“I know, right? And speaking of, it’s almost time for pervy Mr. Thomas to come back outside.” She scooped up more water and splashed some under each armpit. “You usually sweat more than I do, so make sure your shirt is wetter than mine. I don’t want the perv to get suspicious.”
We started a slow jog around the track right as Mr. Thomas came out and blew his whistle, motioning for us to come back inside.
“It’s hot out here today, huh?” he said, eyeing our faux-sweat-covered T-shirts. Sunny made a gagging face when his eyes lingered on my chest a few seconds longer than they should have, and I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
“Yes, Mr. Thomas,” I said in a saccharin voice. “That run really kicked my butt.”
“Well maybe next time you two chatterboxes will hold the conversation until after class so you don’t get stuck running laps all period,” he offered, giving us both a smug, self-satisfied glare. We fell in step behind him so he couldn’t see our faces, which were red from trying not to laugh.
Sunny slung her arm over my shoulder as we walked inside the gym.
“Love you, bitch,” she said, knocking her hip against mine. I gave her a tight smile, trying not to think about her earlier confession and the pile of rocks it left in my stomach.
“Love you back.” I shrugged off her arm so I could pick at my nail polish and avoid eye contact.
“Obviously.” She laughed. “But not as much as pervy Mr. Thomas loves staring at your boobs.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE INTERPOSING FLY
I heard a Fly buzz (No. 465)
By Emily Dickinson
I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air –
Between the Heaves of Storm –
The Eyes around – had wrung them dry –
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset – when the King
Be witnessed – in the Room –
I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away
What portions of me be
Assignable – and then it was
There interposed a Fly –
With Blue – uncertain stumbling Buzz –
Between the light – and me –
And then the Windows failed – and then
I could not see to see –
That’s the poem I had to analyze in honors English. Right there in front of the entire class, with Justin Cobb and everyone watching me. I hated poetry with a passion. I got that it was supposed to be deep and meaningful, but I never could understand it, and the fly poem was no exception. Don’t get me wrong—I tried. I had to. That was the whole assignment. We were assigned a poem, and we had to explain to the class what we thought it meant. Everyone got the chance to ask questions and come up with their own interpretations if they disagreed. It was supposed to be this big thought-provoking project, but really it was a huge, nerve-wracking pain in my ass.
My hands were shaking when Mrs. Johnson finished reading the poem to the class and called on me for my analysis. Eyes followed me as I made my way to the front of the room, and I imagined them picking me apart the way my mother always did.
Don’t slouch like that, Taylor, or you’ll end up hunched over like your grandmother.
Stop mumbling, Taylor. You sound like you have a speech impediment.
Don’t frown like that, Taylor. It makes you look ugly.
I cleared my throat. “Maybe she’s dying emotionally,” I said, the words shaking on their way out of my mouth. I heard a chuckle from the front row and fought to keep my eyes away from Brandon Blakes, who was the most likely source of the laughter. Instead, I stared at the place where the wall met the ceiling. “Like maybe this big thing happened—maybe her boyfriend broke up with her and she’s really upset about it—and she’s thinking about him and this big life-changing thing that happened to her when a fly buzzes in and interrupts her thoughts.”
I fought to say it confidently so people wouldn’t know how nervous I was, and tried to think of my father’s advice for overcoming my fear—picture everyone naked. The only problem was that Justin was one of the people I had to picture naked, and that was almost as terrifying as everyone watching me. I was glad I had the foresight to wear a black shirt that day so people couldn’t see my pit stains.
“Interesting. Tell us more about that, Taylor,” said Mrs. Johnson. Her glasses slipped down slightly on her nose, making it look like she was actually interested in what I had to say.
I cleared my throat again, trying to dislodge my tongue from the roof of my mouth. Most of all I tried to keep my eyes away from Justin’s face, because if I looked at him, what little resolve I had left would slip through the cracks.
“The fly is like this normal everyday thing, and it’s juxtaposed by this big event.” I said, moistening my lips. “She’s commenting on how during the most dramatic personal events, when it feels like you’re going to die because it’s such a major deal, the world around you has to, like, keep going. And normal everyday things like flies just go on about their business because life has to, you know, go on.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised when Brandon Blakes started chargrilling me when it came time for questions. The guy loved to hear the sound of his own voice and was gunning for valedictorian, so he would say or do just about anything to get a few extra participation points in class.
“So let me get this straight,” he started, not even trying to hide his sarcastic tone. “You think Emily Dickinson wrote a poem about her boyfriend dumping her?” His forehead looked like it might fold in on itself from frowning when he said the word “dumping.” You would’ve thought I’d dropped the f-bomb or told Mrs. Johnson to sit on her thumb and spin.
“Well maybe not her boyfriend. But something big and emotional happened, and there’s this fly—”
He held up his hand like he was a crossing guard and I was some unruly child who’d tried to run across the street into oncoming traffic. “You said she was ‘dying emotionally’ because her boyfriend broke up with her.”
Of course he had to go and use air quotes when he said “dying emotionally.”