Chapter Forty-Three
CHAPTER
FORTY-THREE
Derek
It’s December. The pavilion is draped in lights. Bright bulbs like constellations over the railings and across the wooden buttresses. The ocean is roaring, water rushing over water until it laps up onto the sandy beach.
There’s a buzz. People are sitting on benches or marking their territories with their bags as they flit around to mingle or grab punch.
Some faces are familiar. Bellwood students and their parents, some teachers.
Some could be neighbors, but I’m not sure.
We’re not a take over a Bundt cake kind of family.
I invited my boss Gina from the diner, but I don’t see her yet.
Of course I didn’t ask Mom to come. You never know what version of Mom will show up.
CJ and Swan are walking around with a sign-up sheet for performers. He’s in a snazzy blue suit, much nicer than my button-up shirt and jeans. Swan’s in a lingerie-looking top and blazer, a frilly skirt, and tall army boots. All black except for red stockings.
A hand taps my shoulder.
“Here alone?” William asks.
I nod. “You?”
He points across the pavilion to two statuesque blonds settling onto a bench. “My mom. And Stepfather Number Five, Mr. Archer.”
“You said five?”
“Yessir! Number five. He’s a pilot, so he’s gone half the time. That means this one might actually stick.”
I laugh, feeling a tinge of loneliness being here without family. “You ready?” I ask.
He pulls out his notebook from his jacket pocket. “Not sure, to be honest. I’m stuck between two poems.”
“That means they’re both good. Just flip a coin.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Uhhh … speaking of being ready.” He nods behind me. “Are you? Jae’s here.”
I turn around. Jae’s walking toward us, and—I’m not being hyperbolic—I can’t breathe. She’s so damn pretty. She’s wearing a white shirt that cuts off a little high, and a high-waisted skirt that might be African print. All those colors against her skin. She is otherworldly.
I try to smile but it wobbles on my face. The last time I talked to her, she was so angry she could have launched me into Ursa Major III.
She waves. Smiles. Bright teeth. Dimples like a tiny mouse took a bite out of her cheeks. “Hey, William. Hey, Derek.”
My heart skips when she says my name. Those lips. The sweetest shade of pink. I actually got to kiss those lips. I tasted her tongue. I—
“Hi, Jae. Glad you made it,” William says, stepping out from behind me. He gives her a very audible bear hug and I’m instantly jealous. “Oh. Is this—”
“My uncle.” She turns around and gestures at Mr. Oakland, who’s dressed like I’ve never seen him before, a plain T-shirt underneath a tan bomber jacket.
He extends a hand to William. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, sir.”
Then he shakes my hand, maybe a little harder than necessary. “Derek,” he says.
“Mr. Oakland,” I respond.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks away to find a seat, right next to the benches reserved for Free Verse members.
“Man,” I say in disbelief. “He looks …”
“Cool?” Jae cringes. “I know. Weird, right? I told him he didn’t have to stay, but he insisted.”
“It’s like Invasion of the Body Snatchers. So, are you—”
But she’s already hurrying past me, squealing at CJ and Swan like they haven’t seen each other in ten years. I feel a gnawing emptiness.
Just then, Mrs. Aldana pulls away from a conversation and makes a beeline for me with her hands outstretched. She grabs my shoulders. “I am so happy to see you, Derek! I could burst into a million butterflies.” She’s traded her gold shawl for an ocean-themed one with pale blues and browns.
“Nice to see you, too,” I say. And I mean it.
“Your poetry has blossomed these past few months. Smart and insightful and sincere,” she says.
My face grows warm. “Thanks,” I say.
She pats my shoulders. “I was right, wasn’t I? You do belong with us.” She floats away to gather the others and lead them to our special reserved bench.
You do belong with us. I almost laugh. If someone had said months ago that I belonged in the poetry club, I would have called them crazy or worse. But I agree. I do belong here. The creative power of the universe is here.
“Looks like things are about to start,” William says. He pats my shoulder and heads over.
I pull out my notebook from my back pocket and glance over it.
I get a nervous flip-flop in my belly at the thought of standing in front of all these faces and reading something I wrote.
I’m even more nervous about how Jae will respond.
I turn away and give myself a moment to close my eyes and breathe. In—four. Out—six. In—four. Out—six.
