Every Last Word

by Tamara Ireland Stone

  His hands are warm on the back of my neck. “What do you want to happen tomorrow?”

  I want to be alone with you again. Exactly like this.

  “I don’t know. Tonight has been so…unexpected. Perfect. But unexpected.”

  “And you don’t want to tell your friends about me?”

  They wouldn’t understand.

  “It’s not that…I just…I’m not sure I’m ready to share…whatever this is…”

  “‘Whatever this is’?” he says, laughing under his breath. He pulls me toward him. “Do you want this?” he asks in his candid way. “Whatever it is?”

  So much.

  “Yeah.”

  “So do I.” He kisses me slowly, softly, and I slip right back into him, wishing I could slow down time and savor this moment a little bit longer.

  “Then let’s keep it to ourselves for a little while,” he says. “Until we figure it out.”

  It’s like the knot in my chest is unraveling, and now it’s a lot easier to breathe. “Okay,” I whisper.

  “Besides,” he says, “it might be kind of fun to have a secret.”

  Can I handle another secret? I’m already keeping Caroline from the Crazy Eights, my OCD from everyone but Caroline, and Poet’s Corner from Shrink-Sue.

  Sue.

  I can’t keep him a secret from Sue. I’m going to have to tell her about AJ and me, and what happened at the pool tonight. But she’d see this as healthy, right? I slip my fingers under the hem of his T-shirt and touch his skin. He sure doesn’t feel unhealthy.

  The song changes to one of my favorites, Led Zeppelin’s classic “Bron-Yr-Aur,” and AJ lets out a sigh as he turns up the volume. “Wow. You know this?” His fingers brush against my waist and he hums along with the tune. “I haven’t thought about this song in ages. I’ll have to learn to play it for you.”

  I’m not in any hurry to see his ex-girlfriend-filled bedroom, but I am eager to hear him again. I’d cross the room and kiss him while he played, for real this time.

  He grabs his swimsuit from the backseat. “Thanks for showing me where you write.”

  “Thanks for not laughing at my poem.”

  “I’d never laugh at you,” he says. “Well, not unless you said something funny.” He kisses me. And then he opens the door and steps out of the car. “Good night, Sam.”

  “Good night, AJ.”

  He gives me a wave before he disappears inside the house, and I sit there for a moment, collecting myself. Then I reach for my phone, set “Bron-Yr-Aur” on repeat, and listen to it all the way home, imagining him sitting on his bed, playing for me.

  I’m scanning the corridors for AJ while trying not to look like I’m scanning the corridors for anyone. I’m also trying to keep a straight face, but when I think about what happened at the pool last night, I just…can’t.

  AJ’s lips were as soft as I thought they’d be, and they were so warm, so wet from the water, and the way his hands moved so fluidly over my body…No one has ever touched me like that before…and I have no idea how I’m going to get through this day. And he likes me. Too much. How am I supposed to keep him a secret? I swear if I turn this corner and see him standing at my locker, I’m going to press my whole body against his and kiss him hard before he even knows what’s happening.

  I turn the corner and my stomach drops instead. He’s not there, but the Eights are, each one demonstrating her dissatisfaction in her own unique way: a hip popped to one side, a head cocked knowingly, an eyebrow raised. Hailey’s posture is less confrontational, but the nervous look on her face makes me question if she knows which side she’s on.

  “Hey. What’s up?” My voice cracks.

  “We need to talk to you.” As soon as the words leave Alexis’s mouth, the adrenaline kicks in. My armpits already feel sweaty, and my fingers are tingling. As usual, she has taken the role of group representative. The one who will “start the conversation.”

  “Where have you been?” she asks.

  I look around me. “Home. The parking lot. What are you talking about?”

  “Not today.” It comes out in a huff, and she doesn’t add the word “idiot” but she says it with her eyes. She rests her hands on her hips and takes a deep breath. “Samantha, we need to talk to you about the way you’ve been lying to us.”

  I start to interject, but she puts her finger to her lips.

