Every Last Word

by Tamara Ireland Stone

  “This late?” Dad asks, and before I can say anything, Mom chimes in and says, “She always swims this late.” She waves me off. “Have fun.”

  I’m feeling a little guilty as I put the car in reverse and back out of the driveway, and a lot guilty as I drive right past the street that leads to the pool, but guilt turns to nervousness as I pull into the student lot. I drive to a spot that allows me to park with the odometer on three.

  AJ’s waiting for me inside the gate. He spreads his arms wide. “Welcome to your first P.M.”

  “Do I even want to know what a P.M. is?” I don’t like this. I’m not good with surprises.

  “Every once in a while we meet at night, just to shake things up. They’re fun. You’ll see.”

  He checks the surroundings to be sure we’re alone, and then he reaches out and grabs the zipper on my swim parka. He gives it a tug, pulling me toward him. “You look gorgeous, by the way.”

  I laugh in his face. “That’s not possible. I was doing homework and I rushed out the door. I didn’t even put any makeup on.”

  “Like I said…” He slowly unzips my parka down to my waist and slips his arms inside and around my back, pulling me closer, pressing his body against mine. “Gorgeous,” he whispers. He tips his head down and kisses me, and my lips part for him like they always do. I’ll never get enough of this. I’ll never get tired of kissing him.

  I want to stay out here, alone with him for the next hour or two, but I know everyone’s inside. And besides, it’s freezing. He slides his arms away, zips my jacket up to my chin, and kisses my nose.

  “That’s mean,” I say. “How am I supposed keep my hands off you now?”

  “You don’t have to. We could tell them tonight.”

  I think about my conversation with Sue yesterday. We could. I want to. But I’ve been mentally preparing to tell the Eights first. I haven’t even thought about how to tell everyone downstairs.

  “Never mind,” he says before I can respond. He kisses my forehead. “We’ll tell them later.”

  He drops the subject and picks up my hand instead, leading me to the theater door. I’m surprised it’s unlocked, and I give him a questioning look.

  “I texted Mr. B and asked him to leave it open tonight.”

  He drops my hand before we step into the dark theater. I can see them up on stage, all huddled together under the dim lighting, and I do a quick count of the shadows. Seven. Everyone’s here.

  For some reason, we’re all keeping silent, sneaking as quietly as we can through the door and down the stairs. It’s strange to be in the theater at night, but it really shouldn’t feel that different; these hallways are always dark and dimly lit, even in broad daylight. When AJ unbolts the door, everyone slips inside and heads straight for the lamps, flipping them on until they light up our paper walls.

  I sit on one of the couches at the back of the room, and Caroline settles in next to me. “I’m nervous,” I whisper when I’m sure no one’s paying attention. “This is weird.”

  She spreads her arms across the back of the sofa, and when her flannel falls open, I can read her T-shirt: CONSIDER THIS DIEM CARPED.

  “Stop worrying. This is a good thing. Don’t twist it into something else,” she warns.

  AJ and Sydney both step onto the stage at the same time. When he looks at her sideways, as if he’s wondering what she’s doing up there, she bumps his hip with hers. “Before we get started, I have an announcement to make.” She waves a thin stack of papers in the air.

  “There’s an open-mic night at this small club in the city tomorrow. All ages. Anyone’s invited to read. Or sing,” she says, looking pointedly at AJ and then back at the group. She gives the flyers to Emily, who starts passing them around.

  “Larger stage than this,” Sydney says, tapping her foot against the bare wood, “and far less comfortable seating.” AJ blows a kiss at his couch. “But we hope the room will be equally friendly.”

  “Who’s we?” Emily asks.

  “So far, Abigail, Cameron, Jessica, and me. The three of them are doing ‘The Raven,’ and they’re now up to nine stanzas, so you won’t want to miss it. And I’ll be reading something especially tasty, of course.” Sydney folds the flyer in half and fans herself. Then she gets serious again. “Look, none of us have ever read outside this room, and we’re all fairly terrified, so come cheer us on. Please.”

