isn’t the word I’d use to describe what I’m feeling right now. It’s something else. Bolder. Thrilling. Unknown.
“Whatever you’re thinking. I can see it on your face—you think I’m crazy, think I’m an idiot for smelling a book.”
I’m waiting for him to acknowledge it, to say, Duh, you’re right, though I don’t think he’d say it exactly that way.
“That’s…impressive.” He nods, his mouth curling into a one-sided smile. “You can read me like a book—though I’d rather you not smell me.”
A surprised chuckle escapes me. “You’re funny.”
“Guilty. One of my many talents.”
“Right. What are your other talents? No wait, I know—teaching, right?”
“Yes. I was born to teach,” he deadpans, his face made of smooth stone except for the deepening crinkles around his eyes.
“Ah, delusion. Got it. You’re insanely talented.”
His beautifully carved jaw tics. “Are you insulting my teaching skills, Miss Robinson?”
My name sounds like tendrils of chocolate in his rich, deep voice. I feel it drenching me in a sticky, excited buzz. How is it that he makes me hot while at the same time giving me shivers? How is it that he does any of these things at all?
“No, Professor Abrams. I wouldn’t dare. You kinda scare me.”
Truth. Absolute and utter truth. He scares me, because he has a strange effect on me, mystical and unprecedented.
“Good. I am scary. Never forget that,” he says approvingly, ready to leave, but then he turns around to face me. “Do you know it’s illegal to mess up the order of the books?”
It takes a moment for me to get what he means. He’s talking about what I did yesterday. “I didn’t—”
He throws me a disbelieving stare. “It was dumb, not to mention ineffective. G to F? No one cares about that. If you really want to scare someone, go with something like S to A. Wider stretch, ergo, bigger panic.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
“Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“Okay,” I repeat.
He ducks his head down and smiles.
“I thought you didn’t see me. Yesterday, I mean.”
Until I said it, I hadn’t realized I’d wanted him to see me. In another drastic epiphany, like the one I had in class about words, I realize I don’t want to be invisible to him. Not to him.
But why? I don’t get it. What is this madness?
“I told you, I have many talents. Sniffing out crazy is one of them.”
I gasp and he chuckles. He called me crazy. I absolutely hate that, but as I watch him leave, it’s not anger that I’m feeling.
It’s something else. Something magical.
I’m dense when it comes to art, be it a book, a painting, or whatever. I don’t understand the allure of it. I don’t understand how bland circular lines on a painting, nonsensical words in a book, or a broken piece of clay inspire devotion in people.
Even so, I’ve read Thomas’ book of poems at least a hundred times since Monday. In fact, this book has kept me company throughout the week when I couldn’t sleep at night. The tiny words on the paper seem to have risen and attached themselves to my skin. I feel them everywhere, all the time, as if I know them. They are my friends. I know where they are coming from.
As if I know what Thomas was thinking when he wrote these lines.
Emma was right—Thomas is indeed a genius. He is magic. He went to school here before moving to Brooklyn, and he was the one who started the Labyrinth, an online journal that features varied pieces from both upcoming and established poets, prose writers, playwrights, and so on.
I’m so far removed from him, from these people, but still, I’m back at the Labyrinth, the artistic maze. I’m skipping political science—the class I missed last week—again, but I don’t care. I want to be inside this mysterious building.
I enter and feel an instant warmth seeping into my body. Now that I’m not in pursuit of someone, I give myself time to study things. It smells like campfire: smoky and marshmallow-y. The sounds are still there, lively and energetic as ever.
My boots hit the polished cement floor as I walk farther in. The walls have a chipped brick façade, giving it an industrial look. It is dotted with countless colored flyers and photos. I take in every single face displayed up there; most of them are group shots, and the location is eerily similar: a bar. The flyers are for readings—some outdated, some upcoming—or for singing auditions, band performances, theatre productions, et cetera.
I turn the corner and almost bump into someone. He’s carrying a stack of papers and speed walking. I mutter my apologies but he doesn’t pay me any mind. A burst of laughter floats out of a classroom and I find myself smiling in return. Running footsteps above indicate that the theatre people still haven’t found an auditorium to practice in.
This place is something, isn’t it? This building is a living, breathing thing.
I go inside the classroom and take my seat in the back like the last time. A few minutes later, Professor Abrams comes in. He takes off his coat and drapes it on the chair, revealing a black shirt that molds over the tight arches of his shoulder and pecs. The languidness in his demeanor while at the bookstore is gone. He’s strained inside these four walls, chiseled from a rock, but no less handsome.
