After I Wake (22 page)

“Score one for character development.” I pump my fist in the air.

“Oh, hang on, sexy Brit is on the screen. God, that hair.” With that, Emmett is glued to the movie. He didn't fall as hard as I did, and he's coming back too. I don't know if he's a better person, because he was already pretty great before, but it's cool to see him, like, functioning again.

Later we eat pizza, and it is glorious, but we eat a lot of pizza anyways and that is also pretty glorious. We live in an area where excellent pizza can always be found. We should switch it up and get shrimp or something, but pizza is an easy default when I have people over, which is something that is beginning to happen with alarming regularity. Weird.

As he walks out the door later to where he parked his car, Emmett turns back to me.

“Have you written any poems recently?” he asks innocently enough, and I can't help but grin and nod.

“Oh yes, I have. I'll show you them when they're all put together. Have you been keeping up with your homework?” He groans.

“I have not done a thing. But to be fair, I don't know what I missed. I'll e-mail my teachers when I get home. I'll show back up eventually, and I'm sure the LGBTQA club won't like their president not showing up. We've been trying to change the name to include every possible initial.”

“Is that what you guys have been up to? I haven't been to a meeting all year.” I make a face that's appropriate for the bad joke I just made, and Emmett rolls his eyes, which is my thing, and turns away. “Wait, come back.” Emmett stops halfway to the car and comes back, tugging down on his sleeves in a way that is oddly similar to a gesture I make occasionally.

“What, Carter? I need to go sleep and stuff.”

“If you want your skin to heal with minimal scarring, make sure you clean it really well and rub antibacterial cream on it, the kind that helps your skin heal quickly, and there are scar-reducing creams in the drugstore if you need them.” The look in Emmett's eyes is so grateful, I feel the impulsive need to hug him, which I do.

“Can you do me a favor and text me when you get home?” I ask his shoulder blade as I stand on my toes for the hug. He nods into the top of my head and then leaves, getting into his car and driving away, leaving me in the driveway with my plate.

The text I get ten minutes later says that he wants to know the name of my therapist and if he accepts his health insurance. I'm exhausted, so I tell him to call my mom about it in the morning. Emmett's trying, and I think that is absolutely gorgeous.

 

 

I'
M
IN
the waiting room, again, while my mom chats with Jordan, my therapist, about every aspect of my life since he saw me last. I'm reading on my phone, one of the classics that was free to buy after copyright passed into the public domain. I like free books; they're nice.

My mom emerges after a moment and gestures for me to go in. I do, sitting in the empty chair across from Jordan, my therapist, just as we do every meeting. We talk about college, but not much because I'm still looking, and he says that the things I'm saying sound very similar to things my mother says, about having a strong application and everything. I tell him it's because I spend too much time with my mother. He laughs.

Next, I bring up Darwin and we talk a lot about progress and the little things that were harder to adapt to than I anticipated. I mention the things I found a way around, like wearing flats and boots with zippers or even sneakers without actual laces that need to be tied, which I
needed
because they were cute. Shoelaces are still daunting, which actually bothers me a lot, but I am assured that I will figure it out. There's so much intricacy in the world, and a lot of it has to do with ten fingers instead of five. I envision it as a road, and I am in the middle now, having made progress from the beginning where I started when I woke up in the hospital and my hand was gone. That road has to do with change and progress, and like everyone keeps assuring me, I am moving forward and doing well. It's easy enough to believe, and so I do because it's easy.

We're discussing the concept of forever when Jordan, my therapist, looks at the clock and tells me that we are out of time. So much for forever. He summarizes everything we've talked about and then calls my mom in to summarize everything we've talked about. She pays for the session, and then we are out the door.

We're in the car, and my mom asks what we should do for dinner. Thinking back to switching it up, I suggest shrimp, because we really don't have it enough. We go to the store and they fry some shrimp up and then we get french fries and flavored waters to go with it and head home. I'm excited because I really do love shrimp a fuckton. And, as an added bonus, it's easy to eat, and there's not a lot of cleanup, and that's totally cool.

I spend the rest of my night writing more poetry, and I can't help but feel super good, and that's not something I feel too often these days, but it's happening more and more, and I feel like I am resolving a story in my life, and it's actually fun to think that way, to try to imagine life as a book. People should try it sometime. It's strangely cathartic.

 

 

I'
M
IN
lunch, which, as it turned out, Emmett has at the same time as me, so he sits with Harper and me at our corner table. Darcy's in the library doing homework she forgot about. I'm listening to Harper and Emmett discuss how sexy villains are in superhero movies and whether or not a British accent makes or breaks it. They seem to be agreeing on makes it, but I'm not sure because they keep referencing movies I haven't seen yet and switching into awkward sign language and losing me. I'm trying to learn it, but it's really easier if you have two hands.

When Emmett joined us today, Harper was surprised, but tactfully avoided asking where he'd been, and then they launched into the accents conversation. I think both of them are happy to be discussing it because Darcy seems to be better acquainted with the fairy-tale genre, and I am a bit more like Darcy in that strain of movie appreciation, but nobody in my newly established friend group loves classic horror movies like I do. Everything I know of superheroes comes from what Emmett has taught me. Emmett's tried to have this accent conversation with me, but I was terrible at it. He seems to need to discuss it several times over with someone who can actually contribute to the conversation before he can move on.

I pick at my lunch, finding I'm not hungry enough to finish it, when my phone goes off somewhere inside the deep recesses of my backpack. I pull it out only to find my mom has taken a picture of herself holding something and sent it to me. Her face looks scarily like my “I just told a bad joke” face. I grimace at the fact that my mom's caught the selfie bug, but I'm trying to figure out what she's holding. I text her, asking her to send me a close up of whatever it is she wants me to see. I'm not prepared for what I see.