  Then she looks right at AJ. “If you think you might perform, and need something like, say, a guitar, you should bring that along.” She steps off the stage.

  “I’m going to pass,” he says. “But I’ll be there in the front row, cheering for you guys.” AJ plants himself on the stool, resting one foot on a rung and the other on the floor. It reminds me of that day we were down here together, when he told me all about the rules of Poet’s Corner and then left me alone to read its walls.

  He’s only wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but he’s so adorable right now. I want to leap up there and plant kisses all over his face. That’d be one way to tell the rest of them, I guess.

  “Okay, take out your notebooks or whatever you write in,” AJ says. Sydney holds a jumbo-size plastic bag of wrappers and napkins in the air. I had no idea she had so many poems. It’s hard to believe she can zip that thing closed.

  “Ideally, everyone should read tonight, but if you don’t want to, that’s okay,” he continues.

  Caroline crosses her legs at the ankle and reclines into the couch like she’s settling in for the night.

  “You’re not reading?” She shakes her head. “Why not?” I whisper, and she makes a face. “I should force you up on that stage like you forced me.”

  “Pfft. I’d like to see you try.”

  “Since Sam’s new, I’ll explain how it works,” AJ says. “One of the other members will join you on stage and randomly pick one of your poems. You read it to the group. If you don’t want to read it, ask for another one or just pass. It’s not a requirement to read or anything, but this is a long-standing tradition, started by the original founders of Poet’s Corner.” He shrugs. “As far as I can tell, it’s some twisted trust exercise designed to humiliate us in front of each other.”

  Everyone laughs. AJ looks at me. “Be glad you didn’t find us sooner, Sam. If you’d heard the ridiculous song I had to play last time, you wouldn’t have stuck around.”

  That’s impossible.

  “Okay, who’s up first?” He jumps off stage. “Cameron, you read. Abigail, you choose.”

  I reach for my yellow notebook. The blue poems are my favorites, but the yellow ones are the safest.

  Cameron hands Abigail a three-ring binder, and she picks a page from the back. As it turns out, this poem isn’t about his parents’ divorce. It’s about a girl. He’s reading so quietly we all have to strain to hear him, but as he describes her long black hair, I think I understand why. I’m pretty sure this poem is about Jessica. They have been working on ‘The Raven’ together. Maybe AJ and I aren’t the only secret down here. Cameron’s face is still bright red as he picks a poem for Abigail.

  She takes one look at his pick and lets out a whoop. “Yes! Easy.” She launches in, reading a totally innocuous little rhyme about the sunset. Lucky.

  Abigail picks for Emily. She doesn’t show any emotion when she sees what she has to read. And for the first few lines, she manages to keep it together through a poem that’s basically about all the things her mom might not be around to see. But after she reads a verse about our high school graduation, she stops. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I can’t do this tonight. Who’s next?”

  In a matter of seconds, Jessica is bounding up onto the stage, long black braids trailing behind her like ribbons on a kite, just like Cameron described them.

  She hands Emily a bright purple book with a black rubber band around it, and Emily picks a page and hurries back to her seat. Jessica reads a short piece about her math teacher’s horrible breath and gives us a much needed mood change.

  Chelsea reads nex
t. We’re nearing the end of the line and I’m starting to get nervous about my turn. I can feel myself tuning out the voices on the stage and giving the ones in my head far more attention than they deserve.

  They could pick anything. I have no control.

  The voices are getting louder, closing in, and my palms are starting to sweat. I need to go. I need to get it over with. But when Chelsea finishes, she immediately points at Sydney, calling her up to the stage.

  At least it’s Sydney.

  Chelsea reaches into the plastic bag and pulls out a piece of pink cardboard. She starts to hand it to her, but Sydney won’t take it. “Nope. Pick another one, please.”

  “Syd.”

  “Another one, please.” Sydney can’t stand still. I’ve never seen her flustered. “Read it to yourself,” she says, “but then pick again, please. That Taco Bell one is really funny.”

