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Chapter One
Caroline
“As a part of your midterm, you have been asked to write a new poem in the style of your choice and will be asked to share it with the class,” Professor Mitchell tells us as he paces back and forth in front of the white board at the front of the room. My stomach lurches when he says this. Even though this has been my favorite class of the my entire college career, I’m not exactly an extrovert, let alone a performance artist.
Still, I’ve put my all and everything into this poem I’ve spent the first half of the term writing (I peeked ahead on the syllabus and knew I’d want to get a jump start on the project) and I’m going to read it aloud for everyone to hear in such a way that conveys all the pain and hurt and imagery I’ve transcribed into it.
It’s about my mom, Diana, who until recently was the closest person I had in my life.
Only last year, she died of brain cancer after a long, tumultuous fight against it. It was the most difficult day of my life when she died. It was worse that I was away at college and that I couldn’t be by her side. My dad, God love him, didn’t want to worry me too much or interrupt my studies. So it wasn’t until two days before she passed that I was even able to fly home to Akron to see her. She held out until I got there, and we spent a few quiet hours together in the hospital room. I cried, she cried, she slept, I couldn’t.
And then she was gone.
Reading the poem to the class, I feel all of those emotions rush back over me. I get choked up reading every single line through the entire thing, and I’m afraid to look up from the page at the others in my class, for fear that they may be mocking me. Or worse, for fear that they’re seeing me in a stage more vulnerable than I’ve ever been in before anybody.
I hesitate to look up after I’m done reading. The fear of seeing everyone’s expressions is almost paralyzing. Only, just before I do, I hear a sniffle come from not too far away and then another on the other side of the room.
I look up to find that people are wiping their eyes, and a slow, quiet, yet meaningful applause comes from around the room. Professor Mitchell told us at the beginning of the semester never to snap for poetry in his class.
“I find it pretentious and minimizing. Applaud the work that moves you like you would a chart-topping pop ballad or a celebrity guest on a sitcom,” he’d said back then. Although, Professor Mitchell doesn’t seem to be taking his own advice right now. That or, I don’t know. Maybe he just isn’t moved.
Not only is he not clapping with everyone else, he’s looking down at the ground, propped up against his desk by his hands, and digging his toes into the thin, University carpet like a board third baseman in a 0 to 0 baseball game.
“That’s enough,” he sort of snaps as if the applause is lasting too long. He then rounds his desk without ever looking up at any of us and says, “Class is dismissed early today. We will resume our poems on Wednesday.”
He then snaps his briefcase closed, snatches it off the desk, and marches in a stride as snappy as his ceasing of the poem’s applause.
As the door slams shut behind him, Brandon, the gay guy who always sits in front of me who I sometimes eat lunch with, turns around with an O-shaped mouth.
“Whaaaaaaat da fuck was that?!” he asks with eyebrows raised so high they’ve nearly blended into his hairline.
“Your poem was so good! So much better than the other ones that were being read!” Bri, the girl sitting next to me, says with an equally stunned expression.
“I don’t know...” I stammer out.
“Well...” Jessica says on the other side of me. She’s my roommate and best friend. “Isn’t it obvious?”
We all turn to look at her as she’s packing her notebook and textbook up in her messenger bag.
“Uhh, no?” Brandon says.
“Oh, c’mon,” Jessica says. “You are all such virgins.”
Ugh. I hate when she says things like that. At least other people can laugh it off. I, however, awkwardly always chuckle and turn red because I am, in fact, a virgin.
The door opens and we all look up to see if it’s possibly Professor Mitchell returning. Instead, we find it’s Dr. Andi Myers, who uses this classroom to teach her English Lit course after the poetry class. Seeing her, everyone turns back to Jessica.
“Well, c’mon!” Bri says. “Don’t leave us hanging. Let’s hear your theory.”
“He likes her...”
Fuck, I’m blushing again.