It's my face. That in itself is not shocking, because after all these years I'm fairly well acquainted with my face, but the surprise is that it's underneath some bright lettering that advertises
Modern Poetry
Magazine
. I think it looks a little ridiculous, the way I'm lying on a desk in the picture, and my head's on a typewriter, just like it was when I modeled for the photo, but it's strange because who in their right mind cuddles with and uses a typewriter as a pillow? Well, at least who does that willingly? And there are papers floating down around me in a perfect flurry of words. The cover is, in short, overall beautifully done. I love it. I'm putting it on the corkboard. And framing it. And hanging it up. Shit, I need more copies and a ton of frames.

I ask my mom to buy some frames for me in my sudden fit of narcissism, and she replies that she will. I also want copies of the magazine to give out, but not until I've read through the interview. I'm curious to see what the interview says about me, and I hope that it has an accurate portrayal of me as a person. I wonder if there is an accurate way to portray me as a person. If someone wrote a book about my life, maybe.

School takes forever to end, but good things always take forever to happen when they're being anticipated. The day finally does end, and I get on the bus and go home to where there is a magazine with my name on the cover.

When I read the interview, I see that Summer was really kind. She wrote good things and used the answers I gave. Not all of the questions she asked have made it in to the final cut, but she used what she had to, and what she used makes me seem like a decent person with a strong love of poetry, and I think that's all that really matters because the point of the magazine is all about loving poetry. I am relieved beyond words. I seem like a good person. But I definitely said the word fuck way more times than they put in (the word does not appear) so the quotes must be edited. I'm cool with it. They probably aren't allowed to print the word, even though it might be my favorite word.

I flip through the rest of the pages and read through the coverage of the Accolades, and there is a picture of me at the large podium on the small stage, but I am not the only one pictured. There is also Dottie the bird lady looking exuberant and there are other pictures sprinkled throughout the article, not just of the large podium on the small stage. There is also a picture of the room before the event, full of perfectly set tables and chairs pushed into their appropriate spots. I'm still shocked they wanted me on the cover.

I celebrate by doing my homework and tell Emmett, because I'm boring like that, and then I watch the news while tossing a tennis ball to the dog as she prances around and occasionally brings it back to me whenever it suits her fancy.

 

 

I
AM
in a classroom, which isn't wholly unordinary. There is something different about me. I feel taller, and the clothes I'm wearing are stiffer. They're formal. I think I'm wearing khakis or something fancy like that; whatever pants I'm wearing, they're not the jeans I wear every day that are so broken in, they feel like pajamas or a second skin or whatever is the most appropriate simile. Wow, figurative language being elusive? I must be really tired.

My shirt is rougher against my skin; the texture is foreign and the most amazing baby blue material. I'm wearing a suit jacket thing, and it's black to match my pants.

I put my hand up to my head, and my hair is still short, which is a relief in a way I can't explain. Everything is so surreal, and I find that I'm nervous, but I don't know what about. The warning bell rings, and I look up and everything finally clicks.

I'm behind the desk at the front of the room. I think I'm the teacher. The room has little touches of me all over it: there are posters lined against the back wall with poet's faces on them, and there's a motivational poster in the corner with my line about time. So, even in this weird future, Emmett's still hanging around. That's cool.

Students wander into the classroom, with nervous looks on their faces. It makes sense, their first class ever in high school, and they're starting with English, with me. I've heard the rumors that I'm a crazy and unpredictable-in-the-best-way kind of teacher, but I'm one of the best teachers in the school, or so the students told me at the end of last year. I have no idea where those rumors are from.

I stand up when the final bell rings and—oh my God I'm taller! Oh, never mind, I'm just wearing heels. That makes more sense. I haven't grown since I was a sophomore in high school. I get out from behind the desk and cross to the front of the room. There is a small gasp from someone in the second row, probably because I only have one hand. They're staring. I don't mind it completely, which is weird.

“Oh, take it in. There's only one hand, and you should get used to it now,” I say casually as I grab a stack of forms and put it on the first desk. “Take one and pass it down, please.” The students obey as I go back to the front of the room to give the standard first day lecture backed by the chorus of shuffling papers. I take attendance quickly, trying to remember all the names, and continue.

“Well, then, let me start by welcoming you all to high school. This is the first day of many, and I hope you guys all take this time to grow and really find yourself. You'd be surprised how your interests change from month to month.” There is a spare desk at the front of the room, and I sit on it gracefully, because I'm not falling off of it again. Have I fallen off it? I wouldn't be surprised, especially if I'm in heels.

“But specifically, welcome to English. We're going to read a variety of books this year.” I hop off the desk and grab a white board marker. It clicks like a pen, which is the coolest thing, and I don't have to worry about a marker cap. I write the word
change
in big letters on the board, and my handwriting has smoothed out over the years and looks fairly normal. Sweet.

“And most of these books will deal with change in some way, shape, or form. We're also going to do an extended unit of poetry in the spring.” I grin despite the groans echoing through the room and tap the board with my marker.

“Oh, stop it.” I keep my tone light, because there are people every year who don't want to do poetry. “We explore poetry because we want to explore life. Poetry is emotion, it is rage and fear, and it is resolution. You don't have to like it, but I'd appreciate you all going into it with an open mind. But you don't have to think about it yet. We have books to read first and that's pretty exciting. Don't worry about it, guys. I'll be there to help you every step of the way. We take this journey together.