Every Last Word
: Chapter 11

As I take my seat in history class, I check the clock on the wall. I still have a few minutes before the bell rings, so I pull out my yellow notebook. I’ve been thinking about mistakes and forgiveness ever since my session with Sue yesterday, and I’m dying to add a few more lines to my poem on the topic.

“Hey, Sam.” I slam my notebook shut and look up. Sydney is hovering over me.

“Hi. Sydney, right?” I ask, as if I don’t know her name. But of course I do. I’ve seen her every day during fourth period for the past month, and each time, I think about her Chicken McNuggets poem and smile to myself.

She rests one hand on my desk and reaches for my silver S pendant with the other. “Ooh, I love this,” she says, lifting it into her fingers. She twists it around a few times, studying it from various angles. She drops it and reaches for her own necklace. “Look. We have excellent taste in letters,” she says, holding up a hot pink letter S.

“That’s really pretty,” I tell her, still trying to figure out why she’s talking to me.

“So,” she whispers, “AJ read your poem to us.”

“What? When?” I gave it to him so long ago. I figured if he’d read it, I would have known by now. It’s been all I can do to stop thinking about it.

“We’ve been talking,” she says. “We want you to come back.”

“Really?”

“Really.” She bends down toward my ear. “Some of us wanted you to come back the following week. Some of us took more convincing.”

“AJ?” I ask.

“He wasn’t alone in his opinion. We all know who you are, Samantha. We remember what you did to him,” she says. I hunch my shoulders and tuck my head to my chest, wishing I could disappear. “But I think you meant what you said in that poem. Did you?”

It takes effort, but I sit up straight and look right at her. “Every last word.”

“Good. We’re meeting at lunch today. Come downstairs with me after class.” She taps my yellow notebook. “Bring this with you,” she says. Then she continues down the aisle and takes her seat a few rows behind me.

Holy shit.

My mind is racing and I can’t lock on to one thought. I’m still embarrassed, but now elation is starting to take over. I get to see that room again. But then I think about how Sydney tapped on my notebook, and I start to panic.

I’ll have to read a poem.

Class starts, but I’m not really paying attention. All I can think about are the poems I’ve written so far. I swap out my yellow notebook for the blue one and start thumbing through the pages, looking for worthy candidates as I dig my fingernails into the back of my neck three times, again and again.

Horrible. Lame. Ridiculous. Supposed to be funny but isn’t. Supposed to rhyme but doesn’t. Hmm, this one’s kind of poignant—but…haiku?

Sweat is forming on my brow, and I keep shifting in my chair, and my neck already feels sore from all the scratching. Maybe I’ll have time to ask Caroline for her opinion. She’s heard every one of these poems. She helped me write many of them.

Wait. This one’s worth considering.

I look up at the whiteboard to check the status of the lesson and pretend to take a few notes, but when the coast is clear I read the poem. Then I turn around and look at Sydney. She’s watching me with wide eyes and an encouraging smile, and it reminds me of Caroline’s words that very first day: “I’m going to show you something that will change your whole life.”

Sydney’s chatty, and that’s good because I can’t breathe, let alone speak. As we weave our way through the doors, down the stairs, and around the tight corners, I listen to her talk about her plans for the upcoming weekend, and I mutter a few “uh-huhs” sprinkled with some “that sounds like funs,” but I’m not really hearing a word she’s saying. I was feeling so confident once I found a poem to read, but apparently I left that emotion back in the classroom.

Now, it’s all hitting me. As soon as I get through that door, they’ll all expect me to get on stage and let meaningful words emerge from my mouth. I can’t do that. I can’t even speak when I’m sitting on a patch of grass next to people I’ve known my entire life. The air must be thicker down here or maybe the ventilation in the basement doesn’t work as well as it should, because I. Can’t. Breathe.

Sydney knocks hard on the door that leads inside and we wait. My fingernails replace their usual spot and dig in. Hard.

This is a mistake.

