EMILY DICKINSON
In English, we’re supposed to work on our research projects, but Ms. Ringgold is absent. Maybe she’s sick, but I’m guessing she probably needed a break. She expends an enormous amount of energy teaching. I’ve never seen anyone so jacked up about Frost and Longfellow. She’s determined eleventh graders will be interested in a bunch of dead white men and their flowery poems.
Most of the class goofs off on their phones. After the sub reads Ms. Ringgold’s instructions to the class to work on our project, she plops down behind the desk and loses herself in an outdated issue of People magazine. The guy sitting behind Ayla snores even though she turns around and huffs at him every few minutes. Chatham scoots his desk next to mine, oblivious to the curious stares of Maddie and her Hawaiian Tropic buddies.
“So let’s do this.” He opens his binder, pulling out the stapled packet Ms. Ringgold gave us last week. “I have to get an A to stay off the bench.” He leans forward, ready to attack this project, determination etched on his tan face. “My dad will blow a gasket if I don’t start.”
I’d hate to run up against Chatham on the basketball court. He’s about the tallest, fittest guy in school. Plus, he seems really driven to succeed. From what I can remember of our poetry discussion the other day in the media center, he seemed focused and smart. So I don’t get why he has such a hard time with this class. Our project shouldn’t be that difficult: read and annotate a few Dickinson poems, research some biographical information, write an analysis essay—done.
“So what else do you know about Dickinson?” I ask, already thinking about how quickly we can finish our assignment. I have a plan: make sure Chatham earns an A on this Dickinson thing and tutor him a couple of times before the next test. By that time I will have convinced Mom to let me go back to homeschooling or at least to take virtual classes online. I will have repaid Chatham for his kindness. And I can go back to hanging around the house with Hitch without worrying about seizing in front of a bunch of strangers. Back to my neutral little world without the worries of being dragged out to sea by Chatham’s blue eyes or drowning in sorrow when he learns how weird I am and bails on our friendship.
“Not much. She wrote a ton of poems that nobody read until after she died.” He shrugs, twirling his pencil around his index finger.
Okay, so he did a little research.
I thumb the pages of my binder, looking for my notes, and a piece of paper slides from the pocket folder in the back. We both lean down to grab it, and our hands touch, his fingers brushing the back of my wrist. I yank my hand back. “A few of them were read, but you’re right. She went mostly unrecognized until after her death.”
“That’s sad.” He cocks his head, studying my face like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Don’t you think if you have a gift like that, you need to share it with the world?”
Well, first of all, I don’t have any gifts—at least ones that are that big and important. But if I did, I could totally relate to Emily Dickinson keeping her writing to herself. A person’s private life should be exactly that: private. And she was the queen of keeping to herself. I totally respect that.
I realize I haven’t answered Chatham’s question, so I nod. “Yeah, you’re right.”
He chuckles.
“What’s funny?” I pick at a hangnail, fidgeting under his stare.
He playfully bumps my arm with his fist.
I look away. How can a fist bump to the bicep feel scary and intimate? Is it possible to want to melt into Chatham’s arms and into the floor, both at the same time?
“Nothing.” He smiles. “I’m just not sure if you’d say anything if you disagreed.”
I swallow the humongous lump lodged in my throat. “I would. Well . . . I might. It depends.” I blink, looking away again. Maybe he’s right. I don’t like to speak up, especially in front of strangers. But I’m not the only person who feels that way. Lots of wise, artsy types like Thoreau chose nature and solitude over social lives and noise. I’d like to think I could grow up to be a wise, artsy type too.
He smiles. “You like movies?”
“Yeah.” He knows I do. We’ve talked about that before. I have no idea why he changed the subject so suddenly, but I’m thankful nonetheless.
“Best teen movie of all time?”
I roll my pencil on the desk. “Easy. The Breakfast Club.”
“Agreed.” He leans forward, resting his hands on top of the desk. “Most popular movie you wish you’d never seen.”
This is stupid, but at least his attention has moved to something less personal. “Jaws. Definitely Jaws.” There’s no need to explain this one to anyone who lives on a barrier island.
“Wrong. Not Jaws.”
“Excuse me? How can I be wrong? It’s an opinion.”
“Your opinion is wrong. There are worse movies.” He drums his fingers on the desk like he’s enjoying this.
I open my mouth to argue, but the sub peers at us over the top of her magazine. I glance over at Ayla, but she’s lost in her own world, drawing on the back of a spiral notebook with her earbuds in.
I wipe a moist palm on my denim shorts. “Yeah, okay. About Dickinson. Did you find any quotes you like?” I ask loud enough for the sub to hear. My posture relaxes when she goes back to her reading.
“‘Beauty—be not caused—It Is.’” When he smiles, his eyes light up. “I like that one.”
I’m pretty sure he’s flirting with me. And if he is, I’m flattered—really flattered. But I have no idea how to respond. I haven’t had a substantial conversation with a guy since before Dad died. And that was back when I was thirteen and my substantial conversations consisted of arguing with Austin, the geeky son of one of my parents’ friends, over who was going to eat the last s’more.
“Okay. That’s good.” I start to write the word beauty, pressing down so hard the lead in my pencil breaks. He hands me a pen.
I’m studying my paper in an effort to avoid his eyes, so I don’t see Maddie approaching until it’s too late.
A shadow falls across my desk. When I look up, I’m blinded by her bleached hair and teeth and the halo of fluorescent light encircling her face.
She smiles at Chatham. “So, Chatham.” She drags his name out into three long syllables instead of two. “How’s the project going?”
She smiles down at me.
