โThe asphalt is getting hotter as the early October afternoon wears on, and Iโve had nothing to do out here in the parking lot but curse the California sun and count the bells.โ
One: lunch ended. Two: fifth period began. Three: fifth ended. Four: sixth began. Thatโs my cue. I brush the parking lot dust off my butt and head back toward campus, praying I donโt see anybody.
I head through the gate and across the grass until I can pick up the cement path that leads to my locker. Maybe Caroline fed a note through one of the vents, telling me where to find my backpack. As soon as I have it, Iโll go straight to the office, say Iโm sick, and ask if I can call my mom so I can drive home.
The corridors are empty and I reach my locker without running into anyone. I dial the combination and lift the latch. No note.
To center myself, I look at the inside of my locker door, staring at the three pictures Shrink-Sue told me to tape there, and trying to reconnect with the stronger person I see in the images. I run my finger across the photo of me on the diving block, wearing that willful, determined expression.
Confidence. That was the word I said that day.
She wouldnโt have run away.
I immediately realize my mistake, and it hits me with absolute certainty: I have to go back. Even if it was all a joke, even if they meant to embarrass me, I have to go back down there and prove I can do it, if not to them, at least to myself. If I can stand on diving blocks and win a medal, I can stand on a stage and read a poem.
I belong in that room.
โHey.โ I hear a voice behind me and I turn around. AJ is sitting at one of the round metal tables on the grass between the walking paths. There are
two backpacks at his feet. As he stands, he reaches for mine. He crosses the lawn and hands it to me. โHere, Sam.โ
Sam.
โYou should have left it in the office or something,โ I say, taking it from him. โYouโre going to get in trouble for missing class.โ
โAnd youโre not?โ he asks, raking his fingers through his hair.
โI thought Iโd go home for the day.โ The brief moment of confidence is gone now that heโs standing here. I think about that stage and that stool, how AJ worked the lock to let me out of that room, and my face heats.
Heโs watching me, not saying a word. My gaze settles on a crack in the cement while I muster up the courage to tell him the truth.
โI panicked,โ I say. โI thought you guys would laugh at my poem.โ โWe wouldnโt have.โ
โAnd then I thought maybe it was all a joke. That you were trying to get me back for what I did to you when we were kids.โ I force myself to meet his eyes.
โIโd never do that.โ
I hear Shrink-Sueโs voice in my head, talking about mistakes.
Reminding me that they serve a purpose. โI blew it, didnโt I?โ
โNo. We did.โ His expression is different now. Itโs softer, almost apologetic. โLook, Sam, we went about that wrong. Thereโs this whole initiation process we sort ofโฆskipped over.โ
I canโt tell if heโs joking. I hear the words โinitiation processโ and immediately think of blindfolds and candles and the possibility of water torture.
โGreat.โ I cover my head with both hands and find that crack in the cement again.
โDonโt worry,โ he says. I can hear the laugh in his voice, and something about it makes me feel more at ease. If heโs laughing, maybe heโs smiling too. Iโve seen him smile, that one time he was performing on stage, but Iโve never seen him smile atย me. I look up. Sure enough, he is.
โInstead of skipping sixth and going home, can I convince you to skip sixth and come with me?โ
โWhere?โ โDownstairs.โ
โWhy? Is everyone else there?โ
โNo. Thatโs kind of the point. Youโre supposed to get the room all to yourself. Iโll show you what I mean.โ He gestures toward the theater with his chin and takes two steps backward, moving toward the path.
After that first time, all I wanted to do was hang out in Poetโs Corner for the rest of the afternoon, reading the walls. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to read every single poem without interruption.
I want to follow him.
I take a tentative step in AJโs direction.
I want to trust him.
He turns around and starts walking, stopping briefly at the table to grab his backpack, and we continue across the grass, straight to the theater. I follow him up to the stage, down the stairs, past the mops and brooms, and into Poetโs Corner. He keeps the door open to let light in, and points at the closest lamp. โHit the light?โ he asks.
