by Linda Keir
Our eyes met briefly before I turned toward an open seat a few rows back from my usual spot in the front.
When I got settled and looked back up, he flashed a smile.
The nervous feeling in my stomach engulfed my whole freaking being.
“Poetry is about laying bare the collective secrets of our souls,” he said. “To that end, I want you to pull out a piece of paper and write down something that truly terrifies you.”
“Is this for a grade?” Philip Martin asked.
“Not unless you’re stupid enough to put your name on it,” Mr. Walker said.
“Mr. Walker?” Kate Hill asked.
“Mr. Walker is my father. I’m Dallas.”
“D-Dallas,” Kate stammered. “What if you have more than one thing that truly terrifies you?”
“Let’s just start with one per person. Cool?”
With the word cool, Georgina (who is currently sitting on the bed across from me, writing in her journal and chewing on a hank of hair) and a few of the other girls giggled.
Dallas Walker definitely has an edge none of the other Glenlake teachers have, but I wasn’t about to fawn over him or his supposed “vibe.” Taking advantage of the guaranteed anonymity, I went ahead and did exactly what he’d told us to do.
It didn’t take long before we’d all jotted down one of our deepest fears and passed identical college-ruled sheets of paper up to the front of the room.
We sat in silence as he scanned each of the fifteen answers we’d handed forward and set the pile on the desk beside him—all except for a single sheet of paper.
He smiled again. This time more broadly.
“Poetry should scare you,” he said in his raspy voice, and, I swear, he looked directly at me. “It scares the shit out of me.”
Wednesday, September 4, 1996
I wish Dallas (why is it so difficult to even think of a teacher by his first name?) had assigned us a three-to-five-page paper comparing and contrasting William Carlos Williams with William Butler Yeats or something miserable like that. Instead, he let us out of class a full forty-five minutes early with a “simple” assignment:
“I want you to write a poem about whatever it was that you said terrifies you, without stating your fear by name or putting your names on your papers.”
“How will you grade them if our names aren’t on them?” Philip (of course) asked.
“If you turn something in, you get a passing grade.”
Given what I’d read about him, I didn’t have the stomach to ask his definition of a passing grade.
“Can we use synonyms?” Georgina asked.
“I don’t know,” Dallas said. “Can you?”
She giggled, this time flirtatiously.
Georgina doesn’t realize how pretty she is, despite the fact that I tell her all the time. I think it’s because she hates that she’s a redhead. Luckily, she’s as handy with the whole flirtation thing as she is at knowing everything about everyone. In the midst of a move-in-day fiasco when we were somehow matched with people OTHER than each other after three years as roommates and besties, she masterfully batted her eyes until creepy Mr. Landry agreed to switch Lola McGeorge out of my room and into what would have been Georgina’s room with Jules Norton.
I don’t feel bad about the swap, because they are as neurotic and alike as Georgina and I are opposites, but I digress.
“How long should the poem be?” Meg Archer asked.
“However long it needs to be,” Dallas said. “Oh, and avoid the words fear, terror, scared, or any of their derivations.”
A snap, right?
Needless to say, I finished my Latin, physics, and AP History in the time it took me to come up with something that wasn’t too frightening to pass for a poem about, but not mentioning the word, poetry.
Class today was a blur as Dallas spoke about “ingrained tendencies to be literal in communication” and how that didn’t work with poetry.
“You have to learn to tamp down your desire for literal certainty and let the words of a poem roll around in your head. Otherwise, you screw yourself out of a major opportunity to understand the poet’s take on the human condition.”
Jules Norton, who writes down every word every teacher ever says, had just finished jotting “poetry equals higher truth expressed in a nonliteral, nonlinear way” when Dallas asked us to pass our homework forward.
He shuffled the papers, passed them back out randomly, and had us take turns reading whatever had landed on our desk.
Starting with Tommy Harkins, who read:
Ashes to ashes or so they say.
No way that’s going to happen
To me.
“Oh, but it is,” Dallas said in response to the author. “Since we’re all going to die someday, you might want to think about keeping the cliché down to a dull roar. For the sake of your legacy.”
Georgina read:
My stomach flops.
My life force drops.
And then it stops.
“Who knows what this one was about?” Dallas asked.
“Roller coasters,” three different people said in unison.
“I actually wrote the one I read,” Georgina purred.
“Rhyming poetry generally belongs in the nursery,” Dallas responded.
Georgina looked crestfallen.
“Although in this case, given the subject matter, it kind of works. Emphasis on the ‘kind of.’”
And then Connor Cotton stood.
He cleared his perennially phlegmy throat and began to recite the words that I’d stayed up half the night trying to compose:
My thoughts emerge
Full-fleshed
Free of the ache
Of the great unsaid.
The class was silent.
“What do you guys think this one’s about?” Dallas asked.
Thank god the bell rang.
Thursday, September 5, 1996
Georgina thinks poetry class is going to be way cooler than any other English class she’s taken and that Dallas Walker is “kind of a fox, in, like, an older-Kurt-Cobain-mixed-with-Eddie-Vedder kind of way.”