When I’m ready, I head over. But I stop in my tracks, like I’ve hit an invisible wall.
All the members are sitting on our reserved bench, except for Jae.
But she’s sitting with her uncle on the bench right next to it.
There’s one seat left on the Free Verse side, so I take it.
CJ on my left. Jae’s body just inches away on my right, dripping with something so sweet it reminds me of nectar.
I lean my head millimeters closer. And closer.
Passion fruit? Guava? Something the gods just sprinkled on her this morning for good measure?
Mrs. Aldana claps her hands to get everyone’s attention.
Like an experienced teacher, she glances around and commands silence.
“Welcome to Bellwood High’s Poetry Open Mic!
” She wiggles jazz hands and the audience laughs.
“This special event is hosted by our small group of outstanding poets, The Free Verse Society. For those of you in the audience who are Bellwood students, we invite you to join us next semester. Now, we’ll begin our reading with poems by our members, after which the audience is free to participate.
You’ll find all the rules for performing on the sign-up sheet. ”
She pauses, glances at Jae. “Before we begin, I’d like to share that our club as a collective is dedicating this event to Sarah, or June Baby, who’s the daughter of our member Jae.
We are so proud of Jae, and we hope you’ll join us in celebrating her bravery in placing her daughter with a beautiful family.
June lives in Georgia and she is almost six months old! ”
There’s a smattering of applause and Awwws, and when I peek over at Jae, she looks positively smug. I see her future as a bumper sticker mom: MY KID’S AN HONOR STUDENT.
Mrs. Aldana continues. “Now. First up to read! We have our club president, William Shakespeare Huntington.”
There’s delayed applause as everyone’s probably wondering who would name their kid William Shakespeare.
Mr. Archer blows a sharp finger whistle as William makes his way to the front.
Instead of a piece of paper, he’s holding a pen, and he raises it dramatically as he looks over the audience.
“‘A Call to Arms,’” he says evenly, and clears his throat.
And then he’s pointing his pen at the audience, his voice rising.
This is a call to arms, you sluggards,
You lowly, friendless “freaks,”
You nerds, you geeks,
You bespectacled dreamers.
If you’ve no voice, no matter.
Your pen is all we need.
Rise up! And tell your story.
You are filled with a magic only you can see,
But it takes time,
So breathe,
And let your inner light guide you.
Go the path less traveled,
If you must go a path at all.
Find the hidden worlds beyond
Insurmountable walls.
Be an outcast if you must,
But be yourself!
That you must.
This is your time,
The time is now,
If you haven’t the strength to fight,
Then take up your pen and write!
William thrusts his pen into the air like a sword, and then tucks it into his pocket and takes a deep bow. I almost jump at the loud applause and whistles that follow. People are pulling out their pens and raising them in the air. I laugh. He sure knows how to work a crowd.
I feel Jae’s body lean away from me as Mr. Oakland says something in her ear.
I see her in my periphery still clapping profusely for William, and then she leans back my way, her body closer than before.
Did she mean to shift over like that? I could feel the difference in millimeters, and this is like an inch.
Mrs. Aldana approaches the front clapping. “A call to arms indeed. Next is Christopher James Tillman.”
CJ breathes in deep. Wipes his hands on his lap. “I have to follow that,” he mutters, standing up.
“You got this,” I say, clapping him on the back. “Do it for Juniper.”
He looks down at me with a metallic smile, green eyes dancing, then walks off.
Stands in front of the crowd and adjusts the collar of his shirt, ears glowing red.
He wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, then he takes in a deep breath, looks down at his feet, and blinks up at everyone. “This poem is called ‘Attic.’”
Something settles in the crowd, and I suddenly realize CJ’s superpower. He shoots out gentle rays of empathy that make you just want to hug yourself. I think Jae feels it too. She sighs.
CJ reads.
After the sun rises
Behind
Crystalline clouds,
Daylight breaks and
Enters the cracks of the
Fractured window blinds.
Gliding rays,
Hovering lights,
Inching their way across the
Jagged attic ceiling where we
Keep boxes and boxes of
Little
Memories
Never
Opened.
Piles of books and newspaper
Quotes,
Remembrances we
Silence up there with packing
Tape.
