“Long story short, Frost and Elinor moved back to America in 1915 during World War 1, and when he returned, he found himself to be well-renowned there. Publishers who had previously rejected him started sending offers, but he stayed with Henry Holt. He published more poetry books over the next few years, until he and Elinor moved to a farm in New Hampshire. There, Frost spent much of the remainder of his life teaching at a number of colleges while also writing and reciting more poetry for fans. In 1924, he received his first of four Pulitzer prizes, this one for his poetry book New Hampshire. He would end up getting more than forty honorary degrees and awards in his lifetime.”
The guide changes the slide again. “So it took twenty-one years after his first poem was published for Frost to become popular, and thirty before he received his first Pulitzer. That’s a lot of dedication; most people would have given up by then. But what I love about Frost’s story is that through thick and thin, through hardship and death and what I can only imagine felt like complete hopelessness, he never did give up on his dream. He kept working at it. Everyone thought he was never going to make it, that if his dream were to come true it would have already, and that he should just give up now, but he never did. It took him forty years of working, of writing poem after poem, but finally, he did it. He made it. He never stopped trying, never stopped working and working and working, and eventually, all of it paid off. To quote his own poem, he ‘took the road less traveled by. And it has made all the difference.’”
Finally, the guide ends the presentation, turns, and smiles at the group. “Questions?”
Several hands shoot up almost immediately, and Logan turns to me and whispers, “Damn. No wonder you like Frost so much. The guy knows how to persevere.”
I nod, but I don’t meet Logan’s gaze this time. My eyes remain trained on the slide in front of me. I can’t help but take the story to heart. In a weird way, I kind of feel like Frost did. Hopeless. With everything going wrong in life, with everyone telling me I can’t make it, that I should give up trying, that pursuing poetry is a waste of time. But Frost did it--it took him forty years, but he did it--so why can’t I? His story almost gives me hope, reminds me that I’m not alone, that, like that Paolo Coelho quote Logan told me, “Everything is okay in the end. If it’s not okay, then it’s not the end.” Meaning, that no matter what, if you keep working at it, there will always be a happy ending, there will always be a bright spot on the horizon, there will always be a way for my dream to come true.
I think about Ben, about what he would say to me now. He would probably tell me that this is what college is about, struggling to pursue your dreams and make sense of the world you’re about to jump into. He’d probably tell me to pursue a career in poetry and never give up trying, because I know in my heart that he would’ve given anything to follow his passion and work in archaeology. I miss Ben, I really do, but as I look around the poetry convention, I’m glad I came. It feels right, feels real, and I guess Ruby’s words were true; this is what Ben would’ve wanted me to do. He wouldn’t want me to let my guilt drag me down.
He would want me to shine.
I make a silent promise to myself that I’ll do just as Frost did. That I won’t give up. Won’t stop trying. Won’t prove my parents right about me. I’ll do it for Ben.
“I know,” I whisper back to Logan. “Frost was pretty awesome.”
“Too bad he isn’t better looking than I am.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” I say, and Logan gasps and shoots me a look that reads, “oh no you didn’t.” I shrug in response, amused. I live for Logan’s displeasure. “We hate each other, remember? I’m not supposed to be nice to you.”
“I remember,” Logan says. “And don’t think I’m not planning another prank on you, Cali, because I so am.” He pauses and starts leading me away from the Robert Frost history group, who are now asking a series of nitpicky questions about Frost’s life and how it influenced his poetry and the guide is looking increasingly desperate. It’s only a matter of time before a full-on brawl ensues. Poetry lovers are not known to agree with each other very easily.
We go around the room for a while, surveying all of the booths, stealing the occasional food off of the servers’ plates, and so on. The whole convention just gets louder and louder as the day goes on, and I find myself, for once, having a genuinely good time.
“Now,” Logan whispers into my ear about an hour later, “It’s my turn to choose a station.”
“Whatever,” I say. But when I start to follow him, he stops me.
“Oh, there is no way I’m letting you see where we’re going.”
I spin around to face him. “Why? Are you going to kill me?”
“Something like that.” He smiles lightly, his little wickedly innocent smile, and I just put my hands on my hips, making my doubt as clear as day. “I’m going to cover your eyes,” he says. “I want this to be a surprise.”
I raise my eyebrow, not moving to participate, and he gives me a look of mock hurt. “You don’t trust me?” he asks, amused, and I nod vigorously. Logan is the last person I’ll ever trust. “Just try it,” he says. “It’ll be fun.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because because.”
I sigh, knowing there is no way I’m getting a real answer out of him. I start to protest, to push away and head straight to the nearest food source, but really, why the hell not? It’s Logan. He is not exactly murderer material. “Just promise me I won’t find myself in some sort of pit by the end of this?”
Logan’s smile grows, and there are those dimples again. God, they’re almost as annoying as his eyelashes. “I promise,” he says unconvincingly. Then, he takes a step closer to me and spins me around so that he is towering over my body from behind. “Now, close your eyes.” I hesitate, then obey.
“Okay.”