Like last time, he fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt. I realize it’s a ritual of some sort, as if he’s preparing himself for the torture ahead.
Confused, we stay still and silent. He studies us with uncanny eyes. “How many of you have taken a workshop before?”
Without giving us a chance to answer, he shakes his head. “Never mind. I don’t care. In my class, you’ll sit in a circle, and…” He folds his arms across his chest. “You’re going to read your work out loud. We’ll take some time to ponder, and then we’ll talk about it. I want everyone to pitch in, and I don’t want repeated comments. If someone has said what you were going to say, then think of something else. Is that clear?”
Not a word, not even a breath.
Professor Abrams lets out a sharp puff of breath. “Are we clear?”
Broken out of the shocked trance, we all nod our heads and spring up from our seats. The room is filled with the screech of chairs being dragged across the floor. Five minutes later, we’re all seated in a semicircle around the professor, who perches on the edge of his desk, elbows on his thighs and fingers laced.
Somehow, I’ve ended up directly in front of him. This is the line of fire, and I’m going to get burned before this class is over.
He straightens and picks up a thin yellow folder from the desk, perusing it. “When I call your name, tell me about your essay, who your favorite author is, and how he or she inspires you and your writing.” He looks up and grimaces. “I’m boring myself just talking about it, but it’s in the syllabus.”
Emma smiles, sitting up in her chair. She is loving the chance to interact with her rock-star poet. Me? I’m crouching, because I completely forgot about the homework.
Hide. Hide.
Just as the thought occurs, I dismiss it. As it turns out, I want him to pay attention to me. I don’t want him to gloss over me like he’s doing other students. I want him to see me even though I’m doing everything I can to curl up and become invisible in a room full of students.
Again, what is this madness?
He keeps reading off names from the list in his hands and dismissing them right as they begin speaking. His eyes glaze over. I can see it. I wonder if it’s visible to other students.
Even though I’m restless, shifting in my seat, fiddling with my skirt and my top, I’m fascinated by how these people talk about their ideals.
I want to be like Hemingway. Direct. Precise.
I love Shakespeare. If I manage to write a single poem like him, I’ll die happy.
I’m fascinated by the passion in their voices, the goals they have set for themselves—to be something, to be someone. It makes me jealous of their brand of love, a love that doesn’t make you selfish or lonely, a love that gives you purpose.
Milton, Robert Browning, James Joyce, Byron, Edgar Allen Poe, Stephen Dunn, Joyce Carol Oates, Gillian Flynn, Jennifer Egan, Neil Gaiman, Sylvia Plath.
I don’t know any of them, and I have an urge to find out. My restlessness is swelling, expanding. My breaths have escalated with the hint of possibility in the air, the possibility to tip over the edge into a different world with brick façades and cement floors, a world with surly professors with eyes the color of hot flame and cool water.
My musings are cut short when Professor Abrams jumps down from his perch on the desk, his hands on his hips. What’s wrong?
“I wasn’t planning on saying anything because it’s none of my business, but I’m your teacher, and apparently I’m supposed to care about these things. Also, I don’t think I can stop myself, but that’s beside the point.” He paces, then pauses to scowl at the class, at no one in particular.
“All I’ve heard so far is how amazing an author is and how you want to write like him or her. I don’t think you understand what inspiration is. It’s not ripping off Hemingway or Shakespeare or Plath. It’s not the ambition to be like someone. That’s no ambition at all. If that’s truly what you want, then I’d rather not teach you. But, unfortunately, I need this job, so…” He puffs out an exasperated breath as he runs his thick fingers through his hair.
“I’m only going to say this once: there’s a difference between writing and creating art. Anyone can write, but only a few can create art, and for that, you need to find your own voice. Reading is good. Read as much as you want, but make your own rules. Don’t just follow. Strive to create something that comes from you. Strive to create your art, not recreate what someone else did, because frankly, you should rather want to be dead than be a rip-off.”
He is panting, his chest punching the taut fabric of his shirt. The hard planes and hollows of his face shift with emotion. This is the poet Emma was talking about. Passionate. Volatile. Genius. Magical.
I’ve got goosebumps under the sleeves of my sweater, followed by flashes of heat. I touch the spine of his book, going up and down the length with my finger. The smooth texture of it causes something heavy to swirl inside my chest. It causes me to bite my lip. As if he’s attuned to my actions, his gaze falls on me. We stay connected a beat before we both look away. For that one beat, I saw his eyes flare, and the blue was so prominent, it took my breath away.
