by Daryl Banner
“I think it’s a poem about desperation,” he murmurs quietly, his voice bouncing off the four brick walls, minimal carpet, silent laundry machines, and ancient TV from the 90s.
I lift an eyebrow, pulled from my ghoulish staring at his pale-yet-half-flushed face. How does he manage to look so smoldering and yet so innocent and boyish at the same time? His eyes hide a hundred dark stories I’m desperate to hear.
“Like, obviously it’s trying to shock us,” Dmitri goes on. “It’s all, like … in your face. Fuck this. Fuck that. And obviously it references the famous ‘To be’ soliloquy from Hamlet … but maybe that’s to make fun of the nature of poetry itself. Maybe he’s just desperate for someone to notice him, the guy who wrote this poem.”
“Or girl.”
The words come out so unexpectedly, my eyes widen.
Dmitri looks at me, his lips slightly parted as he studies my face.
I straighten my posture, which equates to me shrugging slightly and lifting my chin a fraction of a millimeter. “I mean, there isn’t really evidence that it was written by … by a male. It could be a female.”
“A very brash woman,” he murmurs.
“Women say ‘fuck’ too.”
Dmitri chuckles dryly, though no smile touches his face. That one little chuckle throws a sandstorm of goosebumps up my arms and neck. My thighs press together and my stomach turns over excitedly.
All of that … from his chuckle.
This boy has me gripped by every one of my lady bits.
“I guess you’re right,” he mumbles. Then he straightens his glasses, his nose wrinkling up all cutely before he faces me again. “Do you write a lot? You look like you write a lot.”
“I do.”
My response is so fast, I question if I said the words at all. I don’t even clarify that what I meant is I write a lot of music. I put chords and melodies together in my head all day long. I’m doing it now.
I’m so A-sharp right now.
“Me too,” he admits. “All the damn time. I mean, it kinda sucks when you’re trying to concentrate and your roommate is this dude who plays online games all day and shouts at the screen of his laptop. I think his name is Toby. I might be wrong. It might be Robby. I don’t even know.” He chuckles again—and again, goosebumps race across my skin. “Is that horrible? That I don’t even know my roommate’s name? Living in the Quad sucks ass.”
My lips form a straight line. “It totally does.”
“You get along with your roommate?”
“Her name’s Kelli. I don’t know much about her beyond that.”
“Can you pretend not to know her name either so I don’t feel as bad about not knowing mine?”
“Or Katy, or Kelsey, or … or Jim. Whatever her name is,” I go on, playing along.
Dmitri’s face wrinkles up. “Jim?”
I stare at him, straight-faced. He missed the joke. “I was … I was just saying, like …” I bite my lip and shake my head. “Never mind.”
But it doesn’t matter since he’s already moved his attention back to the poem. His gaze darkens. “This is such a piece of crap.”
Whatever little flicker of connection we just had about mutually disliking our roommates fades in an instant. He’s back to being pissed about something, his eyebrows permanently pulled together as he glares at the poem. I just watch him for the longest time, unsure what to do or say.
“We’re not even told the poet’s name,” he complains, giving the paper a careless backhanded slap. “How was this crap even published?”
I decide to steer his attention elsewhere. “What’ll we write about?”
“Fuck if I know.”
Dmitri’s words hit me kinda hard. I even catch myself pulling away from him. What did I do? Was I right earlier? Does he actually resent me for picking him as my partner? Maybe I had this all wrong and he really did notice the blonde walking his way, and then felt a sad obligation to just say yes to me because I asked him to be my partner first. Maybe Dmitri Katz is just a big, sulky, angry kid that I should have nothing to do with.
Or maybe I’m being sensitive. He could be one of those hard-assed punks who talks all rough but is really mushy and sweet inside. If I crack his shell, will a bunch of sadness and sugar spill out?
“Yeah,” I throw back, agreeing and matching his tone. “F-Fuck if I know either. What a … What a piece of cock-poop poem that is,” I say in my deepest, punk-boy voice I can manage.
