Every Last Word (15 page)

“Okay. I know we’ve been building this up,” she says with her hands on her hips. “You finally get to hear what we’ve been working on, but we need you to help us
out.”

She slaps her hands against her legs, starting the beat—
Left-left-left-right, left-left-left-right, left-left-left-right
—and she keeps it going while the rest of us join in.
Left-left-left-right, left-left-left-right
.

Then Jessica looks right at me, the beat still thumping in the background, and says, “We’ve been working on this for the last month or so, but it’s still far from perfect. This
is the first time we’re performing it down here. So, no judgment.”

I’m not sure why she cares what I think, but I’m kind of flattered. Maybe they’re as nervous about performing in front of me as I am about performing in front of them.

“This is Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Raven,’” she says, and then steps back in line with the other two. And right on the beat, Cameron takes a step forward and begins
speaking in a booming voice.

And he keeps going, reciting the poem from memory. On key lines, the other two join in. He finishes with a bold Only this and nothing more, and Jessica instantly picks up where he left off.

Her words are loud and clear and right on the beat, and I feel chills all over when she delivers the last line:
Nameless here for evermore
.

That’s when Abigail jumps in.

She’s head-bobbing to the rhythm, singing the verses more than saying them, and the rest of us are still slapping our legs and tapping our feet in unison, keeping the beat, interjecting an
encouraging yell now and then.

The three of them say the last line together:

They stop completely. It takes the rest of us a beat or two to realize it, and we taper off a little more slowly, but then we all stand up, bursting into applause. The three of them hold hands
and bow. Abigail curtsies a few more times on her own.

“There’s a lot more to that poem,” Jessica says when the room is silent again. “Fifteen more stanzas to be exact, but we’ll keep working on it.”

Abigail pulls a piece of paper off the stool and AJ tosses her the glue stick. She slides it across the paper and the first three stanzas of “The Raven” occupy a previously empty
sliver of space on the wall.

“We have time for one more,” AJ says from his spot up front, and while he doesn’t call me out specifically, I know I’m up.

I don’t think I can do this.

Something brushes against my shoulder and I turn around. Caroline’s leaning against the back of my couch. “Go,” she says, tilting her head toward the stage.

I shake my head at her and mouth,
I can’t
, but she raises her eyebrows and whispers, “Sam. Don’t think. Just go.”

Before I realize what I’m doing, I hear myself say, “I’ll go.” It’s not loud, but it’s loud enough for Sydney to hear, and that’s all it takes.

“Sam!” she yells, and suddenly everyone’s looking at us. My stomach turns over as I reach down into my pack for my yellow notebook. I take my time finding it.

When I stand, all eyes are on me, and my first instinct is to sit back down, but I force myself to step into the aisle instead. The room is so silent, I can hear my sandals slapping against my
heels. I step onto the stage and turn around, giving myself a moment to take in the room. I feel my shoulders relax.

I can do this.

“I wrote this here in Poet’s Corner,” I say, perching myself on the stool. Everyone claps and cheers. The notebook quivers in my hands.

“I have this thing for the number three. I know it’s weird.” I’m expecting a few confused looks, but their expressions don’t change at all.

Okay. The hardest part is over. They know about the threes. Read.

“This poem is called…” I stop. I look at them, one at a time, saying their names in my head to remind myself that they’re no longer strangers.

Sydney, Caroline, AJ, Abigail, Cameron, Jessica.

The next girl takes me a second.

Emily.

But then I look at the girl with the blond curly hair and my mind goes blank. She read first today. Her poem was incredible. Her name starts with a
C
. When she raises her hand and waves,
I realize I’m staring at her, and I feel the adrenaline surge kick in as heat radiates from my chest to the tips of my ears.

Shit.

Now, my breathing feels shallow and uneven again, and I rest my hand on my stomach. I think I’m going to be sick. I fix my gaze on the poem I wrote down here last week, and the words blur
and spin. I blink fast and try to focus again. But I can’t.

I can’t do this.

I’m about to make an excuse and step down, when I feel a hand on my left shoulder. I turn my head and see Caroline standing there. I want to say something, but the inside of my mouth feels
like I’ve been chewing on a piece of chalk.

“Close your eyes,” she whispers. “Don’t look at anyone. Don’t even look at the paper. Close your eyes and speak.” I start to object, but she cuts me off
before I can say anything. “You don’t need to read it. You know this poem cold. Just close your eyes. Don’t think. Go.”

I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. And begin.

“It’s titled ‘Building Better Walls,’” I say.

I didn’t feel Caroline’s hand leave my shoulder, but when I open my eyes I spot her in the back of the room again. She’s clapping and screaming along with everyone else, and
although I’m still shaky, it feels different now, more like euphoria than fear.

Chelsea.
Her name comes to me the second I see her smiling.

And suddenly there are glue sticks flying at me from all directions, and I’m laughing as I deflect them. Finally, I catch one in midair.

AJ steps onto the stage and comes in close. “Congratulations,” he says.

I lean in even closer. “I thought you needed to vote?” I whisper.

He nudges me with his elbow. “We just did,” he says, gesturing toward the glue sticks scattered all over the stage. Then AJ points to the one in my hand. “Go ahead. Make it
official.”

