“I hope you picked something ridiculously expensive.”
I shake my head. “After our appointments were finished, we were running late and she rushed us off to lunch.”
Caroline bites her lip.
“But, hey, on the bright side, look at my skin.” I lean in a little closer. “Don’t I look ten years younger?”
She leans in too. “You’re asking me if you look like you’re six?” I laugh, and Caroline joins in. “I hope lunch was better.”
“Worse.”
She stops laughing. “How is that possible?”
“When her mom called the restaurant to change the reservation from four people to five, they told her we had to be at separate tables. I guess she assumed they’d push them together or something.”
“No.”
“Yep. It was a French restaurant with these tiny café tables—”
“Wait, so you sat with your friend’s mom while everyone else sat together at another table?” I’m glad I didn’t have to say it out loud. I have a feeling it still wouldn’t be funny.
I cross my arms. I faked a headache to come home early, but now I feel a real one coming on with the retelling. “I’m overreacting, right?”
As I wait for her response, I study her eyes. They’re narrow and hooded, but I’m no longer trying to figure out how to apply eye shadow to open them up. They’re pretty the way they are. Her hair doesn’t seem so stringy either, and I’m not dying to cover up her blemishes. I’m just happy she’s here.
“You’re not overreacting,” she says.
“Are you sure? Because you can tell me if I am. I have a tendency to overthink things, especially when it comes to my friends, and I don’t know…I take things too personally. I mean, it isn’t always them. Sometimes it’s me. I just don’t always know when it’s them and when it’s me, you know?”
I’m not sure if that made sense, but Caroline’s looking at me like she understood it perfectly. It’s like I can read her mind right now. She doesn’t like that my friends hurt my feelings, intentionally or not. Whether it’s them or me, she doesn’t understand why I’d choose to hang around with people I’m constantly questioning. And she’s sad for me, because my closest friends don’t feel all that close anymore, not like they did when we were those kids on that poster hanging on my wall.
I picture the people I saw in Poet’s Corner that day. “You don’t ever wonder what your friends think about you, do you?”
Caroline doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t have to. I can tell I’m right by the look on her face.
“You’re lucky,” I say.
I stare down at my feet, thinking about how I spent last night tucked down in my bed with a flashlight, writing horrible poetry into the early morning hours, waking up feeling drained but euphoric at the same time. I’ve been thinking about those poems all day. I couldn’t wait to get home to write again.
When I look up, I find Caroline staring at me.
“What?” I ask.
A cautious smile spreads across her lips. “Let me hear one.”
I look at her like I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I’m pretty sure I do. “One what?” I can hear the anxiety in my own voice.
“A poem.”
How does she know I’ve been writing poetry?
“Read me something from the blue notebook.”
My head snaps up and my jaw drops.
How does she know about the colors?
She points over at my nightstand, and I twist in place, my eyes following the invisible line that leads from her fingertip to the stack of three notebooks—red, yellow, and blue—piled underneath the lamp.
“You’re writing, aren’t you?” she asks.
I don’t answer her directly, but I don’t have to. She can probably tell she’s right by the panicked look on my face. I can’t read my poetry to her. I can’t read it to anyone. Shrink-Sue told me I didn’t have to share anything I wrote in those books. I wouldn’t have written it if I thought otherwise.
“Is it really dark?” she continues. “It’s okay if it is. My stuff can get pretty dark, too.”
“No, it’s not dark; it’s…stupid.”
“My stuff can get pretty stupid, too. I won’t make fun of you, I promise.”
“I can’t.”
“Read me your favorite. Don’t think about it, just go. Read.”
I laugh. “You’re telling me to not think. All I do is think. All the time. I think so much, I’m on medication and I see a shrink every Wednesday. I can’t not think, Caroline.”
“Sam.”
“What?”
“Go.”
I have the perfect one in mind. It’s short. I can read it without throwing up. Besides, I kind of like it. And I don’t even need my blue notebook because these words have been stuck in my head all day, during my ridiculous facial and in the car after we left the spa and during lunch. They joined the mantras. They kept the destructive thoughts from invading.
I sit up again. My hands are shaking, so I tuck them under my legs as I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and say, “It’s called ‘The Drop.’”
Standing on the platform.
Sun sinking into my skin.
This water will cover me like a blanket.
And I’ll be safe again.
She doesn’t laugh, but the room is completely silent. I open my eyes and look at her, waiting for a reaction.
She hated it.
“We have to get you back downstairs,” Caroline finally says, and I can hear the sincerity in her voice, can see it in her face.
She liked it.
I stare at her, wondering if she’s too good to be true. Where did she come from? Why is she being so nice to me?
“That’ll never happen,” I tell her plainly. “That ‘keymaster’ guy hates me. He won’t even look at me.”
I picture him on that stool and his song starts playing in my head. I think about the words and where they live on that wall. If I could get back downstairs, I could find his lyrics. I’ll commit them to memory next time.
“That’s just AJ,” she says, giving a dismissive shake of her head. “And he doesn’t hate you. But you hurt him, and he doesn’t know how to handle that.”
“What?” My thoughts stop cold. “Hurt him? What are you talking about?”