  “Don’t say anything until I’m done, please. You’ve been lying to us. We just want to know why, because we”—she waves her hands around, indicating the rest of the group—“are your best friends. At least, we thought we were.”

  This might be a new record. We’re barely twenty-four hours away from “Itty-bitty-titty-gate” and it’s already a distant memory. They’ve found a reason to move on. To me.

  My hands are shaking, my pulse is racing, and a big part of me wants to take off running right now, bound for the theater or some other dark location where I can sit and breathe and think and prepare for this. I’m no good in an ambush.

  Alexis looks over at Kaitlyn. This is the point at which they’ve agreed to pass the baton to the next person. It’s the biggest job, the one with all the heavy lifting. “You told us you were going to start swimming during lunch, but we know you haven’t been.”

  “Your hair is never wet when you get to fifth period,” Olivia interjects.

  “I wear a cap,” I say under my breath.

  “We’ve tried to find you at the pool,” Hailey adds. “You haven’t been there.”

  I look at her. This would have been good information to know yesterday. I have a feeling she knew this was coming, and I feel even more betrayed.

  I stuck up for her.

  “So you’ve been spying on me?” I ask them.

  “No,” Kaitlyn says plainly.

  “Yes,” I say.

  Alexis steps forward. “Fine. We were spying on you, but you lied to us and that’s so much worse.” Her voice pierces the air. Everyone within earshot has stopped collecting their books from their respective lockers and they’re all frozen in place, watching the drama unfold, waiting to see what’s going to happen next.

  Over Olivia’s shoulder, I spot Caroline, watching the scene from behind her locker door, and I can read the expression on her face: she’s worried I’ll tell them about Poet’s Corner.

  I give her the slightest nod and hope she knows what it means: I have this under control.

  “Friends don’t lie to each other, Samantha,” Kaitlyn says. “Not ever.”

  No. Never.

  Not even when they don’t like the outfit you’re wearing or your new haircut or the new song you like or the guy you think is cute. My friends—especially Kaitlyn—don’t lie to each other, not ever, even when it’s a kindness designed to spare someone’s feelings.

  “We’re giving you a chance to come clean,” Olivia says. “Where have you been going during lunch?”

  I start to panic, but instead, I think about my conversation with Shrink-Sue last week, when I told her I care a lot less about what my friends think of me these days. I try to reconnect with the part of me that said and truly meant those words. I blow out a breath and lift my shoulders, standing a little taller.

  “Honestly?” I say, and they all unconsciously lean in, step forward, move closer toward me. “It’s personal.”

  “Personal?” Alexis asks. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means it’s none of your business, Alexis.”

  My voice is clear, my words direct, and my hands are already shaking less. Their eyes say everything they’re feeling: confused, shocked, humbled, hurt.

  This sucks. And it feels good at the same time.

  I square my shoulders and step toward my locker. Alexis and Hailey part to let me through.

  “Seriously? You’re not going to tell us?” Alexis asks, and I can hear the surprise in her voice. This scenario never occurred to her.

  “No, I’m not,” I say, spinning the combination lock, lifting t
he latch, gathering my books. Using the opportunity to take a few deep breaths and get my legs to stop trembling.

  The bell rings. Thank God.

  I sneak another glance over Olivia’s shoulder. Caroline is still watching us, but the expression on her face is now filled with relief. She might even look a little proud of me. I glance around at the Eights, wishing they’d leave so I could talk to her, but everyone seems to be in a state of shock.

  The picture on the inside of my locker door catches my eye. My gaze travels past the pink Post-it that reads “What you see…” and over to the small mirror. I notice that the two expressions are nearly identical. Confidence. That was the word I used when I told Shrink-Sue what I liked about the photo. It’s how I felt at the pool with AJ last night. It’s how I feel during lunch on Mondays and Thursdays.

  I look at that strong, determined expression on my face. I remember exactly what I was thinking when Sue asked me about it. Swim scholarship. A chance to go far away to college. A chance to reinvent myself. And that’s when I realize that, as much as I want the scholarship, I don’t need to go away to reinvent myself. I’ve already been doing that.