He lifts a quizzical eyebrow at me. I put on my best scowling face. After a second of staring, he apparently decides not to respond and returns his attention back to the poem, putting on a contemplative scowl of his own.
I sink into the couch and fold my arms. I meant the maneuver to comfort me, but I suddenly notice our elbows are almost touching. That works a miracle on my heart, which was already racing; now it’s going for Olympic gold.
I part my lips to control my breathing. Breathe, Sam.
Neither of us are saying anything. The tension in the basement is so taut, I feel like just the presence of a fly could shatter it all. I can’t even hear footsteps above us from other people in their dorms, or the bristle of wind and leaves against the slits of glass that line the top of the basement walls.
And Dmitri Katz is making me insane just by leaning back into the couch and making me imagine things like us watching TV together in my dorm under the same blanket, or our hands fumbling with each other’s when we both reach into the popcorn bowl at the same time, or a lazy smile he might give me after calling me by some cute nickname he’s come up with. Literally, our future is rolling out before me like a patchwork quilt … and we’ve only just now started talking.
I’m so obsessed. This isn’t healthy. I need serious help.
And he smells so damned good.
“I … have ideas,” I force myself to say. “For our poems.”
“Super,” he mumbles.
I hug myself tightly, my arms folded across my boobs as if I’m protecting them. Don’t take it personally. He’s just pissed about how much the world sucks and … other stuff that dark, creative people are pissed about all the time. “We could write about an attention-seeking—”
“Loser,” Dmitri finishes, smirking. “A big loser who’s desperate for people to notice him. And he’ll stoop to any level. Maybe even murder.”
I turn my head to him, listening.
“Maybe,” Dmitri goes on, “he dreams of … of all the headlines he’ll make. Maybe he’s just doing it so people will notice him.”
I can’t say I can relate to that in the context of murder, but the idea of doing crazy things to get someone to notice you—like lying about your placement on a seating chart, or smacking someone over the head with a notebook—does ring true with me.
Then I have another idea. “Maybe we can expand it even further,” I suggest. “What if the person is … a celebrity? Someone who is famous, who is already in the spotlight … but who can’t get enough attention and wants even more?”
Dmitri’s face wrinkles up. “That doesn’t make sense.”
I lift my eyebrows.
He drops the poem and looks at me. “Why would a celebrity want even more attention?”
“Uh … b-because … they …”
My brain turns into a pile of noodles under his intense, scrutinizing stare. I can’t think. The reason I’ve thought up is right on the tip of my tongue. It’s so obvious, it annoys me that he even has to ask.
And he keeps staring at me like I’m the biggest idiot for making such a suggestion.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask suddenly.
He shrugs. “I’m waiting for you to answer my question. Obviously.”
Obviously. Why is he being a dick?
“Well … I’m just …”
“Just what?” he presses, annoyed.
At once, I’m quite done with this boy from my Poetry class. That, or I just don’t want him to see me tear up. Not that I’m going to. Wit
hout another word, I push off of the couch and start walking away, clutching my backpack to my chest.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
I stop at the foot of the steps leading out. Where the hell am I going? I mean, really, we still have a poem to analyze. And our series of original poems isn’t going to write itself.
I lift my chin and turn around. “You’re obviously mad that I’m your partner and the pretty girl Jessa isn’t.”
Dmitri’s whole forehead screws up. “Who?”
I didn’t mean to say her name. Thanks, subconscious. “The … The blonde,” I push on. “The one who was headed your way. You’re mad that I hit you over the head and made you my partner instead of hers.”
Nothing in the history of human expression can match the look of bafflement on Dmitri Katz’s face. He can’t even make words.