  Chelsea is quiet as she reads it. Then she leans over and whispers in Sydney’s ear.

  Sydney considers her for a long time before she finally steps off the stage and collapses into the couch.

  Chelsea holds the piece of pink cardboard in both hands. “I’ve been granted permission to read this lovely poem,” Chelsea says. “It’s untitled. And I’m going to go out on a limb here and say it was penned in a doughnut shop.”

  Sydney’s face is buried in the couch cushions in front of her, but she nods dramatically.

  I’m not allowed to want you,

  And you’re not allowed to want me.

  So I’ll just wait here patiently,

  Hoping you’ll break the rules.

  Whoa. I’m dying to know who she’s referring to. Someone older? A teacher?

  Everyone’s clapping and looking over at Sydney, but she’s facedown on the couch now, underneath one of the throw pillows. “Someone go next,” she yells. “Quickly.”

  “I’ll go,” I say, and I step up on the stage, handing Chelsea my yellow notebook as I perch myself on the stool. She feeds her finger into a random page near the back and hands it to me.

  I read the first few lines to myself.

  This is bad.

  I read the whole thing through in my head two more times. There’s a whole lot of crazy in here, but Caroline is probably the only one who will really understand it anyway. After all, I wrote it for her.

  “This is untitled, and, I don’t know, it’s totally random.” I stop short of saying it sucks because I don’t feel like being pelted with paper tonight. “I wrote it in my room after I said good-bye to a friend of mine.” I find Caroline in the crowd and smile at her.

  I like it when you’re here.

  Everything is quiet.

  Peaceful.

  So silent, I almost feel sane.

  You take my mind off my mind.

  Stay.

  Just one more page.

  Please?

  Caroline stands and starts clapping hard, and cheering way too loudly, and looking so proud of me, I want to burst. I take a bow, feeling a little proud of myself, too.

  I did it. Now they kind-of-sort-of know about the crazy.

  Suddenly AJ’s on stage next to me, handing me his clipboard, and if he’s weirded out by my poem, he’s doing a great job hiding it. While he swings his guitar over his shoulder and adjusts it in place, I thumb through his songs and grab hold of a page near the top.

  I pull it from the stack and hand it to him. “You can sit,” he says with a cocky grin. “I’ll play this no matter what it is.”

  I step off the stage, taking his clipboard with me. He’s already plucking at strings, so I sit down on his orange couch instead of returning to my spot next to Caroline.

  “Shit,” he says, getting his first look at the song he committed to sing. Then he looks right at me. His cheeks are crimson and he’s fidgeting with the paper. I’ve never seen him so uncomfortable, not in Poet’s Corner at least.

  I watch him, growing even more confused when he removes his guitar and returns it to the stand. He walks right to the front of the stage, past the stool he always sits on when he plays, and roots his feet in place.

  “This isn’t a song. It’s a poem.” He jumps up and down a few times, shaking his arms out by his sides. “How do you guys do this? I feel totally naked up here without my guitar.” We all laugh as he shuffles into position, feet rooted again, and blows out a loud breath. “Okay, here we go.”

  He looks right at me. “This is called ‘Wondering.’ I wrote this in my room a while ago.” His eyes never leave mine.

  After you left

  I stared at the driveway

  Feeling its emptiness

  Wondering if you’d return.

  After you left

  I thought about your questions

  Wishing I hadn’t been so blunt

  Wondering if I scared you away.

  After you left

  I remembered how you felt in my arms.

  How you fit so perfectly there. Like my guitar.

  Wondering if I should have kissed you when I had the chance.

  After you left

  I sat in my room

  Remembering all the things you said, and

  Wondering about all the things you didn’t.

  After you left

  I sat in silence.

  Missing you in a way I didn’t quite understand.

  Wondering if you’d ever come back.

  He drops his arm. “And now you can all see why I write songs and not poetry.”

