The Vigilante Poets of Selwyn Academy (8 page)

We looked at Jackson with newfound respect, which happened about every two weeks.

“Also,” said Jackson, “the writer of the review is obviously interested in the drama, not the art. But at the end the writer’s like, Oh, yeah, this TV show has a
theme
.”

Luke was taking notes on a napkin.

“He’s assuaging his guilt,” said Elizabeth. “This isn’t crappy no-brain reality TV. This is
art
. It’s practically the History Channel. It’s like going to a museum. It’s classy.”

“We can feel good about hosting a reality TV show,” said Jackson. “Because it’s not
really
reality TV.”

“Brilliant,” said Luke. “No actors to hire. No sets to build. This schlock can be filmed with practically no expense to kTV, and then marketed as high culture. And look, everyone’s going for it. Willis Wolfe. Coluber. Our parents. The millions watching it every Friday night, including every person in this cafeteria. We’ve all bought in.”

“Coluber,” said Jackson.

“He’s a snake,” said Luke. “Someone had to orchestrate this.”

“Someone had to pull Selwyn into it.”

“You guys just suspect him because he’s so sleazy,” I said. “It was probably Willis Wolfe. He knows LA producers from starring on that sitcom.”

“Willis Wolfe is a simpleton,” said Luke. “He’s good at keeping his teeth white and his hair blond. He’d never come up with this.”

“We’ve got to do something,” said Jackson.

“
Thank
you, man,” said Luke, clapping him on the back. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“You keep writing your poem,” said Elizabeth. “But we have to do something real.”

“Poetry is real.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Elizabeth. She was wearing jumbo pink feather earrings that made it look like she’d chased down a molting flamingo. “But we need to figure out who’s behind it. What they’re getting out of it.”

“We have to investigate,” said Jackson. His eyes glazed over. He pulled out his smartphone and started tapping away.

“Ethan, I have a job for you,” said Luke. “We can’t take action until we know the facts.”

“Whatever you say, sergeant. Command and I shall obey.” I figured that “action” meant “the next stanzas.”

“The people on the show might know something we don’t. Your dream will be realized.”

“What?”

“Go talk to Maura Heldsman.”

“WHAT?”

“Say something besides what.”

“What.”

“You’re so predictable. Go ask Maura Heldsman what it’s like to be a contestant.”

“I can’t just start a conversation with her. She’s a senior.”

“And she’s pretty, and she’s famous, and you’re in love with her. I get it. You have to override that, comrade.”

“She’d talk to you a lot sooner than she’d talk to me.” Luke was good-looking, well liked, and known for his writing skills. Artistic talent gives you street cred at Selwyn. (Unless you play the harp, in which case it destroys any street cred you have, which is probably none, since you play the harp.) I, on the other hand, had the figure of a Q-tip: big head, big feet, nothing in between. My drawings were not chosen for the school calendar, and I wasn’t even in the second-highest band. I shouldn’t have been the one to talk to Maura Heldsman.

“I think she thinks you’re cute,” Luke told me.

“Really?”

“Nah, just making that up.”

That was not a vote of confidence, but I promised I’d go find her after school. This was Friday. I knew I was doomed to failure, not through my nerdiness or her stratospheric awesomeness but because she had
Giselle
rehearsal till 6 p.m. So I took an easy loop through the dance hallway and then headed to the Appelvan. God, it was a creepy vehicle. If somebody offered you candy to get inside, you’d run away screaming.

I informed Luke and Jackson and Elizabeth that I’d try again Monday. We hung out at the Appelden all evening.

“Weird,” I said. Baconnaise was practicing his tightrope walking again. “Did you eat a pebble, Bake?”

When he’d made his glorious leap from the rope to my waiting hands, I’d felt this tiny round lump in his midsection. He looked confused, so I massaged his stomach again to find it.

“Here. Has this always been there?”

He shrugged.

“Jackson, have you ever noticed this pencil-eraser-type thing in Baconnaise’s stomach?”