“Good,” he says into my ear, and then I feel him reach his arm over my shoulder and cover my eyes with his hand ever so gently. I stiffen up at his touch almost automatically, and my whole hand tingles but I don’t want him to let go, either. His hands are warm and comforting, and they make my skin crawl in the best way possible. “Ready?” he whispers.
I nod.
His chest is pressed against my back and his arms are wrapped around my shoulders so that he’s practically hugging me as he starts leading me across the room. I can’t move, but I don’t want to, either. The warmth of his body floods me and my breath catches, my heart pounds. I have this aching desire for him to press closer against me, to push his thigh against my thigh, but he doesn’t. He just holds me, softly, gently, and starts walking me forward, his hands still pressed ever so softly against my eyelids. We take small step after small step, and I feel his muscles working as he steers me slowly out of the way of the crowd and somewhere to the right where there are only hushed conversations going on. I can’t see where we’re going, but with Logan by my side, with him whispering directions into my ear, I’ve never felt less lost.
“Right,” he whispers, and I turn right. “Left,” and I turn left. He holds me close--not tightly but not too loosely either--as he takes me past a few people laughing and talking about how awesome Pablo Neruda is.
“Straight,” Logan whispers, and I go straight. We walk slowly, tiny step after tiny step, until we reach a wall of sorts. Logan stops me then, his biceps tightening, and whispers, “we’re here.”
Then, so slowly, he takes his hands off of my eyelid. I can barely breathe as his fingers brushes against my arm, my shoulder. He lets go, his warmth disappearing with him, and I feel so disappointed in so many ways. I already miss his touch, miss him. I usually hate boys touching me, so this scares the hell out of me.
Especially since it’s Logan touching me.
Ben’s best friend Logan.
Logan who seems to know more about the suicide than he’s letting on.
Logan who I can’t get close too without later lo
sing.
I can’t feel like this toward him. I can’t.
“Open your eyes,” he whispers. And I do.
When I look around, I’m not sure what I was expecting. Maybe something romantic, something that would touch my heart and be kind of cute or stupid or funny or whatever. Maybe he was taking me to some sketchy E.E. Cummings biography thing. Maybe he was going to propose to me, which would be weird because we aren’t even dating--or ever going to date, I should add, because there is no way I’m dating someone as obnoxious as Logan.
So when I open my eyes, what I’m really not expecting is a giant black and white poster of Robert Frost when he was like eighty-six and--yes--entirely unattractive to be staring back at me. Logan presses himself up against the wall beside the poster, trying to match himself with Frost, and looks at me expectantly.
“Now tell me,” he says. “There is no way that”--he points to the Frost poster and makes a face--”is better looking than this.” He points at himself and gives me the most adorable puppy face he can muster. I have to work hard to maintain a careless glare.
For what feels like the longest time, I glance at Logan, then at the Robert Frost poster, and then back at him. He is staring at me, waiting for my response.
So I do the only thing I can think to do and what seems to be a common occurrence between me and him these days: I burst into laughter. I think I laugh harder than I really should. Logan just glares at me but I can’t help myself. Of course he would not be able to let my calling him less attractive than Robert Frost go. Of course he would have to prove me wrong. Of course he would do this all as an ego trip.
It’s such a Logan thing to do that it’s so charming and hilarious and totally freaking obnoxious, just like the rest of him, all at the same time. When I finally gather my breath back, I say to him, “You are seriously screwed up for a nerd.”
“That may be true, but right now I only care about you telling me who is more attractive.” He shifts closer to the Frost poster and strikes a pose where he rests his chin on his fist and watches me with the most serious blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I put my hands on my hips, yawning just to piss him off.
Of course, there is no contest here. Logan is far more attractive than Frost, and we both know that, although what he doesn’t seem to realize is that he’s more attractive than anyone I’ve ever met, more attractive than anyone I’ve ever seen. I don’t tell him that part, though.
“Hmmm,” I say, glancing back between the poster and Logan’s expectant face, just to keep it interesting. “This is a tough one.”
Logan glares at me, and I dismiss it with a wink. I rub my chin and bite my lip for dramatic purposes as I pretend to look between the two, but in actuality I’m only looking at Logan. His smile. His blue eyes and long lashes, batting back and forth and back and forth.
“I think--” I start to say, pretending to hesitate. “I think I have to go with Frost as the more attractive on this one.”
Logan’s face breaks out into feigned fury. “Dammit, Frosty!” he says to the poster, kicking the wall below it. “How dare you steal my looks!” Then, he turns back to me and clutches his chest. “I’m devastated, Cali.”
“I know, asshole,” I say. “I know.” Logan gives me his puppy face again, and his eyes seem to melt even more into mine than the first time. “I’m too hurt to talk to you,” he says. “I think I’m just going to have to shun you now.”
“And I wouldn’t mind because I know Frosty here has a thing for me. Plus, he is more attractive than you are, so it’s all good.” I shoot him a winning look, which he returns with a roll of his eyes.
“At least I’m hotter than Poe,” he pouts.
“Ehhhh I wouldn’t be too sure about that...”
“Okay, you’re done talking, Cali,” he says as he rejoins me, and together we head back into the sea of the NPC.
Smiling.
As one.
