So I stand up, even though Quinn is announcing the next poet, who is not me. People think it’s me, though, because of the timing of my standing up, and they’re even more confused when I head in the opposite direction from the stage, when I head out the door.
Ryan and Taylor haven’t gotten far. They’re right outside. Taylor has Ryan in his arms, is telling him he was amazing, that he was brave, that the first step is always, always the hardest. All the right things to say, only they’re in his voice, not mine. I stop heading toward them, but they’ve already heard me. They pull apart a little, look at me.
I am interrupting.
For some reason, it’s Taylor I find myself talking to. “I just wanted to see if he was okay,” I explain.
Taylor nods. Gets it.
“I’m fine,” Ryan says. “Really. I guess I’m not that much of an improviser.”
Neither, it seems, am I. I just stand there.
“We’ll be back in soon,” Taylor says.
“Oh yeah. Of course. See ya.”
I open the door and it makes what feels like a huge clatter, right in the middle of a really quiet poem. I don’t want to draw more attention to myself, so I stand there until the poet is finished—a good ten minutes later.
I make my way back to my table, expecting that Taylor and Ryan will follow on my heels. Taylor said they’d be back soon, after all. But they don’t come back. I see the friends at Taylor’s table checking texts and whispering to one another. News I don’t know.
I check my phone. Nothing.
Someone from Greer’s table takes the stage and recites a very funny poem called “Ode to Pee-wee Herman.” When it’s done, Quinn gets back on to say that since we’ve now gone through the list, we’re going to take a five-minute break—and in that five-minute break he wants to see at least three more people volunteer to spit out some words.
“Do you want to go?” Violet asks us.
I want to go, but I’m not sure I want to say I want to go.
Katie settles it by observing, “If we leave now, Quinn will kill us,” which is probably true.
So we sit there. Some of Taylor’s friends are up and talking to the people at the table next to ours, so I can’t tell Katie what happened in the hallway. I can sense she’s correctly assuming it wasn’t good.
Quinn comes over, and it’s while Violet and Katie are telling him how amazing his poem was that I look over to the stage area and see the lone piece of paper resting at the base of the back wall. The second page of Ryan’s poem. It seems wrong to leave it there, so I head over to get it. It’s facedown. I guess I could just fold it like that and never discover how the poem ended.
It’s not his diary, though. It’s something he was planning to read to everyone. So I figure it’s okay to look.
Only, after I’m done, it doesn’t feel okay.
I’m ready to lose myself, but I’m not ready to lose you.
I’m ready to find myself, But I’m not ready for you to know what I find.
If you want me to change, be ready for me to change.
I don’t think you’re ready for that.
I don’t think I’m ready for that.
Why do you have to risk the good things for the better things?
I’m not ready for the answer.
I know he’s gone—they’re gone—but I go out into the hall anyway. When I find he’s not there, I take out my phone again. But what can I say? That I’m ready for him to change? That I’m ready for him to do what he wants to do? The past few days have shown that’s not true.
I guess I’m not ready, either.
Quinn’s heading to the mic when I walk in. I put the second page of Ryan’s poem on the table. Katie’s eyes grow wider as she reads it. And they grow even wider when Quinn surprises us all by announcing, “Welcome back, bitches. The Queer Youth Poetry Slam is now spiked as punch to welcome Lehna to the mic!”
THURSDAY
18
Kate
It’s a normal Thursday morning in my kitchen. The coffeepot hisses and puffs as it always does; we sit at the round breakfast table as we always do. Mom, as always, reads the business section while Dad, as always, reads about the foreign news first and then cheers himself up with Arts and Entertainment.
We eat toast and fruit and yogurt.
We reach over one another for the box of half-and-half or the jar of honey.
Periodically, we check the bright red clock until one of us says, “Seven thirty,” at which point we’ll collect and rinse the dishes, put the perishables back in the refrigerator, and walk to our three cars, parked side by side in our wide suburban driveway. I can’t even explain the comfort I take in this routine. The comfort could fill the sky—it’s that immense.
But I haven’t been able to enjoy it for months, because of this thing I’ve been carrying. This anxiety. This crushing, terrible dread. This weight I decided to shed yesterday in the shadow room, holding hands with Mark and Violet. We were like a paper chain of children. We were substance and shadow. We were heat and clutched hands, and wonder, and love. And that clarity I got—it was breathtaking, it took me by surprise, and then it let me go.