She looks right at me but doesn’t say a word.
“Caroline. How did I hurt him? I don’t even know him.”
“Yes, you do.”
I remember how he stood in front of me, blocking my way into Poet’s Corner the other day. He looked familiar, but I’ve never known anyone named AJ, and he’s cute enough, especially with that dimple and that adorable guitar-playing thing of his, that I would have remembered him if we’d met before.
“Are you going to tell me?”
She shakes her head. “You’ll figure it out.”
I stare at her in disbelief. “I don’t want to figure it out, Caroline. I want you to tell me.” That might have sounded bitchy. I didn’t mean it to, but I can’t believe she’s holding out on me.
She checks her watch. “I have to go.” She hops off the bed and starts walking toward the door.
“What about the movie?”
“Maybe another time,” she says as she reaches for the doorknob.
My mind is leaping around from thought to thought, like it can’t settle on one.
I hurt him. And Caroline’s leaving. But she likes my poem. I like talking to her. I don’t want her to leave.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to tell me. Please…stay.”
It’s killing me not to know what I did, but there are plenty of other things I want to talk to her about. I want to ask her about all the poets. I want to know about that room and how it got there and how it works, and I want her to read me some of her poems. I want to be her friend.
She turns around and looks at me. I hurry over to my nightstand, grab the blue notebook from the pile, and hold it up in the air.
“I want to get back to Poet’s Corner, but I don’t know how to. Will you help me?”
Mom’s buttering toast for Paige, drinking her coffee, and replying to a message on her cell phone, when she says, “Do you want to talk about what happened yesterday?”
“Nah. I’m good.” I down my orange juice. “I talked to my friend Caroline last night.”
Mom’s typing again. “Who’s Caroline?” she asks without looking up.
“Just someone I met at school. She’s nice. She came over after I got home from the spa.”
Now I have her attention.
“Really?” Her eyes grow wide.
I try to act nonchalant about the whole thing, like this happens all the time, but then I picture Caroline sitting on the floor in my room, helping me with my poetry, and I feel a little bit giddy. “Yeah, I would have introduced you, but she had to leave before you guys got home.”
“Have you told Sue about her?”
“Yep.” I grab the toast with one hand and punch Paige lightly on the arm with the other. “I’m going to the pool.”
The next day, Olivia and I are walking to Trigonometry when I see AJ heading right for us. I almost didn’t notice him—I probably wouldn’t have if the dark ski hat hadn’t caught my eye—because he’s looking down at the ground and keeping pace with everyone else. He walks right by me.
Caroline’s words have haunted me since Saturday night: “He doesn’t hate you, but you hurt him.” I can’t figure out what I did, and somewhere around two thirty this morning, I decided I was going to find out the first chance I got.
“I left my trig book in my locker,” I say to Olivia. “I’ll meet you at class.”
She waves me off and I do a 180 and start following the ski cap heading in the opposite direction. AJ turns the corner and stops at a locker. Keeping my distance, I watch as he rests his backpack on one knee and swaps out his books.
When he sees me, he tilts his chin in my direction. “Hey.” No smile. No wave. Just the chin tilt. He swings his locker door closed.
“Hi.” I gesture toward the main corridor. “I saw you in the hall, but…I guess you didn’t see me.”
He shakes his head.
“I wanted to say hello.” I dig my fingernails into the back of my neck. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. “And, you know, say thank you…for letting me join you guys last week.”
AJ checks the area around us and steps in closer. He’s a full head taller than me, and when he tucks his chin to his chest and stares down at me, I feel guilty, even though I haven’t done anything wrong. His eyebrows lift accusingly. “You haven’t told anyone, have you?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t do that.”
He’s still close. He’s still staring at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m telling the truth. I square my shoulders and straighten my spine. “I told you I wouldn’t, and I haven’t.”
“Good,” he says. Another long pause. “Don’t.”
“I won’t.”
He steps out of my personal space and I have a chance to look at him. Really look at him. His dark blond hair is poking out from under the cap, and his eyes are this interesting brownish-green that’s almost the same color as the T-shirt he’s wearing. He’s not clean-cut, like most of my guy friends. He’s scruffier, but in a sexy way. I try to read the expression on his face, but I can’t, and it bothers me because there’s something about the way he’s looking at me right now that makes me feel sorry for him. He looks sweet, maybe even shy, and nothing like the confident guy I watched perform on that stage last week.
The questions are spinning in my head, and I want to spit them out and get it over with. How do I know you? How did I hurt you? How do I tell you I’m sorry if I have no idea what I did? But I push the words down, searching for new, safer ones.
“I really loved your song. It’s kind of been stuck in my head.”
He takes another step back. “Thanks,” he says.
“I’ve been trying to remember all the lyrics, but…”
Invite me back. Please.
I look around again to be sure there’s no one within earshot. “That day downstairs, I guess it kind of inspired me. My poems aren’t very good or anything.” I pause for a moment, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t, so I keep blabbering.
