Chapter 10
THEN: Freshman Year, August
Paloma
Intro to Poetry. I roll my eyes as I double-check my schedule.
One thing about being late in applications to colleges—which I was, severely—is getting the last orientation day and the leftover of class selections to go with it.
I’d take a musty art history lecture hall over the yellowed concrete liberal arts building that smells permanently like coffee and stacks of old books.
And yet, as I make my way through the fluorescent halls that clearly don’t have the funding that the other side of campus seems to, I’m still bubbling with excited first-day jitters.
I’m later than I’d like to be, only five minutes early to the 8 a.m. course when I prefer fifteen. Mostly so that I can pick where I sit and get an idea of what to expect.
Clipping the corner of the door on my way in, I rock back a little and peer into the classroom. Ten desks have been configured into a semicircle, the other desks haphazardly shoved away, nearly into the walls. Half of them are already taken, but my eyes immediately lock onto one in particular.
It’s the boy from the other day. All large and imposing and sitting in a too-small desk in the classroom.
We’re both aware of each other, but neither of us acknowledges it. Maybe it’d be more normal to sit next to him; knowing one person in this tiny class should be enough for me to try—friends, community, something.
“Bennett,” he says, voice almost emotionless. But his eyes are sparkling.
Blinking again, I slump my owl-eyed expression into something more blank and waltz to a seat opposite him, nearest the door.
It’s easy to tell he’s hunched over, as if to make himself smaller, to draw as little attention as possible—which is impossible when he looks like he could be teaching the class, with his angular, strong jaw and nose.
His eyes are a foggy turquoise, like a gem held out under a rain cloud. Or a distant misty ocean.
His eyes dart away as we catch each other staring. His cheeks redden to match the heat I feel across my own face.
“Good morning.” A raspy chuckle reverberates in the small concrete room.
Dr. Nick Britton, our professor for Introduction to Poetry struts in with the heavy assistance of a curved, wooden cane.
He’s tall and reedy, with graying hair and a weathered, bespectacled face.
If he was dressed more pretentiously, he’d resemble John Keating with a new Dead Poet’s Society.
Instead, he wears jeans and a wrinkled button-down.
While he settles in and hands out the syllabus, I’m distracted again by watching Bennett.
He’s meticulous, careful with the paper as he flips the stapled corner and skims the entire thing briefly—as if in search of something specific. Too curious, I flip mine, trying to figure out what part he’s reading through so intensely.
Bolded across the second page is “Required Texts,” of which it lists “various” typed out with no proper capitalization. But below that, I find what I’m positive has captured Bennett’s attention.
“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost is printed over the last page of the syllabus.
I should be listening to our professor as he introduces the rules and code of conduct for the class, but so should Bennett. Instead, we both read.
It’s familiar; I’ve read it before in one of my high school English classes. It’s not my style, but it’s an all-around crowd pleaser.
“Now.” Dr. Britton claps his hands loudly, grabbing my attention back. “Let’s start on our first assignment. Partner up.”
He might as well have said “fight to the death” for the way my body reacts.
Eyes dancing around the room, I hang back as a few more gregarious students grab a friend—or make a new one quickly—so as not to be picked last. And, since there’s an even eight of us in here, there’s no chance of waiting and asking to work on my own.
I find a girl who looks kind enough, if not very approachable, but just as I go to move, she’s snatched up by the guy already seated to her right. Anxiety churns my stomach, a seasick feeling making my neck dampen with sweat.
Except, there is someone else without a partner. Someone else who didn’t even attempt to ask someone. And the only person in here I even moderately know in some capacity.
I grab my binder and the syllabus, march over to him with short, efficient strides, and slide into one of the abandoned desks closest to him. I keep my eyes locked on our professor where he sits atop the large metal desk at the head of our circle.
Bennett keeps his eyes locked on me.
His gaze is searing, heating the side of my face like summer sunlight. And when I finally turn to meet it, it’s just as intense as I suspected it would be.
Whatever I was going to say evaporates on my tongue, throat dry and neck still sweat damp.
“What did you think of it?” Bennett asks, his shoulders hiked and eyes downcast. As if feigning disinterest or hiding embarrassment. He doesn’t ask if I’ve read it. Maybe he was watching me as much as I was him.
“It’s magical,” I say. “Elusive in its meaning, but clearly intentional and structured.”
Blue eyes that are just as magical and elusive dart up to meet my gaze, then shift just slightly to my nose.
“You—yeah.” He clears his throat and looks back down at the papers. “What else?”
He won’t offer his own opinion then, as if he’s testing the waters. So I slump forward, edging a little closer to his rigid form. “I think he’s talking about death.”
