Poemsia

by Lang Leav

  Then, after the shock of seeing the menu prices, we decided to split a single omelette, and instead of Pellegrino, we asked for tap. Our waiter was not impressed, and I swear I caught an eye roll.

  To add insult to injury, the omelette was mediocre—Jess and I both gave it two and half carrots—even though it was served on the prettiest plate I had ever seen. This entire experience was excruciating, and I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Now, here we were in the sunshine, relaxed and happy, listening to the chittering of birds and the gentle swooshing sounds of the oars sweeping the water.

  “I still can’t get over that we’re actually here,” said Jess dreamily.

  “Don’t you just love New York?”

  “I adore New York! We should move out here someday, don’t you think? We could get one of those loft apartments in SoHo. You could write poetry; I could draw and paint. We’d go gallery hopping, have long lunches, go see a show on Broadway. Can you imagine how much fun we’d have?”

  “Funny you should say that. Mena totally thinks I should move here.”

  Jess smiled. “I’m sure one day, Vare—”

  “No, no—she means now. I know it sounds crazy, but she made some good points. She said the poetry scene is all about youth, and I only have a handful of years to make it here.”

  Jess stopped rowing and gaped at me. “Are you insane?”

  “But you just said you’d love to move here.”

  “Vare, I wasn’t actually serious. I mean, what about Pop? Are you just going to leave him? You know he hasn’t been well—who’s going to take care of him? And what about Wolf Books?”

  “I just thought that if things go well for me here, I’d be able to get the best treatment for Pop. And you know how many times Wolf Books has been close to shutting down. We keep thinking up all these schemes to save it, and Jess, what if this is the way? What if I am successful, like Mena or Sara? Then I’ll have more than enough money to keep Wolf Books open.”

  “Oh my God, you’re actually thinking about this, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know—it’s just an idea. OK, let’s forget about it.”

  “You can’t just drop a bombshell like this and then brush it off. God, we’re not living in a fairy tale. What about Sash?”

  “I love Sash—you know that! But it’s not like we’re married or anything! Mena says the worst thing I could do is let a guy hold me back.”

  She gave me a wide-eyed look. “Sash isn’t just some guy. He’s special, OK? One in a million—take it from someone who’s known you all your life. To be honest, something about Mena doesn’t feel right to me. I know how impressionable you are, but you can’t let her get into your head like that.”

  “Jess, stop treating me like a child. I can damn well think for myself. Any idiot can see this is a huge opportunity and I’d be crazy not to at least consider it. That’s all I’m doing.”

  “Vare, you know I only want the best for you, right? If I thought even for a second that moving here would be a good idea for you, I’d be the first one to tell you.”

  “Well, Mena moved out here from Sacramento when she was my age and look where it’s gotten her!”

  Jess had a troubled look. “Mena is on a different planet. I thought the breakfast place she recommended would tell you that. It was beautiful, but it had no soul. All surface and nothing but empty space underneath.” She sighed. “I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong and I’m just being selfish because it would kill me to lose you.”

  “You could come with me, Jess.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve just started a new course that I love, and I don’t want to give that up.”

  “You mean not give up your professor, Hayden,” I shot, but I did not mean for it to come out the way it did.

  Her face darkened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There is something going on there, and for some reason you won’t tell me what it is. I thought you were my best friend!”

  “Only because there’s nothing to tell you. I might have a crush on him, and he might have a crush on me. But he’s my professor, so it’s a no-go. You’re making something out of nothing, and I have no idea why. What has this got to do with anything anyway?” She shook her head in frustration.

  Now I wasn’t even sure what we were arguing about. I hated it when we argued, and I only wanted things to be normal again.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

  “It’s OK.”

  An uncomfortable silence hung on as Jess continued rowing. We passed under a bridge for a moment, and it blocked out the sun.

  “I hate this—us fighting, I mean.”

  “Me too,” Jess agreed.

