Poemsia

by Lang Leav

  “Yes,” I said, thinking back to my show. My mind lingered on the bright lights, and the deafening crowd—the sheer magic of it all. My heart swelled.

  “Mena told me about you. You’re the one-hit wonder poet.”

  My stomach seized. “One-hit wonder?”

  “You know, the poem Karla Swann shared on her Instagram. Mena said it’s the only decent thing on your page. She thinks the rest of your stuff is juvenile, and I have to agree.”

  “Mena said that?” I found it hard to breathe.

  “Not that it matters. It’s not as if quality counts for anything, does it? As long as they can turn you into a commodity, right?”

  I blinked and drew back, affronted.

  “Mena’s a partner in Carry Way Press. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

  I shook my head. “I had no idea.”

  “Did you think she was helping you out of the kindness of her heart? Because she’s passionate about supporting young poets?” The girl let out a bitter laugh. “Her passion is purely financial. She’s a smart girl, and she knows she can’t be the star forever. That’s why she needs other poets to siphon from. She’ll turn on the charm as long as you’re hauling in the cash, like her pet poet Sara Woo. It was the same with me in the beginning. Mena promised me the world, but when my poetry never took off, she dropped me like a hot potato. Don’t think the same won’t happen to you.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to this. Was I really just a means to an end for Mena? My mind went over the past few days, when we seemed so in tune. I’d come to think of us as friends, but was I wrong?

  The girl waved at the spread on the table. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”

  Awkwardly, I piled the caviar onto a cracker.

  “Whoa! Go easy on that—it’s Beluga!”

  “Oh.” I slid some of it off. I had no idea what Beluga meant.

  “No! Don’t put it back!” She looked horrified. “Haven’t you had caviar before?”

  I shook my head.

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s like a hundred bucks you just put on that cracker. People are starving, you know.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, confused.

  “Well, aren’t you going to eat it?”

  I popped the cracker in my mouth. It was so salty I almost gagged. It was like swallowing a mouthful of the sea. She continued to watch me like a hawk.

  “Mmmm,” I said, nodding, as my eyes began to water. “It’s delicious.”

  She rolled her eyes and left.

  “My favorite!” I turned sharply to see a paunchy middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair digging into the caviar. I did a double take.

  “You’re Sal Dollinger!” I blurted.

  “And I’m guessing you’re Verity. Mena’s told me all about you.”

  “Oh my God, I am such a huge fan! And my granddad—he’s an even bigger one. He’s been trying to hunt down an autographed book for years, but they’re hard to come by.”

  He grinned widely, and I couldn’t help grinning back. He had bright, laughing eyes, and I felt immediately at ease.

  “Well, you’re in luck. I promised Mena I’d bring a couple of books along. Let’s get them signed for you.”

  I followed Sal into a room that seemed to be Mena’s study. Like the rest of her apartment, it looked like a page torn from a decorating magazine. A large desk sat by a wall of books; some I recognized as first editions. Framed pictures of Mena posing with her celebrity friends at red-carpet events were arranged on a designer buffet. A couple of Sal’s books lay on the desk next to a crystal paperweight. I picked up Pop’s favorite, Grape.

  “My grandad can practically recite every poem in this book by heart.”

  “I’m flattered. He sounds like an interesting guy.”

  “He’s the proud owner of a bookshop—Wolf Books.” I gave Sal a short history of our store, starting from when Pop opened it in the early seventies to its glory days when Stephen Fry stopped by on his world literary pilgrimage. “It’s an old establishment that’s probably seen its best days, but it’s Pop’s legacy. I’m desperately trying to save it.”

  “I’d love to see it one day.”

  “You’re welcome anytime.”

  “You know, you remind me of Mena when she was your age.”

  “I get that a lot for some reason.”

  “Something about the way you hold yourself, I think. I remember Mena when she was a doe-eyed, fresh-faced girl from Sacramento. Now look at her—she’s a firecracker!”