  Everyone’s staring at him, questioning this poem, curious about his subject, but his eyes are still locked on mine, and that dimple of his is more pronounced than ever.

  I nervously glance around the room and watch each of them connect the dots. Chelsea’s face lights up. Emily waves her finger in the air, back and forth between AJ and me. Sydney lets out a fake-sounding gasp.

  AJ steps off the stage and sits next to me, wrapping his hand around the back of my neck. “They know,” he whispers in my ear.

  “You think?” I laugh into his shoulder.

  “Sorry. That was lame.”

  “It wasn’t lame; it was perfect.”

  “You’re not angry, are you?”

  “Of course not.” I give him a quick kiss, and we’re surrounded by the sounds of whistles and woots.

  Then it gets awkward. Everyone starts shuffling around, gathering bags and notebooks, heading for the door.

  “Wait.” AJ stands and addresses the room. “Did everyone read?”

  “Everyone but Caroline,” I say, gesturing toward her. But I’m not sure AJ hears me. He’s already lifting his key out from under his shirt and heading to the back to unlock the bolt. She shakes her head, silently telling me it’s okay. She didn’t plan to read anyway.

  All nine of us quietly climb the stairs, cross the stage, and file out the theater door. Everyone says their good-byes and heads off in groups in separate directions, but AJ and I hang back.

  I wrap my arms around his neck and look up at him, feeling euphoric. Buoyant. Like we’re back in the pool, floating, kissing, talking, laughing, just us, alone, together. We’re no longer a secret. It feels incredible.

  “Do you want a ride home?” I ask, winding my fingers into his hair. “You could watch me pull out of your driveway and wonder if I’m devising a plan to sneak into your bedroom.”

  “Would you be?” He brings his hands to my waist.

  “Absolutely,” I say. I’m not sure where all this confidence is coming from, but it feels right.

  “Then, yes.” He unzips my swim parka all the way to the bottom this time, and when he wraps his arms around my back, he pulls me into him, harder than he did before. He kisses me harder, too, and I tighten my grip on the back of his neck, thinking about how much I want this kiss to go on and on. I can’t imagine driving him home and saying good night.

  “You know what?” I whisper. My voice is shaking, and it’s not from the cold. “I think we forgot to turn the lamps off.”

/>   “Did we?” he asks between kisses.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hmm. I didn’t forget,” he says, and I can feel him smiling.

  I smile back. “Neither did I.”

  As much as I’ve thought about sex, I’ve always had pretty low expectations about my first time. I know it will be awkward and there will be that whole struggling-with-the-condom moment, and when it’s all over, we’ll get dressed side by side and won’t have a clue what to say to each other. I’ve pictured my first time as something I’ll have to do to get it over with.

  So far, this is nothing like that.

  AJ kisses my forehead. “Stop thinking,” he whispers.

  “I’m not.” But of course I am. I’m always thinking.

  “Yes, you are. Your forehead is all crunched up.” He kisses my forehead again and I feel the muscles relax. “We don’t have to do this, Sam.”

  We’re lying on the orange couch with a blanket beneath us, our clothes in a haphazard pile on the floor. He’s already passed that condom thing with flying colors. I want to do this. We’re practically already doing this.

  “It’s okay. I’m just really nervous.”

  “I know,” he says. “Me too.”

  “You?” I stare at him in disbelief. “Why are you nervous? You’ve done this before.”

  “Never with you.”

  I take his face in my hands and kiss him, closing my eyes, letting his touch clear my mind, following his lead. I force myself to think about nothing but him, to concentrate on what he’s doing, and after a while it becomes easier to let go.

  His kisses trail down my collarbone, over my chest, across my stomach, each one sending chills through my entire body. When he finally brings his mouth back to mine, I kiss him, trying to lose myself the same way I did in the pool that night. Our hips are pressed together, and I can’t believe how incredible it feels to be this close to him.

  I didn’t expect so much talking. But he checks in a lot, and I like how the sound of his voice keeps me present, bringing me back to him if I start to drift away.