“I barely slept last weekend.” Now he looks at me sideways like he’s trying to figure out why this is his problem. “I haven’t been…” I stop short, realizing I was about to admit that I haven’t been taking the prescription sleep meds I’ve popped every night for the last five years. I keep forgetting. Or maybe I don’t forget. Maybe I make a choice to keep writing despite how exhausted I’ll be the next day. “I haven’t been sleeping. Once I start writing, I kind of need to keep going.” I let a nervous laugh escape.
The corners of his mouth turn up slightly. Not much, but enough to expose that dimple and catch me off guard.
“You’re writing?”
I nod.
“You?” AJ crosses his arms like he doesn’t believe me, but at least now I can read the look on his face. He’s surprised. Maybe even intrigued. “You’re writing poetry, and not because you have to for a class?”
I shrug. I think he expects me to be offended, but I’m not. I get it. The whole poetry thing shocks me, too.
“Of course, it’s total crap,” I say, hoping more self-criticism will elicit some kind of reaction, like an invitation to come downstairs and say those words on stage so they can pelt me with paper and, later, glue sticks.
AJ uncrosses his arms and transfers his backpack from one shoulder to the other. “I bet your poems are better than you think they are.”
It’s not true, but it’s a nice thing to say and he looks like he means it. I start to reply, but then I look past him, over his right shoulder, and see Kaitlyn walking in our direction, taking measured steps, hanging back like she’s timing her arrival so she doesn’t interrupt the two of us.
Invite me back. I want to hear more poetry, more of your songs.
“I’ve got to get to class,” he says. “I’ll see ya later, okay?”
And with that, he takes off, leaving Kaitlyn the opening she was waiting for. She lengthens her stride and as soon as she’s close enough, she grabs me by the arm with both hands. “Holy shit, was that Andrew Olsen?” she asks.
“Who?”
She lets go of me so she can point at him, and together, we watch AJ open a classroom door and disappear from sight. “That was him! God, we were so brutal to that kid, weren’t we?” She shakes her head as I turn his name over in my mind. Andrew Olsen. Andrew Olsen.
“Who?” I ask again, and she slaps my arm with the back of her hand.
“Andrew Olsen. Remember? Fourth grade. Mrs. Collins’s class?” Kaitlyn must be able to tell by the look on my face that I’m not connecting the dots, because she breaks into this huge grin. She shakes her hips and sings, “A-A-A-Andrew…” to the tune of the Chia Pet jingle, and then she starts cracking up.
“How can you not remember Andrew? That kid stuttered so badly he couldn’t even say his name. We used to follow him around singing that song.…You have to remember this!”
Oh, God. I do. It’s all starting to come back to me, and when she sings that horrible song again, I can see Kaitlyn and me in our skirts and ponytails, trailing behind him on the playground while he covered his ears, tears streaming down his face, trying to run away from us. We never let him get far.
“Andrew?” That’s all I can get out. I want to throw up. Andrew. That’s what Caroline meant.
“Remember? We even made him cry on that field trip to the museum? His mom had to come all the way into the city to pick him up.”
I don’t want to remember, but I do. I remember everything. How it all started. How it finally ended.
Kaitlyn singled him out early on. Eventually, I joined in. We teased him at every recess, during lunch, after school when he was waiting for the bus. We looked for him—looked f
orward to finding him. I can even picture his face when he saw us coming, and I remember how it made me feel guilty, but not guilty enough to stop, because it also made me feel powerful in a weird way. And there was always a look of approval on Kaitlyn’s face.
When school started the following year, we found out he’d transferred, and Kaitlyn and I were actually disappointed, as if our favorite toy had been permanently taken away from us. I never thought I’d see him again. I’m sure he hoped he’d never see Kaitlyn and me again, but I assume he didn’t have a choice since this is the only public high school in the area.
Caroline was wrong. He hates me.
Kaitlyn stops talking, but I guess the horrified look on my face doesn’t register with her, because she’s still lit up as if this whole thing is hilarious.
“So why were you talking to him?” She pops her hip and plays with her necklace while she waits for me to answer.
It takes me a second to pull it together. When I finally do speak, my voice is shaking and the words come out in fragmented whispers. “We have a class together.” Does Poet’s Corner count as a class? Probably not.
“He was in my P.E. class last year,” she says, “but we didn’t have to talk much, so I never got to hear him. Does he still stutter?”
I picture the way he stepped on stage and perched himself on that stool. How he threw his guitar over his shoulder and stated that his song sucked, beaming as he gestured toward his chest, confidently inviting his friends to throw things at him. He sang and his words were beautiful and clear, not broken in any way. Nothing about him was broken.
“No, he doesn’t.”
He’s long gone, but Kaitlyn points in his direction. “See, we fixed him,” she says proudly. My cheeks feel hot, and when she elbows me, laughing, my hands ball into fists by my side. “You know what they say, ‘That which does not kill us makes us stronger.’”
I’m unable to speak or breathe or move. I can’t believe she just said that, and I know I should defend him, but I’m frozen in place, totally stunned. Saying nothing, as usual.
“Besides,” she continues, “that was a million years ago. We were little kids. I bet he doesn’t even remember us.” I feel a huge, uncomfortable lump in my throat. How could I do that do him? To anyone?