  I half smiled. I still felt hurt and confused by the way Mena had spoken to me earlier. It was such a sudden and dramatic turnaround. I thought over what the girl at the buffet had said. Was she telling me the truth about Mena?

  Sal continued, “The industry isn’t the way it was. Back in my time, it was all about the craft of writing. No social media. Whether you got published wasn’t up to the masses, like now. That means a lot of shit that should never see the light of day gets through. On the flip side, we get to discover hidden jewels that we might have missed under the old system. The critics are notorious for getting it wrong. Take Mena. She’s a talent, no doubt. But between you and me, there’s something lacking in her work. She has the technical ability, for sure.” Sal paused and scratched his chin, a thoughtful look on his face. “What’s missing from Mena’s work is a certain quality—one you can’t exactly describe. You either have it or you don’t. Look at Mozart. He could compose an entire symphony in his head when most musicians follow a process of trial and error, correcting as they go. Mozart only had to find the first note, then the rest followed, each as flawless as the next. It was as though he were less of a creator and more of a transcriber. His music came from a place not of this world—that’s what separates talent from genius. I don’t believe Mena belongs to the latter. That’s why she papers over it by dazzling people. But you, Verity, you belong to the old world of poetry. You were born with that quality. I don’t think you’re aware of the power you possess yet, but in time you will learn how to harness it. Then you’ll be unstoppable. You won’t need any of this.” He waved his arm around Mena’s extravagantly decorated study.

  I hadn’t realized I had been holding my breath until I let it out. “You really think that?”

  His eyes held mine. “I know it.”

  Sal then settled into Mena’s desk and uncapped a silver fountain pen. “What’s your grandad’s name?”

  “Eilhard Wolf.”

  “Fantastic name.”

  “My parents were killed in an accident when I was seven. Pop and Nan took me in. We live above the bookshop. Nan passed away just over a year ago, and now Pop is all I have left. Only his health isn’t so good, and—” Tears filled my eyes, and I couldn’t finish the sentence. Sal paused and looked up, and I sensed he knew what I was about to say.

  He nodded. “That makes sense. You’ve known far too much sadness for someone so young. I believe that’s why your writing is so mature. Your work feels like it’s written by someone who has lived several lifetimes. In a way, you have.”

  He finished signing the books and handed them to me. I tucked them away in my bag for safety.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re more than welcome, Verity Wolf.”

  We exchanged a smile across the table.

  “Sal, I’d like to ask you something. Mena thinks I should move here—to New York. She said I only have so much time to make it in this industry.”

  “And what do you feel?”

  “I don’t want to leave Pop or the bookshop. At the same time, I don’t want to spend my life wishing I had the courage to follow my dream.”

  “Do you know what that dream is?”

  “I want to be like you.”

  “I wasn’t published until I was well into my thirties, and a decade later I won my Pulitzer. S
o like I said earlier, you belong to the old world of poetry. In the words of Jean de La Fontaine, ‘A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it.’ As a poet, this is something you inherently know. Whatever path you choose will take you to the same destination. The only thing that should guide you is your intuition. Trust that. And don’t worry—time is most certainly on your side.”

  “There you are!” Mena’s voice cut through our conversation as she swept into the room. Her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes a little glazed. “I’m sorry, Sal, but I have to steal Verity away. There are people who want to meet our little star.”

  Mena pulled me into the main lounge to the white chesterfield couch where three girls sat. One of them was Sara Woo.

  “Girls, this is Verity, my little protégé. As you know, she’s in town this week, and I’ve been showing her the ropes. Verity—” she gestured to the group who had their eyes fixed on me. They all looked like clones of Mena, immaculately dressed and bejeweled, not a hair out of place. “These girls are my posse, my confidantes. Saba is my sister. Pixie—she’s just starting out, like you. And I’m sure you’ve heard of Sara.”

  “Hi, everyone.”

  “Hi,” they chorused back.

  “What do you think, girls?” Mena asked.