The bolt clicks and the door squeaks as it opens, and there’s AJ, key in hand. “Hi,” he says.

Sydney pulls the door open. Once we’re in the room, she spreads her arms wide. “Where do you want to sit?”

I scan the room. The African American girl with the long black braids is resting her knee on one of the couches, talking and waving her arms animatedly, like she’s telling a funny story. The girl with the super curly blond hair and the short guy in the artsy glasses are watching her, laughing along.

On the far end of the room, I spot pixie-cut girl, Abigail. She looks different today, eyes thickly lined in a dramatic cat’s-eye, and lips painted dark red. She wears it well. Confidently. Her arm is propped against the back of the couch, and she’s chatting with that girl with the short dark hair and the small silver nose ring.

I don’t see Caroline anywhere.

“Give me a minute, would you?” I say to Sydney as I point at AJ. She gets the message.

He bolts the door and then turns around to face me. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look upset. He doesn’t look anything.

“Listen,” I say. “I can go if you’re uncomfortable with this. I’m…” What’s the word? Conflicted? Selfish? “I’m wondering if I should be here. I mean, if you don’t want me to be.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. But then he gestures toward the others. “They want to hear what you have to say.”

I don’t have anything to say.

“I guess I want to hear what you have to say, too,” AJ adds.

Now this feels less like an invitation to join the group and more like a test I need to pass. I write shitty poetry. For myself. I don’t have anything to say.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for this.” The words come out before I can stop them. My breathing becomes shallow again, and my whole body feels like it’s on fire. My hands are clammy, my fingers tingly, and the thoughts start rushing in, one after the other.

Everyone’s going to laugh at me.

“Are you okay?” AJ asks, and without even thinking about it, I shake my head.

“Where’s Car—” My throat goes dry before I can get her name out. I wrap my hand around my neck, and AJ takes my arm, leading me to one of the couches in the back row. “Sit down. I’ll get you some water,” he says. I rest my elbows on my knees and fix my gaze on the black painted floor.

It’s just a thought.

I feel a hand on my back, and I turn my head to the side, expecting to see AJ, but it’s Caroline. “Hey, it’s okay,” she says. As quickly as it began, the thought spiral starts to slow.

“Caroline,” I whisper.

“I’m right here,” she says. “It’s okay.”

I can’t break down in front of them. I don’t want to be someone who breaks down.

“Is everyone looking at us?” I ask.

“Nope. No one’s paying any attention. Just breathe.”

I listen to her. I do what I’m told.

A few seconds later, AJ returns to my other side with a cup of water. “Here,” he says. I take it without looking at him, and drink it with my eyes closed. I imagine him and Caroline silently communicating above my head.

I’m in control. I can do this.

Instead of my own destructive thoughts, I now hear Sue’s voice in my head, telling me this is good. That this is something Summer Sam might do. That she’s proud of me.

Without letting another negative thought creep in, I bend down, unzip my backpack, and remove my blue notebook.

“I’m ready,” I say quietly, and I stand up tall, feigning confidence.

“What are you doing?” AJ asks.

“Reading.”

“Sam—”

I cut him off. “No. It’s okay.”

I’m finally down here, and this is what they do when they’re down here. If I’m going to prove I belong, I need to get up on that stage and show them I’m not just one of the Crazy Eights. I’m just me.

“Watch for today, Sam.” AJ motions toward the rest of the group, sitting, waiting to start. “Please.” But I’m already pushing past him, making my way to the stage.

Stepping onto the platform doesn’t require any physical effort—it’s two feet off the floor at best—but it does call for a heavy dose of forced enthusiasm. I scoot onto the stool and sit up straight. The chatter dies immediately.

I’m sure everyone can see my legs shaking.

“Hi,” I say to the group, waving my little blue notebook in the air. “I’ve been writing a lot of poetry lately, but I’m really new at this.” I choose my words carefully. Even if I said my stuff sucked, I doubt they’d actually pelt me with paper balls on my first visit, but I don’t really want to test them on it. “So, be nice, okay?”