“A growth?” said Elizabeth.

“Gerbils eat anything, right?” I said. “He probably ate something he can’t digest.”

“Probably,” said Jackson, unconcerned. “Either that or he’s got terminal cancer.”

“Not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

I dropped the subject, but I didn’t put him back in his cage that evening. During the new episode of
For Art’s Sake
, he sat in my lap and comforted me, and I was very careful to avoid touching the lump. It was probably nothing.

They called for votes via text message this time. Brandon, Maura’s boyfriend or ex-boyfriend or whatever: he got kicked off. That didn’t mean Maura was down to one guy. They kept zooming in on her and Josh DuBois playing footsie. It was foul. And then Kirtse Frumjigger slapped her.

“She knew Josh and I had a thing,” explained Kirtse to Adelpha and Miriam.

“A thing or a
thing
-thing?” asked Adelpha.

“A
thing
-thing thing.”

I couldn’t even keep straight which guy Maura was supposed to be canoodling with. I did not like it. Not in a house,
not with a mouse. I spent the rest of the weekend holed up with the triplets. I did not like it in a box. I did not like it with a fox.

But Luke kept texting me.
You need to talk to her
. I still wasn’t sure what crucial information he thought I’d glean, but I wasn’t exactly opposed to the idea. By Monday morning, I was ready. I’d lifted weights on my dad’s bench in the garage on both Saturday and Sunday, and now my delts were sore in a pleasantly macho way. I’d showered that morning and even combed a little gel through my Jewfro. I was wearing my favorite
Catcher in the Rye
T-shirt.

Jackson got us to school early. I headed to the dance hallway.

Bingo. Maura Heldsman was sitting alone on the floor, her back straight as a plumb line. She had a binder open on her lap. Her hair was in its usual bun and she was wearing leggings and a hoodie. My heart throbbed, for real, and I don’t know whether it was because I was nervous or because she was just so frigging pretty.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey, Ethan.”

She knew my name.

“What’s up?”

“Finishing English homework. Did you get number six?”

She knew I was in her English class.

“Which one was that?”

“Sit down and look.”

She wanted me to sit by her.

I could not imagine this going any better.

It was a handout on rhetorical devices in Pound’s
Cantos
. Number six was obvious.

“It has to do with the ‘hasts,’ ” I said.

“That one where you use old words?”

“I guess it could be archaism.”

“Is there something better?” She looked right into my eyes. I forgot to respond. I thought about a chunk of the
Cantos
we’d talked about in English:

That’s what I thought when Maura Heldsman looked into my eyes.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“Oh.” I looked down at the paper. “Yeah. The repetition of the ‘hast.’ ”

“Oh gosh, what’s that called?”

“Anaphora.”

“Thanks.” She wrote it down. “Done with English. I have like no time now that
Giselle
’s heating up.”

“Do you spend a lot of time filming too?” I said. Bad transition, but I had to get to
For Art’s Sake
somehow.

“The weekly challenges are a bore. But other than that, it’s not bad. They follow me around. It’s nothing compared to college auditions and all that crap.”

I couldn’t believe I was having a conversation with Maura Heldsman. I kept accidentally looking into her eyes, and then I’d have to refocus on the space between them so that I could form words. Otherwise my brain was just overcome by the green green greenity. Which is how articulate I was feeling.
Sky’s clear / night’s sea
.

“How’s that going? College and all.”

I hoped she didn’t think it was weird, this random guy grilling her about her life. I mean, it
was
weird. But she didn’t seem to have noticed. Maybe she was just used to people wanting to talk to her. Like whenever I go to Starbucks with Luke, the female baristas remember his name from the last time. He assumes that they remember everyone’s name, which is not the case. Even if you spend your entire summer there.

“College.” She flopped her head onto her calves. She could fold in half like a piece of paper. “I got into Juilliard.”

“Seriously? Wow.” For Selwyn kids, if an arts career is the Holy Grail, Juilliard is a seat at the Round Table.

