Poemsia

by Lang Leav

  At arrivals we were greeted by Tara, a twenty-something rep from Carry Way. She was in sky-high stiletto boots and skinny jeans, holding a placard with my name on it. When she caught sight of us, she waved enthusiastically, bounding over to greet us. Jess couldn’t stop gushing about Tara’s shoes, and I was smitten with her accent. On the drive to the hotel, we bombarded her with questions about the subway, Central Park, and Times Square. Looking through the windows of our Uber, we were overwhelmed by the sheer size of the city, the wailing sirens, the rush of traffic, and the chorus of honking. I cocked my head to see all the way up the tall buildings.

  Tara checked us into a small, red brick hotel with cute flowerpots on windowsills and left us to settle in. The room was impossibly tiny; twin beds with barely a handspan between them were placed side by side. I found a welcome pack with my schedule and an envelope labeled “stipend” filled with twenty-dollar bills. Jess and I spilled the money onto the bed and took turns rolling around in it.

  Now we were on a street corner, jet-lagged but wired, running on adrenalin, half-eaten hot dogs in our hands.

  “Let’s record our first big milestone!”

  I whipped out my phone and started an Instagram story.

  “Hi, it’s Verity Wolf, and I’m in New York City with my best friend, Jess!”

  Jess waved. “Hi, everyone! We’re just enjoying our first-ever meal—”

  “Our first in New York, not our first meal ever.”

  “Yes, we want to make it clear that we have had meals prior to this.”

  “Just not in New York City.”

  We giggled.

  I waved my hot dog at the camera. “I’ll be at the Sojourn Theatre Friday night. Event details are in my profile. Oh, and no big deal or anything, but my idol, Mena Rhodes, will be chairing my event. See you there!”

  I uploaded the story, and my inbox flooded with messages.

  We giggled as we continued reading. I never got tired of the weird and wonderful messages and comments I was sent.

  A hot dog emoji and wink appeared from Sash.

  “Awww, I’ve been gone a day, and he’s already trying to sext me.”

  “Vare, I don’t need to know stuff like that.”

  I sent Sash a string of kisses, and we continued scrolling through the comments. Suddenly, Jess and I gasped in unison.

  “Is that—”

  “It’s her,” Jess confirmed.

  “Her real account?”

  “Yes! It’s verified.”

  We looked at each other and shrieked.

  “Oh my God! Mena just messaged you! Mena Rhodes!”

  I scanned the message with eager eyes.

  Jess grabbed my arm, and we let out another shriek.

  Lorenzo smiled over at us from his cart. “Good news?”

  Jess grinned at him. “The best news ever!”

  I caught sight of Mena outside Starbucks on Fifth Avenue, eyes glued to her phone. I stopped and took a deep breath, steeling myself. It was surreal seeing her in the flesh. Taller than I imagined, dressed in a white collared shirt tucked into a pair of tan trousers. A large black belt cinched her impossibly tiny waist. She had smooth, tawny skin and a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Her dark shoulder-length hair was stylishly cut and swished against her striking high cheekbones. I tentatively approached her.

  “Mena?” Her eyes flickered up to meet mine. Up close, they were extraordinary. A light shade of brown, with flecks of gold and amber.

  “Verity!” she exclaimed, pulling me into a warm hug. “Welcome to New York!” Her voice was soft and lilting, but there was power in it. A dreamlike quality, like you were hearing it underwater, yet every word was crystal clear.

  “Thanks, Mena.” I was trying my best to play it cool, but my heart was hammering loudly in my chest.

  She slid her phone into a back pocket. “Gosh, your accent’s adorable! Australian?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So I thought we’d get our coffees to go. You don’t mind walking, do you?”

  “I totally love walking!”

  “Great! It’s such a beautiful day. I love it when the air’s like this—when we’re right on the cusp of fall. We can leg it down Fifth Avenue. What do you say?”

