Love Rewards The Brave (22 page)

149.

School’s so much better with Jess

around. She helps me feel

grounded.

I’d been in a time

warp, on auto-repeat

everyday.

But with her,

I can laugh and roll my eyes and put on

lip-gloss in the bathroom

without feeling like a

robotical machine.

She must have told Markus something about the

Lou-Intervention

because he is being nicer to me.

I catch him looking at me…

softer?

I don’t know all that she knows

so I don’t know all that she told

but somehow him knowing about me…my past…

makes him less like a

dickhead-douche-bag-ass

and more like a person who’s looking out for me

wanting to protect me.

When a guy walked by me

in the cafeteria and looked at me

like that

Markus stood up and said, “Stop looking at her tits, man.”

Causing the guy to put his hands up

and walk away, fast.

Jess and I just looked at each other and got red

in the face

and started to laugh.

Because I didn’t know how to say thank you.

Because I knew laughing would stop me from crying.

Because that was the first time

in a forever time

that a guy

has protected me from being an

Object

for someone else.

And Markus will never know

how him doing that made me feel.

It made me feel
more than

I did

before.

And that doesn’t happen everyday.

150.

The 6-Spot is closing up

for the night. I like this part of my job

when things are quiet

and still

counter wiped clean and

floors swept.

Till closed and merchandise put where

it’s kept.

I want my insides

to feel like the 6-Spot

at the end of the day.

Washed clean.

Margot’s with me. She has the keys and locks the

door, alarm system set and we leave.

My backpack slung over my shoulder

her bag hitting her hips when she moves.

We have been working well together

in our own little groove.

We get in her car since

she’s driving me home.

Ms. Francine is working late.

Margot doing her duty to get me back safe.

She looks over at me as we drive down the

perpetual slush filled street.

“So.” She says this single word in a way that tells

me there is
a lot more coming
.

“What?” I say. It’s been a long day.

“Look, Louisa. I haven’t had a chance to talk with you since last week and the…the….”

She’s looking for the word.

“The Lou-intervention?” I offer up. “That’s what Jess named it.”

“So you and Jess are cool again?”

“Yeah. We’re cool.”

“What does she know. Like, about your story?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it. She knows whatever you guys told her.”

“Don’t you want to talk to her about it? That’s some pretty big stuff to find out about your best friend.”

“I don’t really want to talk to anyone about it.”

“That’s a bummer.”

I take her bait.

“Why’s it a bummer?” I ask.

“Well, I just heard about a poetry competition and thought you might be interested. But I guess not.”

“What is it?”

Not that I care.

But I do care.

Poetry is the only thing

anyone has ever pointed out

definitively

and said

YOU ARE GOOD AT THIS.

And that was Margot.

And now she’s holding out

on me.

“It’s a Young Poet’s Slam. Being held at the same place you saw me at on New Years. It’s a yearly competition. But you wouldn’t care because slam poetry is all about honesty. About vulnerability. If you won’t talk to your best friend about this big stuff, you probably aren’t going to be able to do that with strangers.”

Let me take a second and say

on the record

that I like Margot

she’s cool and all

got me a job, is helping me land

on my own two feet.

But I

reallyreallyreally

hate it

when adults

do this reverse psychology bullshit on

teenagers.

Like, COME ON.

“You’re probably right,” I say.

I blow her off.

She was so thinking she had

reeled me

in.

We pull up to the house.

I open the door.

“Wait. Louisa, if you change your mind, here’s the flyer.”

“Thanks,” I say.

And I mean it.

151.

The house is as quiet as the record store was at closing.

I turn the lights on

sit at the kitchen table

and wonder if

Margot might

be right.

About being vulnerable and honest and that I should

talk to Jess.

God.

I go to the cupboard and get out a mug.

Put in a packet of hot cocoa mix and warm it

in the microwave.

Thirty-five seconds is all it takes for it to turn

from a cold cup of powder

to something warm and

sweet.

Nothing like me.

Apparently

I take a lot longer to warm up.

I’ve known Jess for a year now

and in that time we’ve colored one another’s hair

countless times.

We’ve decided to be guitar players (we sucked at that).

Decided we were gonna tour Europe with packs on our

backs

when we graduate.

She told me about the time she tried to run away

after her mom found her stash of pot.

She told me about her older brother

how he almost died

when he accidentally shot

his uncle’s gun.

She confided in me about Markus and the boys before him.

About the first time she had sex

when she was fourteen-years-old in the

back of a mini-van.

She trusted me with her dreams and her fears.

About the fact she’s scared she’ll

wind up here

in this town

forever.

About the fact that she thought she was pregnant

once and how she knew what she would do

if it was true.

It makes me wonder why she has stayed around with me

so long.

Why she never left when I wasn’t willing to

sing her my half of the song.

My story’s always been kept locked away.

I wonder if she’s just able to see through me

in ways I thought no one could.