He bolts the door behind us, and together, the two of us round the room, turning on lamps as we go. Heโs faster than I am, but we still meet each other near the front.
โSit down.โ He sits on the edge of the short, makeshift stage and I settle in next to him, trying to forget how I made a complete ass of myself in this very spot less than three hours ago.
โSo hereโs how this works.โ He clears his throat. โThe current members have discussed it, and we would like to consider you, SamanthaโSamโ McAllister, for membership in Poetโs Corner.โ
โWhy?โ
His brow furrows. โWhy what?โ
โWhy do you want me to join? You guys donโt even know me.โ โWell, itโs not that simple. Youโll need to read first. Then we vote.โ โSo if my poem sucks, I donโt get to stay?โ
โNo. We all write stuff that sucks. Weโre not judging your poetry.โ โWhatย areย you judging?โ
โI donโt know. Yourโฆsincerity, I guess.โ
He slaps his palms on his legs, stands quickly, and then holds his hand out to help me up. I take it. I think heโs going to let it drop, but he doesnโt. He pulls me over to the center of the stage, right next to the stool.
โYou should see things from this vantage point first, so you can get used to being up here.โ He grabs my arms and pivots me around so Iโm facing the rows of empty chairs and couches.
โHow often?โ
โNo rules around that.โ I hear his voice from behind my right shoulder. โYou can come up here as often or as little as you like. You have to read once, to put yourself on even ground with the rest of us, but after that, itโs up to you.โ
The idea of reading makes me feel sick again, so I reach for a new topic. โWhere did all this furniture come from?โ I canโt imagine how they got all this stuff in here. It looks impossible, especially when you consider that steep, narrow staircase.
When I turn around again, AJ is perched on the stool with one leg resting on the rung and the other on the floor. His arms are crossed over his chest. From this vantage point, they look kind of muscular. Up until this moment, I thought he was tall and kind of lanky, in a cute way. Heโs not lanky.
โProp room,โ he says. โWhat do you mean?โ
โWhen you come down the stairs, you turn to the right to get in here.
But if you take a left instead, you wind up in the prop room.โ I raise an eyebrow. โThe prop room?โ
โItโs the room directly beneath the stage,โ he explains. โThereโs this huge freight elevator they use to bring the furniture up and down for performances. Once the play is done and they no longer need the stage set, those items live in the prop room until they need them again. Or, until theyโre relocated.โ
โRelocated?โ
He uncrosses his arms and points to the orange couch he sat in the first time I was here. โThatโs our newest acquisition. Cameron and I had to take the legs off to get it around that tight corner at the bottom of the stairs. It was wedged in the doorframe for a good ten minutes before we were finally able to jiggle it through.โ He stands up quickly, takes a bow, and sits down again. โBut we pulled it off.โ
I grin at him. โYou got that couch through that door?โ โBarely.โ
As I scan the room, it dawns on me why everything is mismatched and looks like it came from completely different time periods. An antique bookcase with a modern lamp. A retro โ70s chair with a sleek metal end table. โEverything in here came from the prop room?โ
โYep.โ
โDonโt they miss this stuff?โ
โEh. Pieces have been disappearing little by little over the last decade, ever since Poetโs Corner began. Iโm sure they miss things occasionally, especially the big stuff.โ
โLike, for instance, a bright orange couch.โ โExactly.โ
โAnd even if they did miss it,โ I say, suppressing a smile, โtheyโd have no idea where to look.โ
โSecret room.โ His mouth curves up on one side. โI should probably feel a little bit guilty, shouldnโt I?โ
โMaybe a little bit,โ I say, holding up my hand, thumb and finger nearly touching.
โItโs not like they were stolen.โ
โOf course not. They were simply relocated.โ
โThat couch is really comfortable.โ He steps past me and jumps down onto the ground with a thud. He falls back into the orange sofa, running his hands back and forth across the cushions. โAnd inspirational. You know, if youโre looking for something to write about, this couch would make a great topic.โ
I laugh. โWhy would I want to write about a piece of furniture?โ I have a mental illness and four superficial friends. Surely I have more fodder for a poetic career than to need an ugly orange couch.