Kate Hill already dropped the class. She says it’s because Dallas doesn’t teach like a normal poetry teacher, but I’m sure it’s because she has to get an A, or she’s screwed for getting into any of the Ivies.
Ian isn’t taking the class, of course, but Dallas has apparently embraced the tradition of the writer in residence serving as the ceremonial head of one of the sports teams. He’s not into any of the actual sports offered at Glenlake, so he’s started “coaching” the first ever billiards club at the school.
I think it’s pretty cool in a weird, antisports kind of way.
Seeing as Ian has a billiards room in his basement at home and has been playing with his dad since he could hold a cue, he wasn’t about to miss the first meeting tonight.
“The guy is definitely a pompous douchebag, just like I predicted,” he said afterward. “But he’s really good at pool.”
Friday, September 6, 1996
Today we spent the entire period comparing our interpretation of popular song lyrics with the songwriters’ actual meanings.
Fun Facts, as relayed by Dallas Walker, poet in residence:
Bob Marley’s “I Shot the Sheriff” wasn’t a protest song but was inspired by his fights with his girlfriend over birth control. The sheriff being the doctor who prescribed her the Pill.
In the “Summer of ’69,” Bryan Adams was ten years old. His nostalgia wasn’t inspired by the year but by his fondness for a certain sexual position!
And Dallas only had to say “Lucy in the Sky” before half the class yelled out, “LSD!”
But the song’s inspiration was actually a drawing by John Lennon’s son Julian.
Just before the bell rang, he assigned us to choose a song, explain what it means to us, and then research the actual meaning.
“This one ought to be a snap,” Dallas said as we stuf
fed our things into our book bags. “Even for our resident reluctant poet, Ms. Bloom.”
“Andi,” I heard myself say. “Ms. Bloom is my . . .”
I couldn’t finish that particular sentence. The subject of Mom is totally off-limits. I waited for the last few students to dribble out.
When I was the only one left in the room, I asked, “Why do you think I’m the one who wrote about poetry?”
“I don’t think. I know.”
“How’s that?”
“The same way I know Crystal Thomas wrote the poem about—”
“The fear of standing out in a crowd?” I asked. “That’s not exactly psychic. I mean, she is one of a few African Americans at the school.”
“Fair enough,” Dallas said. “But Kate Hill definitely wrote the poem about snakes.”
“Because . . . ?”
“It was so shitty, she and I both knew she’d never make it through the class.”
“She dropped because she needs an A on her transcripts for college,” I said. “And rumor is, that’s a near impossibility with you.”
“For her, anyway,” he said.
“Who wrote that great poem about ghosts?”
“Originally? Sylvia Plath, mostly.”
“It was plagiarized?”
“There’s one in every class,” he said. “But only until I figure out who she is.”
“How do you know it’s a she?”
“Plagiarizers pick material they can relate to. If they’re smart.”
I’ve come to expect a certain something extra from the writer in residence, but Dallas seems to blow the rest of them away.
“You still haven’t said why you think I’m the one who’s scared of poetry.”
“Logically, you’re the one person who couldn’t have written it.”
“Because?”
“Because you’re the darling of the English Department.”
I felt my ears burn.
“Which is why I had every intention of putting you through the paces.”
“But you’ve changed your mind?”
“I’m cool with a healthy rebellious streak,” he said. “Especially when you back it up with talented work.”
Talented work . . .
I couldn’t help but notice his eyes were emerald, the perfect shade of cliché green. “Poetry terrifies me.”
“We’re all terrified of something,” he said.
“What about you?” I found myself asking.
“The future,” he said with a smile.
Chapter Three
Dad’s hungover and Mom’s salty but trying not to show it, thought Cassidy as she sat down opposite them at a dining-hall table. Actually, maybe Mom’s hungover, too.
They had worked their way through the buffet line, all three of them hitting the omelet station as if it were a delaying tactic, before staking out a marginally quieter corner of the large, echoing room. The first wave of brunchers—eager freshmen and their parents—was already clearing out, so it wasn’t elbow to elbow.
Just as she’d planned.
“So how’s—” began Mom.
“Don’t say school,” Cassidy interrupted, only half playfully.
“I was going to say cross-country,” finished Mom, definitely fully hungover.
That was unusual. Typically, the only times she got shit-faced enough to show it the next day were New Year’s Eve, weddings, and the occasional book club that got out of hand. Your average-mom social drinker, although she’d heard both Mom and Dad make reference to partying hard in college. If her four years at Glenlake were any indication, their high school years also had included a drunken moment or three.
“Humor us, Cassidy,” said Dad. “We only get to do this four more times, starting next year with the twins.”
Cassidy sighed and played along, even though she was starving and dying to dig in to her swiss cheese–and–mushroom omelet. “Lighten up, Pops. I’m just kidding. But you were always the one who said that general questions lead to generally boring answers.”
“Cross-country is specific enough.”