  I turn to face them. “I’m doing some different things during lunch now, but when I’m not, I’d still like to sit with you guys. Is that okay?”

  “Of course,” Hailey says right away. No one else says a word, until she turns her head and raises her eyebrows at Alexis.

  “Yeah,” Alexis says. “Of course that’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Cool.” I close my locker door. “I’ll see you later.”

  As I pass Caroline, I motion toward the path that leads to the theater. She follows me, and as soon as we duck into a quiet alcove, she gives me a high five.

  “Nicely done. How do you feel?” she asks.

  “Amazing. But that’s only part of the reason why.” I scan our surroundings to be sure we’re still alone. “Can you keep a secret?” I ask her.

  She rolls her eyes. “Of course I can.”

  And I tell her all about AJ and our non-date.

  I’ve positioned myself in line so I’ll be the last one through the door. When I pass AJ, I feel his fingers brush against my waist, and I slow down so they can linger a moment longer. I want to kiss him right now, right here, right in front of all the other poets. We’ve been keeping “whatever this is” under wraps for two weeks now, and I’m not sure I can handle it much longer. It’s all I can do to walk away from him.

  “Are you reading today?” Sydney asks as we head toward the couches.

  “No.” I can’t read. All my poems are about AJ now. They’d know immediately. “You?”

  She waves an Auntie Anne’s pretzel wrapper in the air, then takes it with both hands and snaps it taut. “You should prepare yourself, my friend, because I’m about to wax poetic on the many virtues of cinnamon, sugar, and butter on warm dough. This—” She snaps the paper again. I can see her handwriting scrawled on it. “This may be my finest work yet.”

  Sydney sits in her usual chair. Abigail’s already taken the seat next to Jessica. Caroline’s not here yet, but I see an open spot next to Emily, and I decide to sit with her today instead. She and AJ are friends, and eventually, when the two of us aren’t a secret anymore, it would be nice to know her better. She scoots over to make a little more room for me, but she doesn’t make eye contact.

  Before we start, I take a moment to scan the room and take it all in like I always do. I feel safe here now, not overwhelmed or unworthy, and the familiarity feels comforting. Still, Poet’s Corner feels magical. I hope it always does.

  I have nine poems on these walls. Nine.

  Cameron’s on stage alone. I’ve never seen him up there without Jessica and Abigail. He adjusts his glasses and opens a piece of paper. “I wrote this in my room last night,” he says, and then he reads a poem that’s heartbreaking and angry, and it takes me completely by surprise. I hold my breath as he reads the last line, wondering what’s ripping him apart from the inside out. His face is bright red as he slaps his poem hard against the wall.

  “Is he okay?” I whisper to Emily.

  She leans in close and tells me that his parents are getting divorced. “He hasn’t talked about it in a while. Jessica and Abigail have been trying to take his mind off it with ‘The Raven.’”

  “I had no idea.” He’s always so on, one of those people who seems to have his life together at all times. Now I have a lump in my throat. I thought I knew him better than this, but I realize I don’t really know anything about him at all. I make a mental note to go read his poem now that I have proper context. Maybe it’ll help me figure out the right thing to say to him as we’re leaving today.

  “Who’s next?” AJ asks from his usual spot. We all look around. Sydney’s directly across from me and I see her start to stand. Her timing’s good. After that, we could use some comic relief.

  But then I hear Emily say, “I’ll go,” from my other side.

  She steps up onto the stage, and I realize how different she looks today. She didn’t even try to cover up the thick dark circles under her bloodshot eyes, and if she brushed her hair this morning, she got caught in an especially strong wind between then and now.

  “I’ve had a really tough week,” she says, her voice cracking on the last word. My stomach knots up.

  “This is called ‘On My Way to You,’” she says. “I wrote it last night in my mom’s hospital room.”

  I’m pretty sure we’re all wondering how she’s going to get through a whole poem, but she takes a deep breath, sits straight up on the stool, and launches in, voice steady and strong.

  I drag my feet on my way to you.