I run the glue across the back of my poem, and then I step off the stage and walk toward the back of the room, past all of them. I stop right next to Caroline, find an empty spot on the wall,
and slap my words against it.

T
hree weeks later, I’m beaming as I open my locker after lunch.

Today, I read a simple, six-word poem I wrote on a hot pink, happy-looking Post-it. On one side, it said:
What you see
…And on the other side:
It isn’t me
.

I wondered if the Poets might consider a six-word poem to be a cop-out, but I forced myself not to question it, and when I read, I stood tall and didn’t even break a sweat. When I
finished, they were up on their feet, cheering loudly like they always do. As I mounted my poem to the wall, I bent the paper so it stuck straight out, making both sides visible.

Four times on stage. Four poems on the wall. I don’t quite feel like one of them yet, but at least I’m contributing.

I grab the block of pink Post-its out of my backpack and carefully write out the same poem, and then I stand back and stare at my locker door, looking for the perfect home for it. I move a few
things around until those three photos Shrink-Sue asked me to print slightly overlap the ones of the Eights and me. The noise ordinance looks out of place, so I crumple it into a ball and stuff it
into my backpack. I move the picture of me standing on the blocks right next to the small mirror, and let the words “What you see…” bridge the gap between the two.

I’m leaving campus that afternoon as the Indian summer sun beats down. It’s late October, but it’s got to be almost ninety degrees out here. After I open my
car door, I let my head fall back, face toward the sky, and close my eyes, feeling the rays heat my cheeks. It feels calming. But the water will feel even better. I can’t wait to get to the
pool.

Throwing my backpack on the passenger seat, I turn the key in the ignition, but before I back out, I thumb through my playlists, trying to find something that matches my mood. I settle on
Make it Bounce
.

The student lot is almost empty, so it doesn’t take long to get out through the gates and onto the street. I’m humming along while I wait for the light to change, and when it does, I
take a left onto the main road that leads through town and toward the swim club. I’ve only made it a block when I hit another red light. I turn the volume up another notch. As I’m
waiting, I look out the passenger window. My breath catches in my throat.

AJ is sitting at the bus stop with his arm around a girl, and I squint to get a better look. Her head is down, so I can’t see her face, but I recognize her by her build and the way her
dark hair flips up at her shoulders. It has to be Emily. Out of all of them, I know her the least. She always sits in the back with Chelsea, and I’ve never heard her read on stage, but I
often think about her warm greeting the day I joined.

She slides her fingertips under her eyes and I realize she’s crying. I glance over at AJ. He’s staring right at me.

I turn away quickly, but when I look back again, he’s signaling me to pull over. As I approach, I cut the music and roll the window down. AJ leans in.

“Hey, can I ask a favor? Em needs a ride.” He looks back over at her and I follow his gaze in my rearview mirror. “Her mom is really sick, and her dad sent this text telling
her to come straight home, which…can’t be good.”

I look at the odometer.

I’m not supposed to have passengers.

I glance into the rearview mirror again and see Emily typing away on her phone and brushing away tears at the same time. “Sure. Of course.”

When AJ returns with Emily, he climbs in back.

Wait. He’s coming too?

“Hi. Are you okay?” I ask, and she gives me a weak, “Yeah. Thanks.”

From the backseat, AJ feeds his arm over her shoulder and she wraps her fingers through his. I look at their hands, intertwined.

Of course he has a girlfriend. How could I have missed that?

I feel a pang of sadness, but I push the thought away, forcing myself to think of Emily and whatever’s going on in her life so I don’t fixate on anything else. It works.

AJ navigates.
Left here, right here, straight for about a mile, and stop, it’s this house, the white one on the left
. I look at the odometer, resting on zero.

I overshoot the driveway on purpose. I pass two more houses, turn around in a court, and double-back. Three. Perfect.

Emily’s house is small but cute, cottagey-looking, complete with a white picket fence, a big oak tree smack in the middle of the lawn, and a tire swing hanging from the thickest branch.
It’s painted white with bright blue trim and bright blue shutters, and it looks so cheery, it strikes me as odd that anyone could be sick or sad on the other side of that bright blue
door.

“Thanks, Sam,” Emily mumbles as she climbs out of the car. AJ steps out onto her driveway, and when he hugs her, she buries her face in his chest. He says something I can’t
hear, and she comes up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek.

He climbs into the front seat next to me, and together, we watch Emily open the door and step inside. “Thanks,” he says. “That was really cool of you.”

“Of course.”

Wait. He’s not staying with Emily? I have to do the odometer thing all over again?

“Is she okay?” I ask as I back out of the driveway.

“I don’t know.” He’s quiet for a long time, staring out the window. “Her mom has stage four lung cancer,” he finally adds.

Now I really don’t know what to say. I’m curious to know more about Emily’s mom, but I don’t want to ask, and AJ doesn’t seem to be planning on sharing any more
information, so we’re both silent for the next few blocks as I snake through the residential neighborhood, back the way I came, heading toward the main road. He tells me to take a
right—I assume to get to his house—and then goes back to staring out the window.