When he grins, that dimple on the left side of his mouth catches my eye. โI have no idea.โ Then he lets his head fall backward and he stares up at the ceiling. โThis is good. Keep โem coming.โ He motions toward himself with one hand. โWhat other questions do you have for me, Sam?โ
Sam. Again. That makes two.
I walk around the stage, getting a feel for it under my feet. I run my fingertips across the stool, remembering how terrified I was up here. It feels like itโs daring me to sit on it again, so I hop up and take a look around. The room looks different now that itโs emptier. Safer. At least now I feel like a poet wannabe and not a stripper.
AJโs still reclining into the couch, watching me.
โTell me more about the rules. You canโt criticize anyoneโs poetry, especially your own, right?โ
โTrue,โ he says. โAnd the last time I broke that one, you saw the ramifications firsthand.โ
I remember how AJ stood up here with his guitar dangling from the strap, inviting his friends to throw paper at him. โYes, I did.โ Thinking back on that day reminds me of something else Iโve been wondering about.
โWhy do you always start by saying where you wrote your poem? Why does that matter?โ
โIs there a place you like to go when you write? Is there one particular place that inspires you?โ
I picture my room, huddled down in my sheets far past my bedtime, writing until my hand hurts. Itโs fine, but I wouldnโt call it inspirational. Then I think about the pool.
โYeah.โ
AJ looks right at me. โWe think those places matter. We think theyโre worth sharing, you know? Because when you share them, they become part of the poem.โ
Goose bumps travel up my arms. โHmm. I like that.โ
โYeah, me too. Which reminds me of another.โ He hops back onto the stage and stands right in front of me. โThe first poem you read in Poetโs Corner has to be written here.โ
โWhat?โ
โYep.โ
Crap. Back in history class, Sydney wasnโt telling me I had to get up on stage. How could I have been so stupid? โWhy did you guys let me start reading today?โ
He laughs. โYou were going for it. I donโt think any of us knew how to stop you.โ
I hide my face. โUntil I stopped myself.โ
โAnd I think I speak for all of us when I say we were sorry you did.โ โReally?โ
They wanted me here.
โOf course. You wouldโve been pummeled with paper when you finished, and I, for one, was especially looking forward to that part.โ
I roll my eyes at him. โNow, that would have been an interesting initiation.โ
โMaybe,โ he says, โbut this oneโs better.โ He pulls his phone from his pocket. โWe meet on Mondays and Thursdays at lunch. Sometimes we call
additional meetings for no apparent reason. Is that going to be a problem?โ โNo.โ Actually, maybe.
โIf we invite you to join us, Iโll need your number.โ He lifts his phone in the air. Iโm not an official member, but he seems to be asking, so I tell him. He types it in, then slips his phone back into his pocket. โAny more questions?โ he asks me.
I step off the stage and start walking the perimeter, past hundreds of slips of paper filled with thousands and thousands of words. All these people. Each one so exposed in the most frightening way. I have no idea how Iโll ever do anything close to this.
โI think all of you have a gift I donโt possess,โ I say without looking at him.
โWhatโs that?โ
I take a few steps forward, watching the walls and the words as I go. โYou seem to know how to articulate your feelings and share them with other human beings. Iโm afraid my gift is the exact opposite; Iโm skilled at holding everything in.โ My chin starts trembling like it does when I tell Sue something I never intended to admit, but my chest feels a bit lighter now. I doubt this is what AJ meant when he asked if I had any questions, but I have to hear his answer to this one. โHow do I learn to do this?โ
He gets up from the couch. โI guess you start in a safe place, with safe people, like in this room, with us.โ Heโs speaking as he walks toward me. โWe trust each other and we donโt judge. Youโre totally free to blurt here.โ
I laugh too loudly. โMe? Yeah, I donโt blurt. Ever. My friend Kaitlyn prides herself on having lots of opinions and always saying exactly what she thinks. She blurts. Sometimes it hurts the people around her.โ
โThatโs different,โ he says.