  She was on the verge of tears, and it made me want to cry.

  All of a sudden, I came to my senses. “Hey, you are dead right, Jess. I don’t know what came over me. I mean, seriously, it is a crazy idea!”

  “Yeah, I’m usually the one with the crazy ideas—remember?” Even though I knew she was hurt, she managed a smile, and it lightened the mood.

  “Besides, I can’t leave Zorro, can I? I’d have to take him with me, and that cat would hate New York. I mean, he hates pretty much everything, but he would hate New York big-time.”

  For the next few days, Mena was an absolute angel. She took time out of her busy schedule to show me parts of the city she loved—things tucked away that felt like secrets, like the tiny bookshop in Brooklyn. You had to go through a long, dark alley to get to it, and it was so charming and quaint. The selection of books was curated by a little Russian lady who I swear is my literary soul mate.

  I felt like Mena and I really bonded over our shared passion for poetry. We had so much in common it was freaky. Like me, she was a Pisces and loved the color green. She was crazy about sweaters, and autumn was her favorite season. She always played the thumbtack in Monopoly and was a sucker for knock-knock jokes. Even though we’d known each other only a short time, she was like a kindred spirit. We laughed a lot, and I felt as if I could tell her anything. On the downside, I didn’t get to spend as much time with Jess as I wanted, but Mena said it was a work trip and that should be my main priority. Jess swore she didn’t mind at all, and it gave her a chance to hang out with Aunty Hoy and little Pei Pei.

  The day before my event was set aside for media interviews, and I was glad Mena was with me. The session was held in the lobby of the Mark, a flashy hotel on Madison Avenue. Doing back-to-back interviews was a lot tougher than I imagined, and I was so grateful to Mena for her guidance.

  “You’re doing so great, Verity!” she assured me. Finally, I was done with the bulk of my meetings and waiting for the last journalist to arrive.

  “Do you think so? I kind of tripped up when the guy from Lipstick asked me whether I thought Instagram had democratized poetry or dumbed it down.”

  “Oh, you’ll get asked that a lot. I thought you answered it really well. Like you said, we have to stop thinking our readers need to be spoon-fed. They are perfectly capable of deciding for themselves what they want to read.”

  I shrugged. “Just going by personal experience. I gravitate to authors I like and don’t put too much thought into it.”

  “It’s the same with most people, and that’s the way it should be. You should just read whatever resonates with you. What’s the point of suffering through a book just because the author is a literary star?”

  “Exactly,” I nodded, and once again, we were on the same page.

  Mena took a sip of her tea. “You talked to an interesting mix of journalists today.”

  “They were kind of intimidating. I mean, hardly anyone smiled.”

  “That’s not always a bad thing. It’s the gushy ones you have to look out for. One time, a journalist posing as a fangirl interviewed me. She asked for my autograph and wanted loads of selfies. Afterward, she wrote a hit piece
.”

  “Oh my God!”

  Mena rolled her eyes. “Look, as an author you will occasionally get bashed by the media. It happens to the best of us. What I can’t stand is when someone is duplicitous—and presents themselves a certain way that is contrary to what they are. It’s so unethical.”

  “That’s pretty low,” I agreed, thinking back to Penelope and the way she acted at the party. She was nice to me right up until the moment she stuck the knife in my back.

  “Sometimes you do get lucky. There are some journalists who are just decent, and they don’t harbor a shred of resentment about your success. They tell the story like it is, without a trace of bitterness. Admittedly, those ones are rare, but they remind you there are still some good ones left.”

  “Fingers crossed for the next one. What’s the publication?”

  “BuzzFeed.”

  I recognized Sierra the moment she walked in. She had interviewed me via FaceTime when Karla first shared my poem. It was like seeing an old friend.

  “Verity! Welcome to New York.”

  “Thanks!”

  “Ready?” Mena asked.

  I nodded, and we settled in. Mena shot me a wink.

