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“I’m sorry, I just…”
“Chelsea,” Harriet chastised her. And I could hear Finn laughing.
“Can I continue, please?”
“Please continue,” Chelsea said.
“And please do not say anything else, Chelsea.”
“I won’t,” she said. “Sorry.”
I sighed and continued.
“‘Spinning around me. The room feels like it’s spinning around me. I’m high on life in the sky, in the clouds, and then he steps forward. His hand reaches up, and mine reaches up, and our fingers touch.’”
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Then I let him go again,” Chelsea sang out. And I just glared at her. “Sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t help myself.”
Sometimes I could not stand my sister.
“‘Fire burning,’” I continued. “‘Burning, burning, burning. He grabs my hand and puts it down onto his manhood, and it’s throbbing, throbbing, throbbing. And I’m yearning, yearning, yearning.’”
I paused and waited. Chelsea looked like she was trying not to laugh, and I licked my lips nervously.
“That’s the poem, guys.”
“What did I just listen to?” Finn said, laughing slightly. “I feel like that was some X-rated shit.”
I pressed my lips together, and Chelsea started giggling.
“Yeah, talk about throbbing.”
“Can I ask a question?” Harriet said.
“Sure,” I said, grateful that my sister was going to ask something.
“So when the poet is talking about him reaching his hand, or him reaching her hand to touch him, is he talking about his dick?”
Chelsea burst out laughing. “Oh my God. How do you not get that right away, Harriet? Of course it’s his dick.” She started giggling. “Dick, dick, dick.”
“Really, Chelsea. You need to grow up.”
“Okay,” she said. “Sorry.”
My face was red, and I was annoyed that I had read the poem out loud. Because if I was honest with myself, having read it out loud, it didn’t sound as good as I thought it had when I’d written it. But maybe I shouldn’t have written it after drinking an entire bottle of wine.
“So let’s get some scores, please,” Chelsea said, clapping her hands together. “Scores, scores, scores,” she called out. “Okay, Finn, your score out of ten.”
“I’m going to give it a six out of ten,” he said.
I could feel my heart sinking.
“And you, Harriet?” Chelsea said.
“So who wrote this poem exactly?” Harriet asked. And I glared at Chelsea.
“Oh, it was submitted by one of Polly’s classmates.”
“Oh, okay,” Harriet said. “I’m not going to lie. It was a bit random for me. It didn’t really rhyme.”