  I nodded enthusiastically. At that point, she could have suggested we walk off a cliff and I wouldn’t have objected. I’d never met anyone famous before and was starstruck.

  “Is it your first time here?”

  “Sure is!”

  “Well, there’s plenty to show you. I hope you haven’t made plans for the rest of the day.”

  We walked down Fifth Avenue, Styrofoam cups in hand. The morning light bounced off the buildings, casting blocks of sun and shade on the bustling pavement. I took a sip of my mocha with an extra shot of espresso.

  “How are you finding New York so far?”

  “I love it!” I gushed. “I grew up watching American shows, so it’s like walking onto a movie set. The vibe here is like a current—you can’t help but get swept up in it.”

  “Spoken like a true poet!” She grinned.

  A girl in white sneakers and cropped T-shirt stopped us. “Oh my God, Mena? Mena! Can I get a selfie with you?”

  “Sure.” Mena smiled and posed with the girl.

  “Do you ever get used to that?” I asked when the girl left, thumbing furiously on her phone, no doubt sharing her fortuitous encounter on social media. I’d be doing exactly the same if I were her.

  “Not really,” she laughed. “You’ll see what I mean when it starts happening to you! By the way, if you didn’t already know, I am a huge fan of your work. When Carry Way sent me your book, I read it all in one sitting. I was in the bath and was practically a prune when I finished. I just didn’t want to put it down.”

  “Really? You actually liked it?”

  “Verity, I loved it! But I already knew I would from the pieces on your Instagram. Speaking of which, I couldn’t find the one Karla posted.” Mena put her hand to her chest. “When I first read that poem, it stopped me in my tracks. It’s been ages since a poem has done that to me. Why wasn’t it in your book?”

  I bit my lip. “Um, the thing is it’s not my poem. I think Karla assumed I wrote it because it was on my Instagram. But I found it in an old book, Poemsia.”

  “Poemsia?” She repeated.

  I nodded.

  “You know the same thing happens to me all the time. I get stuff attributed to me that I didn’t write. Some I wish I had written, and others are just insulting. There’s literally nothing you can do about it. If you try to set the record straight, you end up adding to the confusion.”

  “That’s what I’m starting to figure out. It’s like shouting into the void.”

  She laughed—a deep, rumbling sound so different from the musical quality of her voice. “That’s the Internet, all right.”

  We were silent for a time as we walked. I had so much I wanted to ask her. In my head I had rehearsed this conversation over and over, and now my mind was blank.

  “Are you nervous about your first event?” Mena broke into my thoughts.

  “God, yes! What was yours like?”

  She grinned. “It was at an indie bookstore over in Brooklyn. Only a handful of people, so it was no big deal. Luckily for me, I wasn’t thrown straight into the deep end like you’ll be on Friday.”

  I gulped. “Thanks—that makes me feel better.”

  She chuckled. “You’ll be fine! Besides, I’ll be on stage with you. It’ll be a breeze.”

  “The thought of all those eyes on me is terrifying.”

  “No, no. It’s more the idea of it, I think. When you’re up there, it’s like someone else takes over.”

  I thought back to that day in the park when I performed my poems. It had felt that way for me, li
ke some other person had momentarily taken over. Even though a part of me knew I’d probably be fine, I couldn’t stop feeling waves of anxiety every time I thought about being on stage.

  Mena must have read my mind because she gave me a reassuring look. “After a while, it doesn’t really matter if you’re speaking in front of an audience of ten or ten thousand. It’ll just feel like another day at the office. But, like, a really cool office where you’re kind of the boss and everyone gets you snacks and stuff.” She winked at me.

  “What if something goes wrong? Like someone asks me a question I can’t answer and I freeze up and look like an idiot?”

  “I have all sorts of tricks for situations like this. I’ve done it a million times, so you’re in good hands.”

  “What if hecklers come out?”

  Mena snorted. “Never happens! The hecklers prefer to lurk behind their computer screens.”

  “Haters, you mean?”

  She nodded. “Have they been bothering you?”