  Way over there.

  Too far away.

  Skin. Thin, practically translucent.

  Eyes. Sunken. Skeletal. Bruised.

  Tubes. Colorless and everywhere.

  You. Not you.

  Gone. Not gone.

  Not yet.

  Hand. Warm. Slack.

  But still familiar.

  So familiar.

  I shouldn’t have dragged my feet.

  I look back at Caroline. She has her palms pressed into the couch cushions and her gaze fixed on the floor. Sydney has her hand over her mouth.

  Tears are flooding down Emily’s face when Jessica hurries up to the stage. She hugs her hard, then looks right into her eyes and says something the rest of us can’t hear. She hands her a glue stick, and Emily finds a spot on the wall for her poem.

  The room is quiet for a long time after that. Across the aisle, I can see Sydney playing with her Auntie Anne’s wrapper, folding and unfolding it, before she finally shoves it under her leg.

  “Okay, someone please go,” Emily says. No one moves or says a word. “I already saw the wrapper in your hand, Syd.”

  Sydney shifts in her seat, looking around, assessing the tone of the room, trying to figure out what to do. We make eye contact.

  You should read, I mouth, and she makes a face, like she’s not sure. I gesture toward the stage and mouth read again.

  Sydney walks to the front. Once she’s settled on the stool, she looks out into the crowd. “This is dedicated to my friend Emily. Who, I bet, has never enjoyed the sweet, sweet goodness of Auntie Anne’s.”

  Emily’s still dabbing her eyes, but now she’s shaking her head, and laughing too.

  “I call this one ‘Pretzel Logic,’ and I’m sure it won’t surprise you that I wrote it”—she snaps the bag taut again—“at my favorite aunt’s house.”

  At Auntie Anne’s, I always ask for

  soft, sugary, slippery sweet

  pretzels. Perfectly prepped and pinched,

  rolled into rings and ribbons,

  twisted into tantalizing tastes that tease my tongue and

  deliciously, delightfully destroy my diet.

  Sydney pulls her skirt to one side, curtsying while everyone claps and whistles. She looks directly at Emily. “Better, darling?”

&
nbsp; “Much.”

  “I’ll bring you a cup of cinnamon sugar nuggets tomorrow. Crappy mall food cures everything.”

  I cringe at the word “everything” because I’m quite certain nothing they sell at the mall cures cancer. But Emily blows Sydney a dramatic kiss, making it clear she wasn’t offended by her choice of words.

  Sydney runs the glue stick along the back of the wrapper and steps off the stage. She hands it to Emily. “Will you find a home for this piece of alliterative genius, please?”

  Emily’s smiling as she sticks the poem to the wall next to the one she just read about her mom. Sydney sits next to me.

  “Was that okay?”

  “It was perfect,” I tell her. “And yes, your finest work yet.”

  “Thanks. I thought so too.”

  The sound of a guitar pulls my attention back to the stage. I’m still trying to get my bearings after Emily’s poem, but AJ’s there now, perched on the stool with his guitar slung over his shoulder in that confident musician way that makes me feel light-headed.

  He’s plucking at the strings, just like he did in his room on that day, but the tune doesn’t sound familiar. “I haven’t written anything new in a few weeks,” he says. “I don’t know why. I guess I haven’t felt like it.”

  My heart’s already been through enough today, but his words make it sink even deeper into my chest. My yellow notebook is almost full because of him. He’s all I think about, all I write about. Doesn’t he want to write about me?

  “A few weeks ago, a friend of mine reminded me about this song,” he says, his music still floating around the room. “I’ve always loved it, but I didn’t know how to play it, so I decided to learn, and it’s felt like a bit of an escape, I guess. Like a…vacation.”

  The strings he plays begin to morph into something new, and slowly, I start to recognize the first notes of “Bron-Yr-Aur.” I wrap my fingers around the edge of the cushion and squeeze.

  “You guys know I love words, but this song reminded me that sometimes they’re not necessary.” He settles back against the stool and plucks those notes again, but this time he keeps going, playing the next ones.