Every Last Word

I’m not sure I can get through the entire week without accidentally running into any of the Eights or the Poets, but since I couldn’t talk my mom into homeschooling me for the rest of the year, that’s the plan for now.

I drive around the student lot a few times until I can park on a three. Then I cut the engine and stare at the digital clock, giving myself just enough time to make it to Hailey’s locker and then to class. When I arrive, Hailey hands me my overstuffed backpack, and I hug her before I take off for first period.

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.