Professor Abrams’ fervent speech has sparked interest and from there, the class practically carries itself. Emma is the first one to ask questions. Who was your inspiration? Who did you read while growing up? Did you always know you wanted to be a poet? Do you write every day? He dodges every one of those, never divulging anything about his favorite writers or his writing ritual—as Emma calls it—answering every question with a question of his own.
I stare at him. I observe him, his little habits. The tic in his jaw when someone seems to bother him. How he swallows down cutting comments when the same someone doesn’t get that he’s irritated. Every time he controls himself, I feel the familiar tug in my belly button.
As soon as the class is over, everyone submits their homework on the desk, reminding me that somehow, I’ve been spared. Happy or disappointed, I can’t decide. I gather up my winter gear, ready to leave, when his voice, sharp as a whip, stops me.
“Miss Robinson, can I talk to you for a second?” Not even a glance at me. His focus is on the essays as he bundles them up.
The room has almost emptied as I approach the wooden expanse of the desk, the solidness separating us. Is it weird that I notice how he’s changed since the class ended a few minutes ago? He isn’t the rigid professor anymore. He is…Thomas.
The reappearance of the guy from the bookstore injects a shot of mischief and boldness in me. I’m reckless in the moment, light and airy. I give him a smile and my most innocent look: wide, blinking eyes and a hint of a frown on my smooth forehead. “Yes, Professor?”
But he isn’t in the mood to indulge. He thumbs through the essays while staring at me, and I know I’ve been found out. Any second now, he’s going to give it to me about my missing homework. My heartbeat gallops.
“What are you doing in my class?” he asks instead, with the typical tic in his jaw. Yeah, I’m in trouble.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re clearly not a poet.” He studies me. “In fact, I don’t even think you like books. So, it begs the question: what are you doing in my class?”
“I like books! I read all the time.” I’m outraged that he knows this about me, that he sees my deception in being here.
But isn’t that what I wanted? I wanted him to see me. It doesn’t make any sense. My reactions to him don’t make sense.
“What was the last book you read?” he challenges.
Yours. But I don’t say that.
“It was called, um, something…I forget the name, but it was about love. Uh, childhood sweethearts getting married and having a bunch of kids.”
“So who’s your favorite author, then? I’m sure you’d remember something like that.”
He is relentless, but what he doesn’t know is that I’m relentless too. “There are too many to count.”
Thomas puts his palms on the desk and leans toward me, curling his athletic body over the deskt
op. “Name one.”
From this close, I breathe him in, his scent. The intoxicating combination of cigarettes and chocolate is turning my brain to mush. I take a step back. “You know what, I’m late for class, and I have to go all the way back to the south side of campus, so—”
“Name one author you love and I’ll let you go.”
I’m ready to wave the white flag and peace out of here. Instead, another lie blurts out of me. “Sh-Shakespeare.”
The vein on the side of his neck looks alive and breathing, like it could leap off any second, separate from his body, and attack me with the anger pulsing through it.
Slowly, he shakes his head. “Try again.”
“That wasn’t the deal. I told you—”
He straightens and lifts a thick, ridged finger. “One. Just one.”
Oh God. I almost groan out loud as I study the bumps on his finger. It looks worn, well-used. It looks like…yeah, magic, a magic that spins out words and poems, poems I can’t stop reading. I wonder what would happen if he ever accidently touched me. I’d pass out, most likely.
“Y-You. I love you.”
Wait…what?
I clap my hand over my mouth, my eyes going wide. I did not just say that. I’ve never said that to anyone except Caleb—not that he ever understood my meaning. He thought it was in fun, in friendship.
But here and now, I rush to explain, “I mean I love your work. I—”
His jaw is ticking again, but this time around it’s more dangerous, because it comes with a twitch in his right eye. “I know you’re not in my class because you’re not on the official roster, so technically, you’re trespassing, and I want you to stop. Next time, don’t be here.”
I’m tempted to say okay, but the thought of not showing up is even worse than braving his wrath.
“Or what?” I swallow and curl my fingers around the edge of the desk.
“You don’t want to do this.”
“Do what, exactly? This is a class and I’m a student—why can’t I be here?”
He pins me with his gaze before hitching one side of his lips up in a tight, mocking smile. “You really think this is going to work?”
The Unrequited Page 4