The rest of the day is spent going to signings and arguing about the meaning of Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise” and learning more than we’ll ever need to know about Walt Whitman. It’s totally refreshing to meet all of these like-minded poetry nerds who are weird and self-fulfilling and so freaking nice. My whole life I’ve been the only one I know who has even the slightest interest in poetry, but now it’s like an explosion of color and energy all around me, because I’m surrounded by fellow poetry-lovers. Something about that is both utterly terrifying and completely thrilling at the same time.
I’m so glad I made the leap, though, so relieved I decided to attend, and looking back I really have no idea why I was so scared of going in the first place. But I swear that at the time, not going felt like the most logical thing in the world.
I just wish Ben were here now.
Even more than meeting other poetry enthusiasts, the best part of the day is, by far, Logan. I mean, I’m not going to tell him that because his ego does not need boosting, but talking to him and really just being with him makes my heart soar. He isn’t what I expected in all of the best ways. He’s cute and funny, sweet and smart, and no matter what, as enemies or not, I’m so glad to have him. But I can’t tell him that. He doesn’t need to know that I love his presence, that his touch reminds me that everything is going to be okay, that as long as he’s by my side, everything is right in the world. He doesn’t need to know that he isn’t going to fix me and he isn’t going to change me, but he enhances me. He doesn’t need to know that he brings out the me that has been hiding for so long, and that’s someone no one, not even I myself, has ever been able to do.
Let me get one clear: as far as I’m concerned, we’re still enemies. I just happen to have a bit more respect for him than I previously realized.
By the end of the day, we’re both 100% exhausted and in need of food. I suggest making crepes just to piss Logan off--it works. Before we leave the convention for the day, though, Logan points me to the booth in the corner of the room, where people get up and read aloud their poems with the option of having the crowd of eight to ten people give critiques on it when they finish. “We should do that on Monday, our last day here,” he says.
I watch him doubtfully. “Recite our poetry?”
“Yeah. You said you wrote some, right?”
“…Yeah?”
“Well, why don’t we recite them for each other? I’ve never seen any of your poems and you’ve never seen any of mine, so it would be pretty cool to share them, right? And this is the perfect time to do it. Plus, it can settle that game we started in the car ride here but never finished.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, narrowing my eyes. We turn around and start heading out of the huge room and back into the hotel lobby. “You sure there aren’t any ulterior motives for this?”
“Why would there ever be ulterior motives?” he says, giving me an innocent smile that is so clearly fake I have to roll my eyes.
“I hate you,” I say, shoving into him just a little as we walk into the hotel lobby and head up the stairs.
“And why would that be?” There he goes, batting his eyelashes again. Goddamn him and those perfectly long lashes.
I shrug. “Just because I can. Plus, you’re fun to hate.” We start heading up the stairs. “But yes,” I add. “Let’s share our poems on Monday.”
“Cool,” he says.
We don’t talk much for the rest of the walk up, and by the time we climb all seven stories I find myself gasping for breath, despite my failed attempts to act as if the walk doesn’t faze me. But as I look over at Logan, he doesn’t even seem a bit bothered by the walk. It’s like he’s some goddamn superhuman. Probably why he has such great abs, I think, then hurl the thought out of my mind like it’s a grenade about to blow.
The hallway leading to our hotel room is totally bleak for a place with such a nice lobby, with its fading white walls, broken-down ice and snack machines, and blue-carpeted rug covering the length of the floor. The whole place is poorly lit, and if you think about it--which I do--this is the perfect pl
ace to murder someone. I glance at Logan, just in case.
Once we’re inside the room, Logan takes my shoulders and steers me toward... the bathroom? Why would he want--
“Well, Cali,” he says once we reach the door, leaning against the wall beside it. I look at him with complete confusion. Is he going to-- “You know how I said I wasn’t done pranking you?” He looks at me with such excitement, it’s almost contagious. Almost.
“Yeah?” I say, frowning.
“Well, if you hated me before, you’re going to despise me after this.” He flashes me a smile, and I try to make myself find it sickening.
I fail.
Again.
“What are you--”
But I don’t have time to finish the thought because he’s already pulling open the door to reveal a bathroom--our bathroom--filled halfway to the ceiling with water balloons. Like, actual water balloons. Stacked on top of each other, to the height of my head. Filling the whole room.
Holy shit.
A few of them start to slip out and splatter by my feet as the door opens, and I whirl around to face Logan, who is grinning with complete and utter amusement. “Nice, huh?” he says.
“You bastard!” I say, but I can’t help but let the laughter escape me.
“You like?”
I just keep staring at the water balloons, then back at his smiling face, then right back at the water balloons. “How did you--” I start to say.
“I did it all during the conference when I pretended to go to the bathroom,” he says simply. “I had the water balloons all ready. I just had to fill them up and stack them. I had this planned ever since I saw you holding that pamphlet,” he adds.
I watch Logan with disbelief, my heart pounding in the best way possible. There is absolutely no way to get into our bathroom without exploding five feet of water balloons. Shit. And I have to freaking pee. “And what if I told you I had to go to the bathroom? Like, right now?”
“I’d tell you you’re screwed. But,” he says, stepping forward, his smile growing, “there is another way to get in.”
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