  “Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever had any hate.”

  “Never?”

  I shook my head. “So far people have said only nice things. Sometimes a bit weird, but generally nice.”

  A soft smile played on her lips. “I remember those early days. Only people who love your work bother to interact with you. The rest kind of leave you alone. As you get more popular, that starts to change. I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but the haters are coming, Verity. It’s inevitable. They are packing up their little backpacks, and sooner or later, they’ll be heading your way.”

  “Then so what’s your advice on how to deal with them?”

  “Well, you’ll find three kinds of haters. You have the Pseudo Intellectuals, the Fake Haters, and the Hate Readers.”

  “This is weirdly fascinating. Tell me more!”

  She drained her coffee before tossing the cup into a nearby bin. “OK. First are the Pseudo Intellectuals. They put out this image of being well read and intelligent, but no critical thought actually passes through their heads—just shit they memorize and regurgitate to spin their own delusions of grandeur. The crazy thing is they often get away with it. They just convince people who are dumber than they are. One guy like that wrote a dissertation on a poem he thought was mine. You should have read it, Verity. It was all over the place and went into weird territory. Halfway through, he was droning on and on about the evolution of language, using Darwin to point out the inconsistencies between the first and third stanzas of my poem. And his dick got a mention, like every other male would-be critic. No clue what he was talking about, of course, just stringing together a bunch of rubbish. It’s sad that people are impressed with things they don’t understand, so some got behind it, parroting lines from his paper. It was all over Twitter, and you know what? It wasn’t even my poem. It was Plath.”

  I grabbed her arm. “No way!”

  She nodded gleefully. “It was, no pun intended, poetic.”

  “Which poem was it?”

  “‘Mad Girl’s Love Song.’”

  I snorted. “OK, but that’s just ridiculous. It’s, like, her most well-known poem. Besides, her style is completely different from yours.”

  Mena shrugged. “Like I said, anyone with the most basic knowledge of poetry could tell you that, but he must have found it on Pinterest and assumed it was mine. As you found out, things are always getting misattributed.”

  “Did you call him out?”

  “I almost never do. Why give trolls a voice? But this one was too good to ignore! I simply tweeted, ‘Dude, are you sure that’s even my poem?’”

  “What happened?”

  “Within minutes, he’d become a laughing stock. You could see a time line of the idiot imploding. First, he tried to defend himself; then he made out that he knew all along and tried to spin it as satire. But he wasn’t fooling anyone, so he took it down. After that, he deleted his Twitter.”

  “I can’t believe I missed this!”

  Mena grinned and shrugged. “So that sums up the Pseudo Intellectuals. Next up, we have the Fake Haters. These guys aren’t too bad. Truth is they don’t actually hate your work. They send hate your way because they’re bored and looking for someone to pick on. So no need to take it personally. They’re like lemmings—pretty much harmless. That’s more than I can say for the Hate Readers.” She gave me a meaningful look. “Those guys are the real deal.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  She nodded and explained, counting on her fingers. “Your typical Hate Reader, one, is intelligent; two, comes with a small but vicious following; and three, is digitally savvy. These guys are on a whole new level of hate. They know the system and how to twist it to their advantage. They use platforms like Reader to pass as legitimate reviewers—some even write for big publications. They have no qualms about reading an entire book for no other reason than to trash it. That takes dedication—not to mention books are expensive! Which means the hatred runs deep. It’s organized hate.”

  As Mena spoke, one person who seemed to fit that popped into my mind. “I actually know someone like that—in real life, I mean. Her name’s Penelope, and she’s a top reviewer on Reader.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re not talking about the one who also writes for Billy?”

  “Yes! That’s her.”

  Mena stopped walking and shook her head in disbelief. “Jesus Christ! That bitch practically invented Hate Reading. How the hell do you know her?”

  I gave Mena a brief summary, and her face remained frozen with incredulity. I started from the night at Fidelio and went through to the blowup at Mechanical Mango. She interrupted me. “Her favorite poet is Calmine Verdue? Figures! So she’s just as bitter and twisted in real life as she is online.”

