Every Last Word

by Tamara Ireland Stone

  For the rest of the day, I take circuitous routes to each class and arrive right as the bell rings. As soon as each class ends, I bolt for the door and head straight for the nearest bathroom. At break, I go to the library and eat a PowerBar in the biography section (now I see what Olivia meant; this is an excellent place to make out or otherwise go unseen). At lunch, I head to the pool and swim laps, which turns out to be the highlight of my day. I don’t even wear a cap. And I don’t race. I swim freestyle in slow, precise strokes, up and down the lane, blocking out all the thoughts, including lyrics and poetry. I concentrate on the peaceful silence and savor the smell of chlorine.

  My hair is still damp as I’m heading to fifth period, so of course, that’s when I spot AJ walking toward me. My stomach knots up as I duck into a row of lockers and lean against the far wall, hiding my face in my hands like a little kid, assuming, I suppose, that if I can’t see him, he can’t see me either.

  “Sam.”

  Crap.

  My hands fall to my sides as I look up at him. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  I can tell he has something to say and that he’s nervous about it, because in my peripheral vision, I can see his right hand, thumb and forefinger pressed together, strumming lightly on the side of his jeans.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I shake my head. Then I fix my gaze on his shoes and bite the inside of my lip three times, hard.

  AJ keeps his distance, but I wish he wouldn’t. I want to tell him everything. And then I want him to slip his hands around my back and wrap me in his arms like he did on campus last Thursday night. I visualize his mouth on mine, wordlessly telling me that it’s all okay and that he still wants me, broken brain and all. But it’s not fair to expect that from him. What’s he going to do, tell me he thinks it’s kind of cute that I fabricated an entire person?

  “How was open mic night?” I ask, looking up, hoping to lighten the mood and force him to give me that slow smile of his. It’s somewhat effective. The tension’s still here, but now so is that dimple. It’s all I can do not to kiss it.

  “Sydney and Chelsea drove everyone into the city,” he says. “Abigail, Cameron, and Jessica did ‘The Raven.’ They got through the first nine stanzas. Jessica said she totally screwed up, but I’m sure it didn’t matter. It sounds like they blew everyone away. Syd read something, too. They wanted to perform their pieces for us today, but then you didn’t show up.”

  He didn’t go to open mic.

  “You didn’t go on Friday?”

  “Um. No. How could I go after…” He catches himself and changes course. “I couldn’t go without you.”

  “You should have gone,” I say plainly. And then I start to panic, wondering what he said to the others. “You didn’t tell anyone…about me…did you?”

  “What?” The question clearly catches him off guard. “Of course not. I told them your car wouldn’t start. That’s why we didn’t make it to the city.”

  We. Are we still “we”?

  “Thanks. Please don’t say anything, okay?”

  He’s watching me, waiting, I imagine, for an explanation of some kind. And he deserves one. But I can’t stand the way he’s looking at me right now, his eyes not only full of questions but also full of pity. He didn’t look at me this way three days ago.

  “Look, I want you to know everything,” I say, “but…it’s hard for me. I’ve never told anyone but Caro—” It starts to slip off my lips and it’s too late to take it back. I hope he didn’t hear me. But he did. It’s all over his face.

  “I’ve got to get to class,” I say as I push past him into the crowd, head down, walking away as quickly as I can, and kicking myself for saying her name.

  By Tuesday afternoon, I’ve become pretty skilled at sneaking around and avoiding people.

  Kaitlyn and Alexis were heading my way between first and second, and I started to panic, but then a group of guys on the lacrosse team walked up to them, and that was all I needed to creep by without them ever noticing me. Sydney tried to talk with me after U.S. History, but I pretended I didn’t hear her and sped off for the pool. Olivia and I made eye contact a few times during Trig, but I bolted for the door as soon as the bell rang. I haven’t seen Hailey since she gave me my backpack yesterday morning.

  Even though I’m avoiding all of them, I check my texts obsessively. Five from Hailey, two from Alexis, and one from Olivia, all saying pretty much the same thing:

  you okay?

  coming to lunch?

  we’re worried about you

  sorry about Friday

  we miss you

  None from Kaitlyn.

  And one from AJ:

  I don’t know what to say

  I can’t decide how to reply to any of them, so I don’t.

  I hang out in the bathroom near my fifth period class, watching the time on my phone, and I head for the door with less than a minute to spare. I’ve only taken two steps into the corridor when I spot AJ standing a few feet away, almost as if he’s waiting for me.

  He starts walking and there’s nowhere to hide. Then he stops, looming over me, blocking my way.

  “You never read the poems in Caroline’s Corner, did you?”

  I shake my head. I have no idea what that is.

  He reaches for my hand and places the key inside my open palm. Then he closes my fingers around the thick, braided cord. “Go to the back right corner,” he says. He walks away.

  Caroline’s Corner?

  My legs are shaking and I feel light-headed as I open the door to my classroom and slide into my desk. I stuff the key under my leg so no one will see it. But during class, I hold it in my hand, running my thumb back and forth over its sharp edges and deep grooves, thinking about that room.

  I’m not sure I can handle going downstairs all alone—I’ve always been with the group or with Caroline. But then I remember that’s not true. Caroline didn’t guide me that first time. I followed them, but I was completely alone. I brought myself down those stairs and into that room. That’s when I start to understand the connection.

  The article I read last Friday night flashes in my mind. “She loved writing poetry,” the quote from Caroline’s mom had said.

  Caroline was a Poet.

  After sixth, I don’t hide in bathrooms or beeline straight for my next class. Instead, I slowly make my way through the crowd, keeping my head up, returning “hellos” and “what’s ups” from the people I pass, and walk to the theater entrance. I’ve got such a tight grip on the key, I can feel the notches leaving tiny impressions in my palm.

  The theater isn’t empty—a drama class is rehearsing a play—but no one notices me climb the stairs, creep past the grand piano, and slip behind the curtain. I open the narrow door and close it quickly behind me, waiting to be sure no one saw or followed me. Then I step down.

  The air feels thicker and it smells dank, like dirty socks and mold, but I breathe deeply and take it all in like I’m experiencing it for the first time. I let my fingers skim the dark gray walls as I walk down the hallway, feeling the adrenaline pumping through my veins, recognizing how terrified I am right now, and forcing myself to experience every sensation, as if I need to prove to myself I can do this. That I no longer need her help.

  Inside the janitor’s closet, I push the mops to one side, and the door squeaks as I pull it toward me. I look around at the black ceiling and the black floors and the black walls that hardly look black because they’re covered with so many scraps of paper. The stool is where it always is. The guitar stand is in the corner, but it’s empty now. I flip the closest lamp on, and then I lock myself inside.

  I look around, taking everything in the way I always do. The first time I was alone down here, I traversed the room, stopping randomly to read, returning to the poems I liked the most. I remember the sense of calm that washed over me when I finally found the lyrics to AJ’s song, and the joy I felt as I read Sydney’s fast-food wrappers. I spent hours reading a de
cade’s worth of poetry written by people who’d graduated long ago. My eyes were burning from fatigue by the time I sat on the couch and began writing something of my own. When I left that day, I was in awe of every person who’d ever stepped foot in Poet’s Corner.

  Now I take slow, measured steps toward the low bookcase in the right corner and flip on the lamp so it illuminates the wall. I never made it over here that first day, and over the last few months, I don’t recall planting any of my own poetry here. If I had, I might have noticed what made this spot so unique.

  Unlike the other walls in Poet’s Corner, everything here is written on the same lined, three-hole-punched paper and penned in the same handwriting—each letter perfectly shaped, each word perfectly spaced.

  Next to the lamp, I notice a wooden pencil box. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands, running my fingertip over the intricately carved swirls and waves. On the lid, I see three letters: C.E.M.

  I return the box to the bookcase and slowly peel it open. The notebook paper inside looks rumpled, and with shaking hands, I remove it from its home and unfold it along the creases. It’s not a poem. It’s a letter. My breath catches deep in my throat when I realize it’s written in the exact same handwriting I see on the wall in front of me.

  Dear Mr. B—

  You’re going to think that what I did was your fault. It wasn’t. And this room didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, it saved my life for a long time.

  You created a place for me to go and helped me fill it with words and people I could trust. It was the kindest, most generous thing anyone has ever done for me. When I was inside this room, I was happy.

  If I could have captured how I felt on Mondays and Thursdays, and carried it around in my pocket for later use, I would have. Believe me, I tried.

  You don’t owe me anything more. But I hope you’ll consider honoring this last request.

  Words are beginning to gather here. Just think of what these walls could look like if everyone who needed this room found it. Can you picture it? I can.

  Here’s my key. Pass it on?

  Love,

  C

  My hand instinctively goes to the cord around my neck, and I squeeze it in my fist.

  Caroline’s Corner.

  That’s why Mr. B leaves the theater door open when AJ asks him to. Why he keeps this room a secret. Why he pops in every once in a while to vacuum and empty the trash.

  He knew Caroline. He built out this room for her, hid the door, and camouflaged the lock to keep it a secret. She asked him to pass the key along, and he honored her last wish. He’s been doing it ever since she died.

  Still gripping her letter in one hand, I grab the edge of the bookcase with the other. My knees aren’t feeling too stable right now.

  Caroline Madsen started Poet’s Corner.

  I take a step closer and brush my hand along the pages, as if I’m introducing myself for the first time.

  These are her poems.

  I read the titles and skim over the first lines, but some of them are placed too high and I can’t see the words from here. I walk to the front of the room, grab the stool from the stage, and bring it back to the corner, standing on top of it so I can get a closer look.

  On the highest point of the wall, I spot a poem titled “Insecurity,” and I read it to myself. Then I move to the next one, called “Alone in the Dark.” And the next one, which is untitled, but begins with the words, “Alliteration is alarmingly addictive.”

  They’re beautiful and hilarious, and the more I read, the more I cry and the harder I laugh. But something doesn’t feel right, and it’s not until I’m halfway through her fourth poem that I realize what it is.

  I start reading aloud.