  “Verity Wolf,” Sierra grinned, “tomorrow is your big event, right? Tell me—are you excited?”

  Twelve

  “You ready?” Mena asked. She was standing behind me, hands covering my eyes.

  “Ready!” I crowed.

  She lifted her hands, and my eyes flew open. “Holy shit!”

  We were on our way to the Sojourn Theatre when Mena told me we’d be making a pit stop. At Barnes & Noble in Union Square, we were standing in front of a shelf display, near the entrance. One entire side was dedicated to Mena’s new book and the other to mine—shelves and shelves of our books from floor to ceiling. Nearby, a large easel held a poster advertising my show. On a plain black background in a large, elegant font, it announced:

  An Intimate Evening with Verity Wolf,

  in conversation with Mena Rhodes

  at the Sojourn Theatre.

  Hosted by Carry Way Press

  with Barnes & Noble.

  Purchase tickets at counter.

  $15 per person. $35 for book + ticket.

  I reached out and stroked the cover of my book, touching it gingerly as if to convince myself it was real. Goose bumps rose on my arms.

  “Pretty neat, huh?” Mena said.

  I gulped and nodded, at a loss for words. I felt overcome as I remembered the day Jess had taken me to Berkelouw and put my book on the shelf. I could hear her voice clearly in my mind. “Imagine, Vare, your book on the shelf next to Mena’s.” Now it had actually happened, and it felt bittersweet because Jess wasn’t here to see it.

  “Hi, girls!” I turned to see a woman in her late thirties wearing faded jeans and a leather jacket.

  “Kerry!” Mena reached out and gave her a hug. “Verity, this is our publisher, Kerry Ray.”

  “Oh!” I stuck out my hand, but she pulled me into a hug, too.

  “It is so lovely to finally meet you! I hear Mena’s taken you on as her protégé.” She waggled her index finger at us. “I’m glad the two of you are getting on so well!”

  “Mena’s been wonderful,” I gushed. “Thank you for setting all this up for me, Kerry.”

  “This woman is a rock star,” said Mena, reaching over to massage Kerry’s shoulders. “She had the top job at Geidt & Ekstrom, but they weren’t interested in modern poetry, and she couldn’t convince them otherwise. So she left and took a chunk of the team with her. They founded Carry Way.”

  “‘Carry Way’ is how my daughter pronounced my name when she was six,” Kerry explained.

  “That’s so cute!”

  “And the rest is history,” Mena gestured to our books.

  Kerry grinned. “I don’t think we’ve spoken directly, Verity, but I’ve had lots of interesting conversations with your agent, Mei Lyn.”

  I smiled to myself.

  “Are you excited about your show?” she continued.

  “Excited and shit scared.”

  Mena cackled. “Isn’t she a doll?”

  “She reminds me of you at her age,” Kerry smiled, a look of nostalgia on her face.

  Mena draped her arm around my shoulders. “Mini me,” she said fondly.

  “Let me get a picture of you both for our Instagram.” Kerry pulled out her phone, and we posed. “By the way, I was just talking to Anya, the events coordinator here, and she said the show sold out yesterday.”

  “Your first sellout show! Congratulations, Verity!” said Mena.

  “I’m sure it didn’t hurt to have you chairing the event.”

  “No, no. They’re mainly here to see you—remember that!”

  “But you are very lucky Mena put her hand up for this. She’s picky about whom she supports,” explained Kerry. “Look at what she did for Sara Woo.”

  “I’m happy to do it any time! And this won’t be the last, since Verity is thinking of moving to New York.”

  Kerry’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that would be amazing! We can do so much for you here—get our little PR engine running. We’ll make you a star!”

  “Oh, I—I’m not sure if it’s something I can consider right now,” I faltered.

  “You’d be crazy not to!” Kerry exclaimed. “We’d look after you, like we did with Mena. Our office is over in Chelsea, so feel free to pop by.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Mena agreed. “Why don’t we drop by tomorrow, and we can all sit down and discuss Verity’s future. We’ll make a plan.”