“And Boston Conservatory and CalArts, but I want to go to Juilliard. Who wouldn’t?”

“Are you going?”

“TBD. My parents hate the idea of a dance career. Mostly because they’ve seen what it’s done to my feet. I have the
ugliest feet in the world. Bunions, hammertoes, corns, bone spurs, fungal toenails. Sorry, is this grossing you out?”

Maura, you could pick your nose with those fungal toes, and I’d think it was cute. “I’m okay.”

“And just in, breaking news, heel bursitis. Feels like being stabbed with a hot poker.” She blinked rapidly three or four times. “My parents think I won’t be able to walk by the time I’m forty, and not gonna lie, they’re probably right. But I don’t care if it means I can dance until then.”

“So go to Juilliard.”

She sat up and rubbed her thumbs against her fingers. “Money money money. They’d let me go if it was cheaper. They’d grumble, but they’d let me. But it’s like fifty thousand a year. Not to mention the pointe shoes, another three hundred a month. And I can go to the U for free almost. Where I could minor in dance and have a, I quote, sensible major like communications.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Basically, I have to win.”

“Win?”

She looked at me in surprise, as if she’d just remembered she was talking to someone outside her world. “Win
FAS
. Win
For Art’s Sake
. If I win that scholarship, I can go.”

I felt like an idiot. I’d forgotten my mission.

“I’ve been freaked out all season they’ll cancel the show. That’d be the worst.”

“That would suck.”

“No kidding.”

“Um.” I didn’t know how to broach the topic, but I didn’t want to face Luke if I hadn’t tried. “Aren’t you kind of mad at them?”

She laughed. “You mean how I’m resident slut?” She was wiggling her feet, pointing and flexing, pointing and flexing.

I wasn’t going to be that blunt. I didn’t know what to say. “I wasn’t going to be that blunt.”

“Whatever.” She bent in half and then straightened. “I don’t have time for that shit.”

“For worrying about the show?”

“For guys.”

“Oh.”

“Everybody who knows me knows that. All I do is dance. And occasionally do homework so I don’t fail out. And occasionally poach homework answers off cute juniors.”

I could not say a word.

“So I don’t really care. All I want is to win this thing. Yes, my life goal is winning a reality TV show. Sad but true. And if they want to make me look like a slut, they can make me look like a slut.”

“I can’t believe you don’t care.”

“Ethan Andrezejczak.”

She knew my last name. She could
say
my last name. Almost.

“In your universe, people care about stuff like reputations. They care about whether the world is just. I don’t. I just don’t.” She made a gesture that took in her whole body—her bun, her sinewy legs, her big fluffy socks. That gesture said everything.
It meant more than my best drawing could ever mean, more than the most lyrical passage I’d ever played. “I want to be a dancer. A real dancer. I want to go to Juilliard and I want to dance with New York City Ballet. Peter Martins. Lincoln Center. That is all. Period. I don’t want anything else.”

“Oh.”

“So yeah, they’re making me look like a slut and I’m not. I don’t even
know
those guys. Biblically or otherwise. They edit it in. It’s called frankenbiting. I read about it the last time I was on the Internet, which was two weeks ago. Because this. Is all. I do.”

“Oh.”

She smiled at me. “You’re sweet.”

“Thanks?”

“The bell’s about to ring.”

“Don’t you have class too?” I looked around. I hadn’t even noticed that during our conversation, the dance hallway had begun to fill with other kids.

“I’ll be late. It’s discrete math.” She laughed. “Didn’t you listen? I don’t care.”

“Right.”

“You have a great day, Ethan Andrezejczak.” I was dismissed. I picked up my backpack, gave her a wave, and walked down the hall.

Herbert’s arabesque still wasn’t the kind that would get him into Juilliard, but I tried to focus on the light and the lines. My thoughts were swirling, turbid and muddy like a shaken
beaker. But about half an hour into class they settled into sediment: