Every Last Word (6 page)

“What the hell was that?” I ask her. My voice is even more wobbly than it was a few minutes ago.

She gives me a supportive nudge with her elbow. “Don’t worry about it. You did great.”

Now that he’s no longer blocking my view, I can see where I am. The room is long and narrow and, like the janitor’s closet, painted entirely in black. But the ceilings are twice as
high, and even though it’s dark, it’s not claustrophobic at all. At the front of the room, I see a low riser that appears to be a makeshift stage. Smack in the center, there’s a
wooden stool.

I count five other people in the room. They’re sitting on small couches and oversize chairs facing the stage and set at a slight angle, each one covered in different material—blue
crushed velvet, brown leather, red and gray checks—and completely unique. Low bookcases line the room, and small mismatched lamps are spaced evenly around the perimeter. I nervously wonder
what would happen if the power went out.

Then I see the walls.

I spin a slow 360 in place, taking it all in. All four walls are covered with scraps of paper in different colors and shapes and textures, all jutting out at various angles. Lined paper ripped
from spiral-bound notebooks. Plain paper, three-hole punched. Graph paper, torn at the edges. Pages that have yellowed with age, along with napkins and Post-its and brown paper lunch bags and even
a few candy wrappers.

Caroline’s watching me, and I take a few cautious steps closer to get a better look. I reach for one of the pages, running the corner between my thumb and forefinger, and that’s when
I notice handwriting on each one, as distinctive as the paper itself. Loopy, flowing cursive. Tight, angular letters. Precise, blocky printing.

Wow.

I don’t think I’ve ever experienced this sensation outside the pool, but I feel it now, deep in my bones. My shoulders drop. My heart’s no longer racing. I can’t see a
toxic, negative thought for miles.

“What is this place?” I whisper to Caroline, but before she can say anything, the girl I met at the door comes out of nowhere and grabs my arm. She has dark hair and a pixie cut, and
now she’s bouncing in place like this is the most exciting thing that’s happened to her in a long time.

“Come sit with me. There’s an open spot on the couch in front.” She starts leading me toward this atrocious green-and-pink-plaid sofa in the first row. “How long have you
been writing?”

For what feels like the one-hundredth time today, my head spins toward Caroline. She’s got a weird grin on her face. “Writing?”

“Don’t worry,” Pixie Cut says. She tightens her grip on my arm and pulls me closer. “I’m the newest one here and I totally remember my first time. Don’t be
afraid. You’re only here to listen.”

She plops down on one end of the couch and pats the cushion on her right. “Sit.” I do as I’m told. “Well, you definitely picked a good day,” she says.
“Sydney’s going first and AJ’s up after her.”

Caroline settles in on my other side. I look to her for clues, and again she gives me nothing.

Everyone gets quiet as a heavyset girl I assume to be Sydney climbs up to the stage and bumps the stool with her hip, scooting it to the side. Wait. I know her. She’s in my U.S. History
class.

I’d never seen her before this week, but on the first day of school, she strolled into class wearing a black strappy dress with bright red cherries all over it. It looked vintage. But it
wasn’t her outfit or her confidence that caught my attention. It was her hair. Long, thick, and bright red, like Cassidy’s. I’d already been thinking about her all day, wishing
the two of us were at the pool instead, and seeing that hair made me miss her even more.

Sydney holds up the top of a Chicken McNuggets container. “I wrote this last night at…” She flips the paper around to show us the McDonald’s arches and bounces her hand
up and down, nodding proudly. “The lid wasn’t as greasy this time, so I got an entire poem in,” she says, and everyone laughs at what I presume to be an inside joke.

“I call this one
Neujay
.” She turns the paper around again and runs her fingertip across the word “Nuggets,” and then clears her throat dramatically.

Everyone stands, clapping and cheering, and Sydney holds her skirt to one side and curtsies. Then she throws her arms up in the air and her head back and yells, “Yes! Stick me!”

Some guy on the other couch tosses a glue stick at her. She catches it in the air, removes the cap, and, using the stool as a table, runs the glue back and forth across the McDonald’s
logo.

She steps off the stage and I think she’s walking toward me, but she passes our couch and stops at the wall. We all watch as she smacks what’s left of the Chicken McNuggets lid
against it. Brushing her hands together, she settles into a spot on the couch behind me and our eyes meet. She smiles at me. I smile back. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her speak until
now.

When I turn around again, the guy who let me inside is taking the stage. He perches himself on the stool and picks up the acoustic guitar that’s strapped over his shoulder.

How do I know him?

I follow the string around his neck, and picture that gold key hiding behind his guitar.

“I wrote this last weekend in my room. And, okay, I’m sayin’ it.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “This one sucks.”

He stands up, holds his hands in front of him, and lets the guitar fall slack so the strap catches it. He’s gesturing toward himself in this go-ahead-let-me-have-it kind of way, and
everyone around me starts ripping papers out of notebooks, balling them up, and chucking them at him. He laughs and keeps gesturing with his hands, silently telling them to keep it coming.