  As I begin reading her fifth poem, I arch my back and square my shoulders, standing taller, reading louder and stronger and clearer, and it feels good to speak her words—to listen to them come to life again—even if there’s no one else around to hear how incredible they are. I read the rest of them the same way, in a loud, booming, confident voice, the way I imagine she would have wanted it.

  I’ve read more than fifty poems, and finally, there’s only one left. It’s placed low on the wall, closest to the wooden pencil box, and there’s something about the way it’s mounted, with the black paint still exposed, acting like a thin frame, that makes me wonder if it’s special somehow.

  It’s called “Every Last Word.” I read to myself this time.

  These walls heard

  me when no

  one else could.

  They gave my

  words a home,

  kept them safe.

  Cheered, cried, listened.

  Changed my life

  for the better.

  It wasn’t enough.

  But they heard

  every last word.

  I cover my mouth, tears streaming down my face. It’s written in threes.

  I read it again, out loud this time, even though my voice cracks and I have to stop after every other line to catch my breath. Sometimes I stop because I want to let the meaning of a word or phrase sink deep into my skin. But I keep going, crying harder as I read that final line.

  This was her last poem.

  And I realize that Caroline did bring me here, in her own strange way, to these people, to this room, knowing how much I needed this place.

  This room changed her life. And it’s just beginning to change mine.

  I picture Sydney, sitting alone in fast-food restaurants, writing the funny things she reads to us and the deeper thoughts she never shares. And Chelsea, writing poem after poem about the guy who broke her heart. Emily, sitting at her mom’s bedside, watching her slip away and trying to hold her here a little longer. AJ propped up against his bed, playing his guitar and trying to find the perfect words to match the notes. Cameron, watching his parents fall apart and trying not to do the same himself. Jessica and her booming voice in a tiny body, full of contagious confidence. And Abigail, whose poems are deep and astute, who had me at “As if.” Now that I know her better, her poetry no longer surprises me.

  They’re my friends. And I realize I know a whole lot more about them than they know about me.

  My next step is so clear. I leap off the chair and head for my backpack, feeling inspired to write for the first time in four days. I reach inside for my yellow notebook, because when Caroline was part of my life, she made me stronger, better, and happier. And that’s the part of myself I need to reconnect with right now.

  I sit on the orange couch with my feet folded underneath me. The pen feels solid in my hand, and when I bring it to the paper, I’m relieved to feel the words flowing out like someone turned on the spigot.

  And before I know it, I’ve filled the page with a poem for Caroline. It voices what she means to me and how much I miss her and why this room of hers matters, not just to me but to everyone who’s ever found it. And, while it doesn’t say it in so many words, it’s also a poem for my new friends, promising that from now on I’ll be a lot braver with my words than I was before.

  I close my notebook, and for the first time since Friday afternoon, I smile. It feels good. As I gather my things, I check the time on my phone. It’s 4:18. I’ve been down here for more than two hours.

  Before I leave, I walk to the closest wall and run my hand along the brown paper bags and candy wrappers, the ripped-up scraps of paper and Post-it notes, the napkins and receipts, thinking about all the people who have spent time in this room. Every person with a poem on this wall has a story to tell.

  I need to know more.

  I feel that familiar swirl start to build inside me, that craving for information, and more information. My breathing speeds up and my fingers start tingling. I want to know every single person’s story, and I start to feel excited by the idea of researching each one until I’ve pieced it all together. And then the swirl stops, as quickly as it started.

  I don’t need to know hundreds of stories. I only need to know
seven.

  I’ve never asked any of them to tell me how they found Poet’s Corner. I never asked Caroline. I never even asked AJ.

  AJ.

  I flip off the last light and race back up the stairs and into the student lot. My mind needs music, and I start to turn on In the Deep, but then I spot Grab the Yoke and choose it instead.

  I think about that day I first drove around with AJ, telling him how I named my playlists. He asked about this one. I told him how I sometimes wanted to “fly the whole mess into the sea,” and when I said the words, he looked at me like he was worried I might actually do it. Did my words remind him of Caroline, the founder of his beloved poetry club? She grabbed the yoke.

  My mind is on overload and my stomach is in knots as I throw the car in reverse, peel out of the student lot, and make the turns that lead to AJ’s house. At the top of his driveway, I pull the emergency brake hard and scramble out of my car.

  The wind is picking up, whistling through the trees and stinging my cheeks, and I tighten my jacket around my body as I climb the stairs. I start to knock, but then I hear AJ’s guitar coming from the other side of the door. It’s too faint to make out the song, but I can picture him with his fingers pressed into the strings, forming chords, sliding up and down along the neck. I knock before I lose my nerve.

  The music stops, and few seconds later, he opens the door. “Hi.” He looks surprised to see me.

  “Hi.” I lift the cord over my head and hand it to him. “Thank you,” I say. He stuffs it into the pocket of his jeans. I look down at my shoes.

  We’re both silent for a long time, me trying to muster up the courage to say what I came here to say, and him probably trying to figure out the fastest way to get a psychotic girl off one’s porch.

  I stand up straighter, cementing my feet in place and looking right at him. “I found her corner.” I bite my lip to keep my chin from trembling. “I was kind of hoping you’d tell me more about her. More about that room and how you found it, and how you got the key.”