“Fine. Briana Sanderson is going to be varsity captain, but Coach said I’m the alternate or whatever.”
“You have enough on your plate with college applications and everything else,” said Mom, taking a tiny sip of coffee.
“Did you meet Mr. Kelly?”
“We didn’t meet him, but we did hear him speak.” Mom’s tone was noncommittal, like she wasn’t super impressed.
Cassidy started forking food into her mouth. Dad practically laughed at her. Whatever. Five-day-a-week training runs had her constantly craving protein. Protein, carbs, sugar—and sometimes even a fresh salad.
“I’m super excited about it,” she said, trying to swallow most of the food before spitting out the words.
“I guess I don’t know why you’re taking the class,” said Dad as Mom sliced a cantaloupe into dainty pieces and ignored her own egg white–and–spinach omelet.
True, she wasn’t into writing as much as Mom was, but she’d always preferred creative nonfiction to fiction when given the choice—and journalism was like the ultimate nonfiction, right? Cassidy didn’t know what she wanted to study in college or be as an adult. All she wanted was to feel excited about something. Maybe she’d found it?
“It’s not like I get to choose the writer in residence,” she said. “I figured you’d want me to take advantage of the famous senior seminar.”
“Of course we do,” said Mom unconvincingly.
“And I’m interested in how journalistic techniques can be used in creative nonfiction,” she added, because it sounded like something they would like to hear.
Dad lifted his coffee mug and swabbed the ring underneath it with his napkin. “I presume he won’t be teaching the ‘creative’ part.”
That was true. Mr. Kelly was all about the facts and nothing but the facts. But that doesn’t mean you can’t write about factual material using creative-writing techniques, thought Cassidy. Although first they had to gather as much information as possible. He had already told the class to start digging: Some of you are legacies, meaning your parents attended Glenlake. Given the time period, it’s possible that some of your parents even knew the deceased.
“So was Dallas Walker here when you were?” Dig.
Her parents glanced at each other before answering. It lasted about a second, but still—weird.
They both nodded, but Mom answered first. “Yes. I was taking his poetry seminar when he disappeared.”
“I managed to avoid his writing classes, but I did join his pool club,” said Dad.
“Pool? As in . . . ?”
“Pocket billiards. Eight-ball, nine-ball, and rotation. Walker wasn’t interested in coaching any of the traditional sports, so he started what he called the Cue Sports Society.”
“Your dad didn’t like him much,” said Mom, looking off into the distance.
Dad turned toward her. “I thought he was a blowhard, but I think that’s how most teenagers feel about most of their teachers.”
He almost looked mad at Mom, which was as weird as her hangover. They never fought—at least not in front of anybody. Sometimes they aired their differences to her or the twins directly, saying, Your mother and I have a difference of opinion, or, Your father and I disagree, but it was always over small stuff, like spending or a curfew. From a sociological perspective, it was fascinating, but Cassidy found herself wanting to defuse the tension. So she said, “Not me. I find them all worthy of my utmost admiration and respect.”
That got chuckles from both of them.
“Did you guys know he was dead?” Dig deeper.
This time they didn’t look at each other. Neither of them shook their heads. Mom stared at the table, seemingly having lost all interest in food.
“I hadn’t heard a thing until last night,” she said.
A freshman who was FaceTiming someone—total violation of the rules, but she’d learn—cruised by th
eir table, narrating her journey across the dining hall, putting them in her background for a moment, and making it worse by adding, “And here’s a family enjoying their meal!” Mom and Dad waved politely at the tiny face on the girl’s phone, and Cassidy scowled until the frosh moved on.
“Do you have any big projects in your other classes?” asked Dad.
Now he was changing the subject. “Yeah, in math class we’re trying to prove Einstein wrong. Dad! This is huge. Your heads must be spinning if you haven’t heard about this.”
“It’s definitely a shock,” said Mom, the look on her face confirming it, and probably explaining why they were both acting so weird. “I haven’t thought about Dallas—he told all of us to call him by his first name—in years. I remember at the time feeling kind of betrayed that he’d left, because I’d always hated poetry, and I was starting to get it, and then he was just . . . gone.”
“That must have been crazy.”
“Well, it was and it wasn’t,” said Dad. “I mean, if there was a teacher you’d nominate to just disappear in the middle of the school year—”
“It was near the end,” interrupted Mom.
“—it was him. He had a reputation as a wild man. A scandal, yes, but it wasn’t as if some mild-mannered civics teacher suddenly walked away from a long career. He was only here for the year—he drove around in this muscle car, windows down, even in winter, and then one day he and his car were just gone. I always thought he just got a wild hair up his ass and went to Mexico to write poems or something.”
Dad clearly hadn’t liked the guy very much. That was as many sentences as he’d ever strung together to describe someone.
“He was different from the other teachers,” agreed Mom. Not much of a dissertation.
“He liked to come across as a tough guy,” Dad added. “He used to swear like a sailor while he taught us pool. But in the back of my mind, I was always like, Come on, you’re a poet, not a mill worker.”