  “She’s pure evil, no question.”

  “And she’s hanging around your boyfriend?” She gave me a wry smile.

  I sighed heavily. “She’s his childhood sweetheart, and, yes, they’re still good friends.”

  “Oh shit, that sucks.”

  “It gets worse! She’s trying desperately to get him back.” Then I told her about the stunt Penelope pulled at Sash’s house when she showed me up in front of his mother.

  Mena let out a low whistle. “She’s really got it in for you, doesn’t she?”

  “It looks that way.”

  “I don’t envy you. All us pop poets are way too familiar with Penelope and her gang of Hate Readers. When you see her next, tell her to go to hell from all of us, OK?”

  “I’ll pass the message on,” I laughed, as we continued strolling up Fifth Avenue. I noticed the shop fronts got flashier as we went.

  “Anyway, we shouldn’t worry about her. It’s the Penelopes of the world who are the architects of our success.”

  “But . . . how?”

  “I’m going to let you in on a secret.” She stopped and gave me a mysterious smile. “Hate is bad for the ego, good for book sales.”

  “I don’t get it. Why would that be?”

  “When I first got hate, it felt soul destroying. I thought for sure that the haters would convince everyone what a bad writer I was—one who didn’t deserve to be published. It’s weird how skewed my perception was, but I’m older and wiser now.”

  “Well, in your case they obviously failed miserably. You’re one of the most universally loved authors in the world. I mean, Sal Dollinger is a fan of your work.”

  She shrugged and grinned. “Sal is a sweetheart. He’s kind of like my mentor.”

  “Oh my God, I’m so jealous. My granddad is such a huge fan. How on earth could anyone doubt your ability if Sal endorses your work? He’s only, like, one of the greatest living poets of all time.”

  “That kind of stuff gets overlooked, Verity. People see only what they want to.”

  “It’s such a shame, isn’t it? People put so much
time and energy into tearing others down. It seems pointless to me.”

  “Sometimes when it’s happening, you can lose perspective. The truth is it’s never as bad as you think. Picture a stream of rushing water. That’s the people who adore you. The haters are the little fish trying to swim against the stream.”

  I nodded. “That makes a lot of sense.”

  “Once I picked a fight with Toby White—you know, that god-awful YouTuber? The one who does those shitty pranks? He put on a wig and read some of my poems in a whiny, high-pitched voice. I called him out, and his fans descended on me like a swarm of locusts. You should have seen the backlash. My mentions were going nuts. People were telling me to shut up, that I was being overly sensitive, that I can’t take a joke, or I must be on my period. It kept escalating, and the tweets got increasingly sadistic. I had to log off Twitter for, like, three days. It was horrible! I couldn’t bear to look at another tweet describing my rape and murder in horrific detail. Anyway, it all died down pretty quickly, and to my surprise, I made record sales that week. The fact is people love drama! They can’t resist it. Now when there’s something controversial, I just take a few days off social media and wait for the money to roll in.” We were walking past Tiffany’s, and she stopped to admire a diamond cuff bracelet in the window. “Hey,” she said, a wicked look on her face. She whipped out her phone. “I really want that bracelet! Want to help me stir up shit to fund it?”

  Before I knew it, we were walking along the tree-lined pavement that ran by Central Park.

  “Do you want to see my favorite thing ever?” Mena asked.

  “Sure.”

  We walked along farther until we reached an entrance into the park. We went a few steps in, and it felt as if I was being transported to another world. I stared at the grand trees that edged the park, their sprawling limbs spread out as though they were trying to keep the advancing metropolis at bay. We passed an old-style lamppost that reminded me of Narnia.

  “Oh my God! I can’t believe I’m actually here!” I exclaimed.

  Mena smiled. “I’m from Sacramento originally, so I know what it’s like, seeing Central Park for the first time. It’s a rite of passage.”