  “Wonderful! I’ll clear my morning schedule, and we’ll work things out for you, Verity. I know it might seem scary, but we’re like a little family—you’ll be in good hands. You are going to love New York.” She patted my arm, as though the decision had already been made. My stomach tightened, and I felt like I was locked onto a rollercoaster.

  “What are we discussing, ladies?” A tall girl with glasses and braids suddenly appeared.

  “We’re talking about our star, Verity,” announced Mena. “We see big things for her!”

  “Verity!” exclaimed the girl, throwing up her hands. “It’s an honor to meet you—I’m such a huge fan! I’m Anya, and I’m organizing your event.”

  Kerry beamed at her. “Anya does all the big ones! She put one on for Hillary recently.”

  “Wow,” I gulped, almost breathless.

  “She’s my hero,” Anya gushed. “But tonight, it’s all about you. We’re so excited to be hosting you at the Sojourn. It’s a sweet little theater, and you’re going to love it. Now!” She clapped her hands. “Do you have any preferences for the greenroom?”

  “The greenroom?”

  “It’s the room we put you in before we take you out on stage. Just checking to see if you have any pre-show requests, any snacks or drinks you’d like? For example, mineral or still water?”

  “Um . . . I don’t really have a preference.”

  “That just makes my job easier. You can’t imagine some of the demands I get.”

  “Guilty!” said Mena, with a sheepish grin.

  “Oh, you’re not so bad, Princess. Anyway, I have some last-minute things to do. I’ll see you ladies later at the Sojourn.”

  Thirteen

  When we were kids, Jess and I stumbled on a broken video recorder in Pop’s junk closet. We played with it for days, Jess in front of the camera while I stayed firmly behind it. She would light up whenever it was pointed at her—so comfortable taking her place center stage. I loved watching her perform in front of an imaginary audience, whether she was singing, tap dancing, or acting out a scene from Othello. She was so natural that I was convinced she was born to be a star. As I sat in the greenroom at the Sojourn, I had to wonder why I was here instead of her.

&nbs
p; It was a fair-sized room, with the couch I was sitting on at one end and a black upright piano at the other. It also had a row of vanities adorned with flower-filled vases and light bulbs dotted around the mirrors. Adjacent to the vanities was a mirrored wall that made the room seem far bigger than it was. Cupcakes and a variety of snacks along with tea, coffee, and biscuits were set up on a trestle table. A pitcher of water with lemon slices sat beside some glass tumblers.

  Mena came waltzing in with a guy I didn’t recognize. He had short, spiky hair and gold rings on his fingers. One arm held a clothing bag, and he dragged a large silver case behind him. He flashed me a quick smile that looked insincere.

  “There’s our twinkle, twinkle little star!” Mena sang. “Verity, you are in the presence of greatness. Meet Raphael!”

  “Hi,” I said, bemused.

  “He is here to transform you.”

  “Stand up,” Raphael barked. He had a French accent.

  “Transform me?” I wondered, but I did snap to my feet. Raphael made a twirling motion with his finger, and I spun around in a slow, clumsy circle.

  “Hmmmm . . .” He set down the clothing and directed me to sit at one of the vanities. “How much time do we have?”

  Mena checked her watch. “Just over an hour.”

  Raphael sighed a loud, dramatic sigh.

  “Don’t expect miracles,” he warned.

  I stared into the mirror and saw a stranger looking back. My tumble of dark locks was now shoulder length, hanging straight and glossy. I turned my head from side to side, and my hair swished, just like Mena’s. In fact, we looked almost alike, although I was squatter and rounder. My eyes looked like they had doubled in size, due to the false eyelashes and eyeliner.

  “Raphael, you’ve done it again!” Mena gushed.

  “I look like I have cheekbones.” I reached up to pat my face.