A scoff works from his throat almost immediately, voice much louder as he insists, “It’s not—if anything it’s about life.”
“Oh?” I smart, lip curling with well-restrained annoyance. “Did he tell you that himself?”
I wish I could say I’m being playful, but this is exactly what I hate about poetry.
My teacher in high school did the same thing, tearing my interpretations to shreds if I offered something contradictory.
As much as people preach about interpretation, my experience has been that there’s always a right answer.
Bennett doesn’t say anything, cheeks bright from either anger or embarrassment. I can’t tell, nor do I necessarily care. Really, I shouldn’t be as curious as I am about him.
“Sleep is inherently ambiguous. Is the tone exasperated? Or hopeful? I think I could argue both sides.”
“You sound like my dad,” he grumbles, but his face only burns redder, like he didn’t mean to say it.
“Yeah?” I press him anyway. “He must be a genius.”
“He’s a lawyer.”
A laugh bursts free, shocking us both. I can’t remember the last time I laughed.
For a moment, I’m worried I scared off my surly partner, but then the corner of his mouth kicks up. It’s nearly microscopic, but it’s there. Just the hint of a smile.
Maybe we could be friends.
“What’s so funny?” Our professor garners our attention easily, but there is no reprimand, only genuine curiosity reflected in his dancing eyes.
“Nothing,” I rush to say, shaking my head and feeling chastised even without actually being in trouble. Dr. Britton frowns slightly and leans both hands heavily on the curve of his cane.
“All right. So then tell me about the poem.”
We both stay silent at first, before I elbow Bennett and raise my eyebrows. I did the talking. Your turn.
He doesn’t speak.
“Bennett should go first. I thought his views were very . . . sanguine.” My partner’s cheeks heat at my words but he’s still grinning enough that I feel a bit like dancing in my seat with the victory.
“Yeah? Then tell me, Mr.—”
“Reiner,” Bennett says, sitting up a little straighter. “We were just discussing the overall theme—life or death. We had a disagreement about the meaning.”
“You and every other critic that’s ever read the work. Did you find it uplifting or haunting? How about a precarious line of both? I think I’ve felt several different, contradictory emotions about this one.”
“Isn’t that the point?” Bennett asks. “To use the landscape and descriptions to lay out a greater metaphor and not explain what the metaphor is meant to be.”
“If we can compare Green Eggs and Ham to the efforts of communism, I think that we can view intentionally obscure poems in whatever way we can defend.”
Bennett’s eyes are sparkling and he’s smiling with teeth now. I get the feeling that he doesn’t know that he looks so enthralled by the professor’s words.
“See?” I say proudly, growing more comfortable next to this confident version of Bennett. “He’s a poetry savant.”
I’ve said something wrong by the way Bennett’s entire face shutters. All my previous comfort dissolves like passing smoke.
Dr. Britton leaves us with a quiet, “Good work,” muttered as he moves on to the next group. Bennett starts to pack up, which makes me furrow my brow until I check the analog clock on the wall and realize class is nearly over.
I watch him again, more blatantly than before.
He’s meticulous, just like he was with his hockey gear.
Smoothing the paper’s creases, tucking it into a dark blue folder, which then tucks into a greater binder and then into his backpack—big enough for his books, but almost too small against the broadness of his back.
A buzzer sounds the end of class just as he stands up. He walks away, three steps, before turning back to me and fidgeting, eyes staying glued to my sneakers and his thick brows furrowed.
“Have you read more of him? Frost?”
It feels like an odd question. Maybe it wasn’t the one he intended to ask.
“Yeah, sure.” I shrug, shucking the tote bag I brought over my shoulder and stepping over to walk ahead of him. “I don’t hate him, but that one is boring.”
“Then which one do you like?”
I spin on my heel and turn back toward him with a wide smirk. “‘Devotion.’”
Bennett’s eyebrows jump, like he’s surprised I didn’t name “The Road Not Taken” or “Nothing Gold Can Stay.”
Shrugging my shoulders, I start walking again. He keeps stride with my shorter legs easily.
“What other poems do you like?” Bennett asks.
“I’m not really a big fan of poetry, especially like this. It’s really . . . there’s a lot of rules.” His hopeful expression melts into deep disappointment, as if I’ve personally delivered the news of some tragic loss.
“It’s . . . you should try it again.”
It makes me smile for some reason, that Bennett wants me to like poetry.
Why?
“Maybe I will.”
The honesty of my words haunts me long after I’ve returned to my dorm. I stare up at my bedroom ceiling and rethink every word I said.