Sydney opens her mouth like she’s about to say something. The others are silently watching me, shifting in place, looking at one another, and I can’t help but feel as if I’ve done something wrong. I replace AJ and Caroline at the back of the room. I can’t read either one of their expressions.

Keep going.

I open my notebook to the page I dog-eared back in class. “This is called ‘Plunge,’” I say.

I take a deep breath.

“Three steps up,” I begin. But then I stop, giving myself a second to skim the rest of the poem. It looks different than it did back in U.S. History. Everything’s right here. My obsession with threes. My scratching habit. My parking ritual. How I can’t sleep.

This poem isn’t about the pool at all. It’s about the crazy. My crazy. All here, spilled in ink. Suddenly, I feel more like a stripper than a poet, two minutes away from exposing myself to these total strangers who may think I’m plastic, but don’t currently think I’m nuts.

Shit. Here they come again.

The negative thoughts overpower all the positive ones, and the familiar swirl begins. But this time, the thoughts aren’t about standing on stage and reading out loud and wondering if everyone’s going to laugh at me. These thoughts are much worse.

They’ll know I’m sick.

I wanted to believe that I could get up on this stage and drop my guard like AJ and Sydney did so easily, but now I’m not so sure anymore. They’re all watching me, and I look at each of their faces, realizing that I know nothing about them. I don’t even know most of their names.

“Three steps up…” I repeat, softer this time. My whole body is shaking and my palms are clammy. My stomach cramps into a tight knot and I feel like I’m about to throw up.

I stand, preparing to bolt from the stage, but then something catches my eye at the back of the room. Caroline is on her feet. She brings her fingers to her eyes and mouths the words, “Look at me.”

For a second, it helps. I lock my eyes on hers and open my mouth to speak again, but then the walls feel like they’re warping and bending, and Caroline’s face starts to blur.

Oh, no.

I force myself to bend my knees, like my mom always tells me to do when I have to give an oral report, so I won’t lock them and faint.

AJ was right. I don’t belong here.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter to no one in particular as I roll my notebook into a tube, wishing I could make the whole thing disappear. Then I’m off, heading straight for the door.

The door. I run my finger along the seams, over the dead bolt. I can’t get out without the key.

“Hold on.” AJ steps in front of me and starts working the lock. “It’s okay,” he says. He sounds like he genuinely means it, like he’s trying to make me feel better. But I’m not stupid. I can hear a trace of relief in his voice.

I don’t know how to write poetry, let alone read it aloud to a group of strangers. Besides, I’m not like the rest of them. I don’t need to be here. I have friends. I feel guilty for thinking it, but it’s true. My relationship with the Eights may be superficial, but at least they don’t expect me to spill my guts to them on a regular basis.

That’s when it hits me: this is all a big joke. Payback for what I did to AJ all those years ago. I bet they’ll all have a good laugh about it when AJ finally gets this fucking door open.

My whole face feels hot, and tears are welling up in my eyes as the bolt clicks and the door cracks open. “You proved your point,” I whisper to AJ, pushing past him. “Don’t worry, I won’t be back.” As quickly as I can, I slip back into the janitor’s closet, past the mops, brooms, and chemicals, and out the door into the hallway.

Caroline will be right on my heels, but I don’t want to see her right now. For a second I think she may have set me up; then I remember the way she forced me to look at her. There’s no way she would have intentionally hurt me.

I fly up the stairs and into the sun, making a beeline for the student lot. All I can think about is sliding into the driver’s seat, starting my In the Deep playlist, and shutting out the world. But when I get to the car and reach for my backpack, there’s nothing there.

My backpack. It’s still on the floor back in Poet’s Corner along with everything else that matters. My keys. My phone. My music. My red and yellow notebooks. My secrets. I slump against the car door, hugging my blue notebook to my chest.