I feel myself staring at him. โDo you always say exactly what youโre thinking?โ
He shrugs. โI try to. I like to know where I stand with people, and I figure I owe them the same courtesy. I mean, Iโm never rude or hurtful about it, but I donโt see any reason to be fake. Thatโs a lot of work.โ
It is. I would know.
AJ lifts the cord from around his neck and drops it over my head. His fingers graze my shoulders and the key makes a little sound as it bounces against a button on my blouse.
โIs this allowed?โ I lift it in my hands, running my finger over the sharp points and grooves.
โOf course. The key belongs to the group. Iโm just the one in charge of the door.โ
Iโm feeling a little nervous about being down here alone. What if the power goes out? What if the ventilation fails? Could anyone get to me? โDoes anyone else have a key?โ
โMr. Bartlett. He comes in a few times a month to empty the trash, vacuum the joint, that type of thing.โ
โThe janitor? He knows about this place?โ
โHeโs worked here for twenty years. Mr. B knows everyone and everything. But he keeps our secret to himself.โ
I run my finger along the key again. I donโt really want AJ to go, but at the same time, Iโm eager to be alone with all these poems. Iโm dying to finally find his lyrics.
โIโm going to leave, okay?โ he says. I expect him to step away, but he surprises me by stepping toward me. Iโm reminded of how tall he is, and I have to tip my chin up to see his eyes. Iโve thought about him so much over the last month, but now I finally have a chance to really study him.
Heโs not gorgeous or anything, not like Brandon and the rest of my recent crushes. But none of them ever made me feel the way I do right now.
Everything about AJ is pulling me in. The way heโs standing, so confident and in control. The way heโs been so relaxed in this room with me today, making me feel like Iย doย belong here. The way I remember him playing that one song, how it practically floated out of his body.
โStay down here as long as you like. Read the walls; theyโre covered with a decadeโs worth of words written by more than a hundred people. Meet everyone. Then write something of your own.โ
โOkay,โ I whisper. His expression is soft and kind, and his eyes shine when he talks about the room and me becoming part of it.
โLock the door and turn off all the lamps when youโre done. Iโll be waiting for you at that table by your locker.โ
โOkay,โ I say again.
He starts to step away from me, but he stops. โOh, and if you want to, practice reading aloud. The stage doesnโt feel quite as scary when the room is empty.โ
He squeezes past me and I press my back against the wall to give him room.
โAJ?โ He turns around. I donโt want to say it, but I feel like I need to, because I donโt want to be uncomfortable down here and I certainly donโt wantย himย to be. And if theyโre all gearing up to judge my sincerity, he should understand how much it means for him to forgive me.
โYou donโt have to do this. If you donโt want us to be friends, I get it. It was a long time ago, but the things I said and did when we were kidsโฆโ I trail off, thinking about the day Kaitlyn and I crank-called his house over and over again, until his mom finally picked up and screamed in our ears, begging us to stop. Or that time we sat behind him on the bus and cleaned out our backpacks, dropping all our gum wrappers, paper scraps, and pieces of lint down the back of his shirt. I shake my head and bite my lower lip hard. โYouโll never know how sorry I am.โ
He doesnโt speak right away. โWhy are you telling me this?โ he finally asks.
โI guessโฆI sort ofโฆโ I stammer, searching for the perfect words. โI wanted to be sure you knew. Just in case you thought I didnโt mean it the first time.โ
He gives me another smile. That makes three today. This one looks even more genuine than the others. โIf I didnโt think you meant it the first time, you wouldnโt be down here.โ
I have no idea what to say to that, so I just stand with my thumbs hooked in my front pockets and rock back on my heels.
โBut since weโre blurting here,โ he says, โIโll be honest. It wasnโt easy for me to let you come down here today. Iโve accepted your apology, because I think itโs genuine and Iโm not one to hold a grudge, but letโs not push the โfriendsโ thing, okay?โ
As he walks to the door, he raises his finger in the air and circles it above his head. โRead the walls, Sam.โ