I look over at Caroline. She won’t make eye contact with me, so I lightly elbow pixie-cut girl. “Why are they doing that?” I ask, and she comes in close to my ear.
“It’s one of the rules. You can’t criticize anyone’s poetry, but especially not your own.”

He perches himself on the stool and picks up his guitar again, and the second he does, the paper stops flying. He starts plucking the strings, and this melody fills the room. He’s only
playing a few notes, but they sound so pretty together this way, over and over again. And then he starts singing.

He’s not looking at any of us. He’s just staring down at the guitar, picking at the strings. He sings two more verses, and his voice rises higher, louder when he reaches the chorus.
After another verse, the tempo slows, and I can tell the song is winding down.

The last note lingers in the silence. Everyone remained quiet for a second or two, but now they’re on their feet, clapping and cheering and tossing more paper balls at his head as he swats
them away. Then they start pelting him with glue sticks.

He manages to catch one as it bounces off the wall behind him, and then he does that musician thing, slipping his guitar around his back in one fluid motion. He’s shaking his head as if
he’s embarrassed by the attention, and pulls a piece of paper out of the back pocket of his jeans. He unfolds it, flattens it against the stool, and rubs glue along the back before he steps
down from the stage.

He walks to the other side of the room and, still clutching the paper, bows once. Then he reaches up high on the wall, smacking his words against it.

I’m trying to figure out if everyone else is as taken aback as I am, but they don’t seem to be. Didn’t anyone else think that was amazing? Because while all of them are clearly
enjoying this moment, none of them look quite as surprised as I am, and I’m pretty sure their arms aren’t covered in goose bumps like mine are. They all look relatively unfazed.

Except Caroline.

She’s grinning ear to ear, and as we take our seats again, she threads her arm through mine and rests her chin on my shoulder. “I knew it,” she says. “I was right about
you.”

As I scan the room, taking in the slips of paper scattered around me, I think I catch Caroline and pixie-cut girl look at each other. “What is this place?” I ask again, hearing the
amazement in my own voice.

Pixie Cut answers me. “We call it Poet’s Corner.”

T
he next day, I see them in the places they must have been all along.

When I walk into U.S. History, Sydney spots me right away and the two of us exchange knowing glances. Later that day, as I’m heading to lunch, I pass Pixie Cut and overhear her friend call
her Abigail. I recognize a girl in the student parking lot and another in the library. Each time I make eye contact with any of them, I get a hint of a smile, like we’re still separated by an
invisible barrier, but now we have something in common: a secret. By the end of the day, I’ve seen all but one.

I’m heading to my car when I look up and finally see AJ heading straight for me, and I feel the corners of my mouth twitching into a nervous grin. I’m expecting the same reaction I
got from the others. A sly wave. A chin tilt. But instead he passes right by me, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him. When I’m a safe distance away, I stop and turn around, watching
until he disappears from sight.

I’m trying to decide what to do when Alexis appears out of nowhere, her high heels tapping on the cement and her thumbs tapping on her cell phone.

“There you are!” She stuffs her phone in the back pocket of her jeans. “I was hoping to catch you. I just got the best news!” She pulls me close. “There was a
cancellation at the spa. My mom was able to book another appointment.”

I look at her sideways.

“Don’t you get it?” The words squeak out and she does a little dance in place, shaking my arm around as she bounces and beams and watches me, like she’s expecting me to
join in. “You can come.”

“What about Hailey?”

She purses her lips and looks around, checking to be sure we’re alone. “No…” she draws the single word out, like it’s a musical note. “Not Hailey.
You.” She pokes my collarbone. And now I know precisely where I reside on her social ladder: second rung from the bottom. Hailey occupies the last one, and as soon as she learns I’m
invited to Alexis’s birthday and she’s not, she’ll know it too.

“You have no idea how sad I’ve been, Samantha. I felt horrible not asking you. Even though our moms weren’t friends in preschool, you and I were
best
friends in
kindergarten!” I take note of her word choice. I’m not her best friend now, but I was in kindergarten. “I’m glad you’re coming. Oh, and plan to spend the night,
too.”

“Is Hailey spending the night?” I ask. The spa might not be able to accommodate all five of us, but Alexis’s enormous bedroom doesn’t have any space constraints.

“That would be awkward, don’t you think?” I think it would be better than nothing, but I don’t say so. “In fact, keep it to yourself, okay? I wouldn’t want to
hurt Hailey’s feelings.”

No. Of course you wouldn’t.

I unwind my arm from her grasp. “I’ve got to get to swim practice,” I say.

Her face falls, but she quickly recovers, twisting her mouth into a fake grin, raising her voice a full octave. “Yeah, of course. Nine o’clock tomorrow. We’ll pick you
up.”

She takes off in the opposite direction. Part of me still feels guilty about Hailey, but another part of me is excited to spend the day with my friends, getting pampered at a luxurious spa. It
will be fun. And it’s nice to not be the fifth wheel for once.

I’m on the diving block, staring into lane three, running my thumb across the scratchy surface three times, waiting for the whistle to blow.

When it does, my body responds just like it’s supposed to. My knees bend and my arms stretch, and my fingers cut through the water’s surface in the seconds before I feel it drench my
cheeks. Then the silence.