Maybe I wasn’t ever hiding as well

as I thought

I stir my drink

till the marshmallows

melt and

the cocoa is cold.

I pour it down the sink.

152.

I forget about the flyer

from Margot for three days.

I’m digging through my backpack

trying to find enough change

to buy a Coke from the school vending machine

when I find it.

I smooth it out

I always seem to be smoothing

crinkled papers out.

But this isn’t about Benji right now

this is about me.

The flyer reads:

8
th
ANNUAL

YOUNG POETS’ SLAM COMPETITION

HELD AT DENACOURT STAGE

MARCH 5
th
, 7PM

CONTEST OPEN TO TEENS 13-18

TRADITIONAL SLAM COMPETITION RULES APPLY

PRIZES FOR 1
st
, 2
nd
and 3
rd
PLACE: GIFT CARDS TO

6-SPOT RECORDS

GRAND PRIZE WINNER RECEIVES:

-POEM PUBLISHED IN MAGAZINE

-SPRING BREAK WRITING COURSE WITH LOCAL POETS

SIGN UP TODAY!

I don’t want to be judged at all.

I put the paper back in my bag

and take the quarters I found in the bottom

stuffing them in the machine.

I get my Coke,

take a sip

and find myself pacing in the hall

wondering if being judged isn’t

the worst thing.

A part of me knows

I’ve already seenfeltlived

the
worst thing
.

Maybe this contest isn’t about being

judged at all.

Maybe it’s about  stepping on stage

and breaking

free.

I toss the can

in the trash,

then reach in and pull it out,

depositing it

in the

recycling.

Ms. F’s habits have started to stick.

Maybe it’s time for me to

stop being

so stuck

in mine.
 

153.

Terry’s looking at me.

Expecting something from me.

I’m so ready to be free

from the same old routine.

“Louisa, we need to talk about how you want to move forward. This has been a big year for you, and I’d really like to see how I can help you get to where you would like to go.”

I stare at her, blankly.

“I know last week was overwhelming. So many people who wanted to share how much we value you. I want to hear how you’re doing, since that meeting at Ms. Francine’s.”

I breathe out, rub my eyes

with the palms of my hands

wanting her to understand

there was nothing to say.

“Louisa, in a lot of ways you’re a much stronger person than two years ago when we met. But in other ways you’re in a holding pattern, a stand still. Stuck. Do you know why?”

Rubbing my hand against my chin, I debate

and decide.

I have to say something to get

her off my

back.

“After that night, it’s like, impossible to just become a perfect person and not do the things everyone hates. I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I don’t want anything
from you,
Louisa. I just want you to be happy, to be whole. Look, can we start over?”

I nod my head yes.

Anything to stop this weird conversation

where I don’t know

whichwaywhatthing

I’m supposed to

be.

“Louisa, tell me something about your day.”

My day.

How about that Jess told me her and Markus had sex

in the Home-Ec room during lunch.

Or that I forgot to bring PE clothes so I got a

red mark for not dressing down.

Maybe the fact that I fell asleep

when I was supposed to be learning about conjugating nouns.

No.

None of those will work.

“Um, Margot gave me this flyer…about a poetry thing.”

I hand her the paper from my bag.

She takes it

reads it

looks up.

“What do you think? Would you ever want to do something like this?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. Why, do you think I could?”

I know my insecurities are

shouting
visible when I speak

that is why I prefer to maintain
silence

inner peace

and quiet.

“I know you love to write,” Terry says. “You’ve told me that. And I know you spent years keeping journals. Do you write poetry in your journals?”

“Didn’t you look in my journals? Before you gave them back to me?”

“No.”

Terry half laughs and tilts her

head at me

squints her eyes

in surprise.

“Louisa, those are yours. You didn’t offer them to me to read.”

“Oh, I just thought. You know, like, I don’t know what I thought. Never mind.”

And once again I feel behind the times

because everyone seems to have

my back

these days

and it’s hard to understand

when your whole life has been about

being dealt a raw hand.

“I do write poetry. Or at least I did. I haven’t for a long time.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have anything to say anymore. It’s all, like, empty. My insides, I mean.”

“You know, Louisa, some people use writing as a way to process their emotions, to set them free. Everyone expressed their feelings differently. Some of it’s healthy, some not. That’s why some people eat if they’re unhappy, or drink if they’re angry. Or some people exercise to blow off steam, or play with their dog.”

“Or like Benji, he tries to kill himself?” I say, quietly.

“In some ways, yes. Benji felt out of control and he felt like ending his life might be the way to get it back.”

“What do you do, Terry? To “process”?” I ask, using air quotes.

“I garden. It relaxes me. After a long day at work I love to go home and get my hands in the dirt, it soothes me.”

So Terry is a gardener.

That seems so normal

so…so…
her
.

I suppose Jess uses boys to let out her angst.

Ms. F uses baking and books.

Margot, well, she performs spoken word.

ME…

I usually wallow in victimized pity

as a way to avoid, simply…

Living.