I can’t help noticing what polar opposites we are. She’s what Granddaddy Day, who was born and raised in North Carolina tobacco fields, would’ve called a cool drink of water—tall, thin, and attractive. I’m more lukewarm lemonade. There’s no catchy southern saying for that one.
“Maddie, you remember my friend, Emilie Day.” He winks at me encouragingly.
“How could I forget?” She smirks and holds out a hand. There’s an awkward pause while she waits for me to put down the pen and hold out my nail-bitten fingers. We shake.
The substitute glances at us again, sizing us up, deciding whether it’s worth the effort of getting up out of her seat. She settles for a firm “Shush.”
“She’s also my tutor,” Chatham whispers, flashing his sunniest smile and propping an elbow on my desk.
“Really? I thought you said you could take care of your grades on your own.” Maddie arches a waxed brow.
“I know, but I changed my mind,” he says without explanation.
Her eyebrow threatens to lift off her face. “Well . . . if she’s your friend and your tutor, you must bring her to Daddy’s shrimp boil next weekend.” She manages to make the invitation sound scary, like drawing a switchblade across someone’s throat. “We should show our appreciation for the girl who’s going to keep our starting point guard on the court.”
I cringe. I thought she was chilly, but I was wrong. She’s dry ice and frostbite, and my self-preservation instinct tells me there’s no way I’m going to her daddy’s shrimp boil or anywhere within a five-mile radius of her house.
After school, I swing by the lit-mag teacher’s room like I promised Ayla I would. I stand in the doorway, observing the people inside. A balding teacher sits behind his desk reading from a fat stack of papers. He occasionally scribbles something on one of them with his red pen. A handful of students occupy the room. Ayla and Katsu sit side by side in front of an open laptop. When I clear my throat, they look up.
“Guys . . .” Ayla stands up and pauses dramatically, waiting for the other students in the room to look at her. “This is my friend, Emilie. Some of you have met her.”
When she stops, everyone in the room speaks in unison. “Hi, Emilie,” they say, like they’re reading from some kind of support-group script or something.
I chuckle as Ayla pulls me toward Katsu and their laptop.
“You came,” she says.
“I told you I would.”
She nods, seeming pleased. “Yes, you did.”
Katsu offers me a blue plastic chair, which I accept.
“We just need to finish this blurb on the theater department’s next musical,” Ayla says. “Then I can introduce you to Mr. Johnson.”
“Sure,” I agree, even though I have no desire to meet Mr. Johnson, who I assume is the teacher.
Katsu runs his hand through his spiky black hair. “This would be much easier if the drama director had actually chosen a show someone had heard of.”
I lean forward for a better view of the image on the screen and smile. “You haven’t heard of Hello, Dolly!?”
“No,” Katsu says.
Ayla shakes her head.
“Yes, you have.” I hum a couple of lines of the Hello, Dolly! chorus.
They smile patiently but obviously don’t recognize the song.
“It’s one of the longest-running Broadway shows ever. It won ten Tony Awards,” I explain.
Katsu shrugs.
“It played two thousand eight hundred and forty-four times.” I can understand that they’ve never seen it—it’s not like a lot of shows come through our town. But to not even know it exists? My dad hated musicals, but even he would sometimes be caught whistling the famous tune.
“Um, yeah. Never heard of it.” Ayla smiles at me, then turns back to the laptop to type a few lines.
“Why do you know so much about this show?” Katsu asks as he leans forward to read what Ayla typed.
“I just like musicals and movies and books. I’m kind of an arts-and-entertainment geek.” I shrug.
“So you can write. You’re an arts-and-entertainment geek. Any other hidden talents or stores of knowledge?” Katsu laces his hands behind his head and leans back in his chair.
“I kind of like history and politics,” I say, like it’s no big deal. And with them, it’s not. It feels perfectly natural to open up to them.
He sits up, leans forward, and looks down his nose at me—all fatherly all of a sudden. “You, my friend, should join the quiz bowl team. I think arts and entertainment is one of their main categories. Or maybe the debate team if you know as much about history and politics as you do obscure Broadway shows.”
I open my mouth to argue. If I’m not careful, these two will have my face plastered all over the yearbook in extracurricular photos.
Before I can respond, I hear Maddie’s voice interrupting us. “Did I hear someone say ‘debate team’?”
I cross my arms and let my eyelids droop, hoping my cool posture is more noticeable than the fire burning the tips of my ears. I never even heard her enter the room.
“What do you need, Maddie?” Katsu asks.
“Mr. Simpson asked me to give you the dates for the next round of debates.” She pushes a sticky note with some dates written on it in Ayla’s direction.
“Emilie here is a history and politics whiz if you need an alternate or something,” Katsu says, tapping the back of my chair.
Maddie’s eyes widen as though he said I’d won a Nobel Peace Prize for Literature or the Miss Universe Pageant and she’d only gotten second place. “That’s cool, but it requires a lot of time and studying.” She backpedals a step toward the door.
“That’s the point. I don’t think Emilie would have to study that much—especially not for the historical and political topics.”
Maddie’s face puckers like someone poured pickle juice in her Cap’n Crunch. “The team’s full,” she says, and heads to the door without a backward glance.
Ayla presses her teeth into her bottom lip, holding back a smile until Maddie’s footsteps recede down the hall. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think she felt threatened, Emilie.”
“I don’t think so.” I shake my head. Ayla’s observation couldn’t be farther from the truth. Beautiful Maddie, with her stellar grades and cute spirit wear, is about as likely to be scared of me as she is to run screaming from a marshmallow. But I don’t argue. Instead, I kick back and people watch while Ayla and Katsu finish their write-up about the play. The room and the kids in it are comfortable with themselves and with each other.
I could almost see myself comfortable here too.
Almost.