I get bold—way more bold than I’ve ever been. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m in front of (and alone with) the guy I’ve been crushing over since the first day of class. Maybe it’s because I’m at college and I’m a grown woman of eighteen tiny years. Maybe calling myself Sam instead of Samantha—as my mom and dad insist on calling me—has birthed some new, stronger persona within me who charges fearlessly into confrontation and stands up for herself.
I close the distance between us, bringing myself right up to the couch. I’m practically bent over him, still clutching my backpack.
“Just admit it,” I tell him. “I annoy you because I’m ugly.”
Dmitri snorts at that, but keeps his eyes perfectly trained on me. “You are not ugly, Sam.”
More goosebumps rush over my skin when he says my name. I ignore my involuntary bodily reaction. “Then why are you so annoyed with me?”
“I’m … I’m not annoyed at all with you. I’m …” A look of frustration clouds his face. I hate how sexy that frustration looks. “I’m just going through some … some stuff right now.”
“Oh? Some stuff?” I throw at him, like I’m pissed at him for that.
Really, this is when I should soften up and ask him what’s wrong and maybe get to know him. Instead, I throw my backpack at the couch and fold my arms defensively.
This isn’t how I act. Ever. I’m never, ever like this.
And yet I can’t seem to stop.
Also, it’s important to note that my stomach is turning over ten times a second with excitement, and something really warm and maybe wet is happening between my thighs, and I’m completely transfixed by the movement of his full lips, anticipating whatever it is he’s going to say.
If he’s going to say anything at all.
After too much time passes, I huff impatiently. “Just tell me. What has … has gotten you all … h-hot and bothered?”
What’s happening to my voice? It went up an octave. I’m short of breath, too.
He bites his lip, thinking of the words he wants to say, perhaps.
His hands are resting on the thighs of his black-and-grey striped shorts. The subtle shape of his arm muscles are visible, flexing slightly when he flinches.
He licks his lips. A flush comes to his face as he looks off, thinking.
Pensive. Frustrated. Horny.
Horny? Maybe I’m projecting that.
Finally, he sighs, all of his frustration and annoyance blowing out through his lips. He meets my eyes. The effect is staggering. “I’m sorry. I’m being a dick. Can we just forget this and get back to the poem?”
My lips part. I’m not even sure I mean to say anything. I just find myself staring at Dmitri, and he’s staring right back. I fight an urge to look away, so desperate to enjoy every second of eye contact we can possibly maintain.
“How about,” he suggests, “we just pack up for the day and … and maybe we can meet at the campus library from here on out.” Dmitri shrugs, lifting his eyebrows and causing his forehead to wrinkle up adorably. “We’ll have books and computers all around us. Peace and quiet. And … maybe it’ll help us focus on the poetry and inspire us to do the work. Does that sound alright?”
I keep staring at him, wordless, ghoulish. I want to jump on him right there. I want to straddle his lap and suck his face. My insides are flipping inside-out. I don’t know if I want him or if I hate him.
I shut all the thoughts up with a sad, weak little word: “Alright.”
Chapter 4
Sam
I can sum up the next month and a half with one word:
AGONY.
Week one. We meet at the campus library. He’s looking cute as hell and I look like I just came from an all girls’ sleepover, unshowered. Considering the annoying get-to-know-you activities the girls of Rho Kappa Lambda made us endure, that’s not far off from the truth. Then Dmitri and I find ourselves a pair of seats at the end of a table full of architects and Theatre people researching costume history, bustiers, and codpieces. We analyze the poem, break it down into sections, and discuss the word choices. I watch Dmitri’s lips when he speaks, hypnotized. He listens almost too intently when I respond back. I have never enjoyed an exchange of words more than this.
Week two. His foot grazes mine under the table. I shut my eyes when it happens and struggle to control my breathing. Did he do that on purpose? Is he sending me a secret message via his soft toe-tapping?
Week three. We’re sitting on the same side of the table and our elbows tickle one another’s as we pretend not to notice. Well, I pretend not to notice. I have no idea what’s going on in Dmitri’s head.