  Three sets of eyes bored into me, and I felt exposed, like I was a specimen Mena had wheeled out to be poked and prodded.

  “She kind of looks like you,” said Saba.

  “But not as pretty,” Pixie added quickly.

  “Sara?” Mena asked.

  Sara shrugged. “There’s potential there, I guess.”

  Saba nodded. “She just needs to lose a few pounds.”

  “Her skin is breaking out. Girl could do with a decent facial,” Sara suggested.

  Saba snickered. “Love the dress and bracelet, but those shoes—ew . . . tacky! Especially paired with a dress like that.”

  I opened my mouth to explain that I’d wanted to buy new shoes—of course I did. They weren’t exactly on my priority list next to bills and the mounting cost of Pop’s meds. Suddenly, I missed him so much I couldn’t breathe. I missed our shop, and the rooftop, and the whole saga of Paul, Margo, and Sandra. I missed Centennial Park, where Jess had convinced me to recite my poetry to a bunch of strangers. And Berkelouw, where Jess put my book on the shelf next to Mena’s. And Last Chance, where we flirted and bantered with Jonesy. All at once, my heart swelled with love for Jess because she never cared what shoes I wore. She didn’t give a damn about diamond bracelets, and she thought the world of Sash, just like I did. Without a word, I turned and headed for the door.

  Mena caught up with me as I got to the hallway. She tugged at my arm. “Verity, wait!”

  I took off the diamond bracelet and handed it to her. “I’m leaving.”

  “But it’s your party. You can’t go.”

  For the first time, I looked at her without that halo of celebrity. It occurred to me that perhaps her hair wasn’t as shiny as I thought or her eyes nearly as spectacular as when I first met her.

  She gave me a wry smile. “Come on, the girls were just kidding. They’re really nice once you to get to know them.”

  “I doubt it,” I said, and she flinched.

  “What’s wrong with you? I’ve gone out of my way to help you, and this is the thanks I get?”

  I took a deep breath and channeled Jess. My back straightened, and I looked Mena dead in the eye. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t know that your help came with strings attached.”

  She looked taken aback but quickly recovered. Her voice softened. “Verity, I’ll tell you what. Let me make it up to you. We’ll go out shopping for some new shoes tomorrow. I’ll get you into your first pair of Loubies. My treat, OK?”

  “I like my shoes.”

  “I don’t mean to preach. God knows I hate that shit. But you’re a star now, babe. I thought tonight would have shown you that. You’re a pretty girl, and with the right clothes, makeup, and diet, you could be beautiful. Do you have any idea how lucky you are, how many girls would kill to be standing where you are now? The world is waiting—so what are you going to do?”

  I pictured my future self, the version of me that stays here and lives out the same path as Mena. I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror, at the new me, the one I thought I’d always wanted to be. I decided then and there that I liked my old self a whole lot better.

  “You’re back early,” said Jess. She was sitting on the bed, paperback in her hand. I sat down next to her.

  “What are you reading?”

  She held up the cover. “A Snowflake in a Snowfield.”

  “Is it any good?”

  “It’s great. It’s about a woodcutter’s daughter. Kind of like a fairy tale, but really messed up.”

  My phone rang, but I let it go.

  “Aren’t you going to get that?” Jess asked.

  I glanced at the screen. “It’s Sash, probably calling to hear how tonight went. I’ll call him back in a minute.”

  “OK,” she said and went back to her book.

  I put my hand on her arm. “Jess.”

  When she looked up at me, I saw tears in her eyes.

  “Vare, I’m so sorry. I know I’ve been kind of weird lately. It’s unfair to you. You’ve got so much going on, and I don’t know if I’ve been the greatest friend. I feel bad about how I reacted when you talked about moving to New York. Of course it’s something you should consider, especially after the success of your show tonight—God, you’d be crazy not to! And I guess this whole time I was jealous of Mena. It’s always been me and you, and it felt like she was taking my place. Like I was losing my best friend. I know it’s wrong of me to hold you back for my own selfish reasons.”