Unopened
Vaults of past joys,
Weathered edges,
Xanthic
Years,
Zygotic pasts: love and pain.
Time moves slow as CJ reads. I feel every hair of wind. Hear every murmur of the ocean. The space between Jae and me is like a canyon, but still, so, so close. I’m so close. I could touch her skin again. If she would let me. If I just leaned over, just a little.
She moves too. Slow. And then, our shoulders touch. And touch deeper. We’re leaning against each other. I hear her breath. If she turned her head, I would feel it on my skin.
I drop my hand from my lap, let it dangle in the space between us. She drops her hand. Touches her fingertips to mine. I’m breathing too fast. It’s too much. Our skin brushing, brushing, brushing against each other. It’s undoing me. It’s a hundred tiny kisses.
And then it ends. CJ finishes. We sit up straight.
“I feel like a proud mother hen,” Mrs. Aldana says to the crowd as CJ sits down again. “Next, we have our club secretary, Su Hwan Cho.”
There’s polite applause as Swan makes her way to the front. She adjusts her blazer over her lingerie top and waves at the audience. “This is a poem about me. But it’s really about everyone who ever expected me to be silent because of how I look.”
Someone in the audience coughs. A gray-haired Black man says, “All right,” and leans forward with keen eyes. A lady sitting next to him stops her coffee cup halfway to her lips and sets it back down.
Swan clears her throat.
you made me invisible
gave me The Dream in exchange for a quiet, unseen
life
chose only the best and made me a model
of success
you made me invisible
to build up your railroads and your neighborhoods
but after generations:
“where are you really from?”
still not American
you let me stand on a pedestal
with a gag around my mouth
so I won’t talk about
Japanese internment
Chinese Exclusion Act
“Hindu Invasion”
I am not invisible
I wear all the colors
and the rainbow belongs to me
I won’t submit
I’ll talk when I please
to hell with your model minority
“All right!” the gray-haired man shouts, jumping to his feet and clapping. CJ lets out a loud whistle and a whoop! and the audience follows in applause. When Swan sits back down, I lean over to give her a fist bump. Jae grins at her with the cutest little thumbs-up.
Mrs. Aldana’s talking to the audience again and suddenly I’m lost in the panic of reading next. I don’t know how much time has passed before I hear, “Derek?” She’s staring at me with arched eyebrows. CJ’s nudging me with his elbow.
I stand up. My heart thunders with my footsteps. I take the deepest breath and then turn back to the audience. My hands shake and I flex them, trying not to let the tremors show.
“Derek!” someone whispers sharply.
All the way on the other side of the pavilion is Gina, blond curls piled up high, lashes like giant fans. She waves.
This might be the loneliest year of my life, but today, I get a glimpse of what it feels like to have real friends. People who want to listen to the words I have to say. I wave back. Okay. I can do this.
I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans, then pull out my notebook. The page is full of smudges, a hole where I erased too hard. But the words that matter are still there. I breathe again. I read.
I couldn’t write an epic poem like I wanted
But I looked at the sky and saw your smile in Orion’s bow
And a poem wrote itself.
We are
The smallest of the smallest of the smallest fraction
Of millenniums of small, small lives
A grain of sand in an oceanic universe
But the phenomenon of You is what trips me up
That little glimmer in your iris is
The light from a half-gone star 4.5 billion years old
That traveled through millions of miles of emptiness
Just to kiss the aperture of your eye, like it wants to die
There
Your face is more beautiful than Saturn’s rings made of
Ice and dust and obliterated moons
You are just that glorious
You make me dizzy wanting you
Wondering if I’ll see you soon or if you’re just
The far side of the moon
And I will never
See you again
You spread your stardust over me
Make it hard to breathe
Till I am
Transformed beneath your skin into something
Ravenous
That could destroy us both
You are the stars aligned
The glory of a galaxy times nine
I could kiss you a million and a million times and still
Ask the universe for just
One
More
I close my notebook. It’s like someone took a giant broom and swept everyone away except for her. I can only see her. Her mouth hangs slightly open. She’s unmoving, made of wax, except her eyes are blinking wildly. And she won’t look at me.
Look at me.
I’m hungry for just one glance. Greedy. Because she touched me today, and I could never stop wanting more of her.
Look at me.
Please.
Look at me.