And that fact alone drives me insane.
By week four, we’re sharing our original poems with each other. After hearing his, I’m downright humiliated to share my total garbage of work. “Not bad,” he murmurs, likely to spare my feelings. What a gentleman. “What if we tried another word here? Or … or what if you found a less … generic adjective here?”
“Yeah,” I agree every single time.
And every single time I agree with him and play the meek, wimpy thing I’ve been my whole life, I also picture this warrior version of Samantha Hart, this woman who stands up for herself, this woman who walks into a room and commands attention. I want to be that woman so badly. I want to be the pretty blonde who walks across the class, coming for the thing she wants: Dmitri Katz.
Figuratively. I’d look terrible as a blonde.
It’s November, our series is due in one week before Thanksgiving break, and we’re gathering up our things after class when I finally muster enough courage to ask: “Want to hang out on the grassy knoll outside the Psychology building and talk about our series? Like, now?”
Dmitri blinks, clutching the strap of his backpack, then mumbles, “Sure. It’s a warm day and I could use some sun.”
Ten minutes later, we’re sitting in the grass under the shade of a tree with all our poems spread out in front of us. Some are written in red ink, some in blue or black. Others are scribbled in pencil with nasty erasure marks.
“I don’t have a big flashy computer …” I start.
“Nah, that’s okay. I can type all of these out and format them. I got the software and everything,” he insists, giving me a quick nod.
I smile. I’m never sure if it shows on my face—my smiling. I’ve been told all my life that despite all the feelings I claim to have inside, I have the face of a brick wall. I pluck a blade of grass and let go, watching it dance away in the breeze. I experience a flicker of pride that I’ve gotten Dmitri to hang out with me here on the grassy knoll.
This is just step one on a very long staircase if I want him to notice me.
I mean, notice-me notice me.
“I like this one,” he points out, giving one of the poems—one of my poems—a flick of his wrist, then he leans back against the grass and brings his hands behind his head. “You think the professor is going to tell us we’re all shit writers and maybe that’s the point of the class?”
I study the way his body changes with just that simple motion of leaning back. His shirt comes up slightly, giving a peek of his
abdomen while still hiding his belly button. The material of his grey-and-black-striped shorts and the contrast of his bright white belt assault my eyes in the most pleasurable, inviting way.
Seriously, I’ve never even dreamed of sex with any boy before.
Yes, I’m a virgin. So, so, so, so a virgin.
And he’s driving me insane with these unfamiliar yearnings and restless desires and fantasies that keep me up all night.
Did I ever mention that? How much sleep this boy is making me lose? I’ve had nights where I’m tossing and turning and moaning in my bed so badly that my roommate Kelli has come up to my side and asked me if she needs to find an exorcist.
“So tell me,” says Dmitri, snapping me out of my thoughts. “When did you start writing?”
I freeze, startled by the sudden spotlight. We haven’t really spent much time talking about ourselves. It’s been constant dull work-work-work at the library all these weeks.
“Were you a notebook scribbler too, growing up?” he asks.
I press my lips together and keep my eyes on him. When is it too soon to make a move? Am I supposed to also invite him to eat lunch with me or something? Do I try and invite him back to my dorm again? Do I wait for him to invite me back to his?
“I’m a Music major,” I confess, feeling slightly odd that I haven’t yet revealed that to him all semester. “I … I write music and play piano.”
He lifts his eyebrows in surprise. “Wow. Music, really?”
The second I feel my face flush, I look down at the grass. His eyes are just too intense to stare at for too long. “What were you expecting? Computer engineering? Software development?”
“Well, no. I thought you were a writer.”
“I am. Just … I don’t write with words. I write with … sounds.”
“That’s a beautiful way to look at it,” he murmurs appraisingly.
Dmitri shifts a little bit in the grass. My eyes flick up to his forearm, which flexes when he moves. Should I be sitting even closer to him?
Liking a boy is so stupidly stressful.