  I shook my head. “No, you’ve got it all backward. I’m the one who should be sorry. I let myself get swept up in all of this. It went to my head because, well, Mena just dazzled me. Now I’ve seen another side of her—the one you’ve been trying to warn me about. You were right, Jess; Mena is just like that breakfast place Pony—all surface and nothing much underneath. Her friends are like that, too.”

  Jess nodded. “That’s the opposite of who you are.”

  We hugged, and everything suddenly felt lighter.

  “So what was the party like?”

  I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Oh my God, where do I start?”

  I gave Jess a recap, describing Mena’s apartment, the incident with the caviar, hanging out with Sal Dollinger, and Mena’s posse of superficial clones. Jess listened raptly, relishing every detail.

  “You were amazing tonight, Vare. I can’t put into words how proud of you I am.”

  “From Centennial Park in Sydney all the way to the Sojourn in New York,” I said in a dramatic voice. She swatted my arm. “Hey, can you believe we haven’t been to Egg & Yolk yet?”

  “Tomorrow is as good a day as any,” said Jess.

  “I’m meant to meet up with Mena tomorrow, but you know what?” I grinned. “I think I’m coming down with something.” I did a little cough. “I think I might have to cancel.”

  “You’re skipping a day out with Mena Rhodes for me? Who would have thought?”

  I grabbed my phone, and we started crafting a text. “Hey, Mena, sorry I can’t make it tomorrow. Not feeling great.”

  “Hmmm, that seems open to interpretation. What about ‘feeling well’ instead? That makes you sound contagious.”

  “Good call.”

  My thumbs went to work. “Mena, sorry I can’t make it tomorrow. Not feeling well.”

  “Stomach bug?” Jess suggested with a wink.

  “Or maybe food poisoning?”

  “The caviar,” laughed Jess.

  We giggled as I finished typing. I showed it to Jess, and she nodded her approval. It read, “Hey, Mena. Sorry I can�
��t make it tomorrow. Not feeling well. Bad stomach cramps, possibly due to an infectious tummy bug or too much caviar.”

  “Send it!” Jess said gleefully.

  We smirked at each other, and I pressed send, then dropped the phone. My heart was full to the brim, and I thought back to what Sal had said to me about following my intuition. For me, intuition is kind of like a bell that’s inside your chest. It rings when you know unequivocally that you’ve made the right choice. Now I could hear it ringing away, and its music was almost like laughter.

  My phone pinged with a text.

  “Jeeez, that was quick,” I said.

  “How did Mena take it?”

  I looked at my phone, suddenly frowning.

  “Vare? What’s wrong. You’ve gone all pale.”

  “It isn’t from Mena; it’s from Sash.” My voice dropped to a whisper, trying to process what I was seeing.

  “Is everything OK?” she asked anxiously. “It’s not Pop, is it?”

  I shook my head. “It’s not Pop. Sash just sent me a link to an article about me.” I was shaking. “Penelope wrote it for Billy.”

  Jess grabbed the phone, and I watched her skim over the words I’d just read. She slammed down the phone, eyes shooting venom. “That. Fucking. Bitch!”

  Sixteen

  “Verity Wolf plagiarizes from 18th-century masterpiece Poemsia” read the headline. The article was posted three hours ago right to the minute when my show started. And it already had hundreds of shares next to the Twitter tab.

  “But she must know that I’ve—”

  “Of course she does,” Jess said through gritted teeth. “You made it perfectly clear in your post—it’s not your fault no one checks anything these days. And there’s the BuzzFeed article where you mention Poemsia! A quick Google search would show you that, and she’s supposed to be a journalist, for Chrissake. This isn’t an article; it’s a hit job.”

  I got Sash on the phone. “I just saw the article.”

  “I’m sorry, Wolf—I tried to call you.” He sounded livid. “Pen’s not answering her phone, so I’m driving to her house now to see if I can get her to take it down.”