met her at the Y, I’d sort of implied that there was a good chance we’d run into Calvin tonight.
I looked around. The place was almost full. Poetry readings must be more popular than I’d realized. Everyone sat at the dark tables sipping from mugs. Some of them talked quietly, but most of them stared up at the front corner of the room. The majority looked pretty normal, except for one table where everyone was dressed all in black with their hair dyed neon colors like orange or green. At the front end of the room there was a spotlight on a serious-looking girl in a tight T-shirt reading a poem about a dead bird. But no Calvin.
I shook my head.
“Are you sure you want to hang out with a guy who lurks around in a place like this?”
I ignored her. We took the only table left, which was against the wall, a couple of rows from the back. Even though smoking probably wasn’t allowed, I could smell clove cigarettes. Azra started coughing. She has asthma. “Are you okay?” I asked her.
“I’m fine,” she said, reaching for her Coke.
“You sure? Maybe we should go.”
Still trying to control her coughing, she took a sip from her soda. “No, really. Let’s stay a little while. He might show up.” I watched her closely and a moment later she was better. She smiled. “I’m fine. I promise.”
That’s what I love about Azra. Even though this wasn’t her kind of place, she put up with it because she knew it was important to me.
So we agreed to stay, for now.
I was a little disappointed that Calvin wasn’t here, but mostly I was just nervous. Before we came I figured that as long as I was going to a poetry reading, I might as well read something. It would be an opportunity to be the new, visible Floey Packer. So I’d brought my haiku poems, including a new one:
out of the cold air
a tiny ray of sunlight
come in, meet my soul
All together, it wouldn’t take long to read every poem I’d written. Still, I’d put my name on the reading list when I’d bought the coffee. Dead Bird Girl was reader number six. I was number eleven. It was a giant step for me. Old Floey would
never
have signed up to read poems in public, exposed like a fish in an aquarium. But even though she was fading, I could still feel her—my stomach felt woozy, my palms were sweaty and my heart was pounding pretty hard. I had to stop myself from gripping the table.
The girl finished her poem, everyone clapped, she sat down and somebody called out for the next reader. An old man with a big beer gut, number seven, stood up and ambled to the front of the room. I don’t really remember his poem—I think it was about being afraid of flying or something like that.
I couldn’t concentrate. I kept imagining myself in the light where the beer-gut man was standing.
waiting for my turn
a deer staring at headlights
fresh roadkill tonight
“You don’t have to go up there,” Azra whispered. “Look at you. You’re a mess. Relax.”
After the old man, the next one up was a young guy in a cowboy hat. I didn’t really pay much attention to him, either. I hardly even looked at him. I had to force myself to stay in the chair and not run out the door. No matter how panicky I felt, I was determined to make myself go up there when they called my number.
Azra chewed on her straw.
I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the voice reading the poem. The cowboy spoke with long, slow vowels. His voice was strong and emotional and strangely familiar. In fact, the more I listened to it, the more familiar it sounded. I opened my eyes to get a better look at him.
I couldn’t believe it.
“Oh my God, Azra,” I said. “It’s him.”
“Him who?” she said. But then when she realized who I meant she practically sprained her neck trying to get a look.
“He’s a cowboy? You didn’t tell me he’s a cowboy.”
“Shhh!” I said. I was trying to watch and listen.
Out of his suit, Calvin looked different. He was still cute, but in an uncombed,
I looked around. The place was almost full. Poetry readings must be more popular than I’d realized. Everyone sat at the dark tables sipping from mugs. Some of them talked quietly, but most of them stared up at the front corner of the room. The majority looked pretty normal, except for one table where everyone was dressed all in black with their hair dyed neon colors like orange or green. At the front end of the room there was a spotlight on a serious-looking girl in a tight T-shirt reading a poem about a dead bird. But no Calvin.
I shook my head.
“Are you sure you want to hang out with a guy who lurks around in a place like this?”
I ignored her. We took the only table left, which was against the wall, a couple of rows from the back. Even though smoking probably wasn’t allowed, I could smell clove cigarettes. Azra started coughing. She has asthma. “Are you okay?” I asked her.
“I’m fine,” she said, reaching for her Coke.
“You sure? Maybe we should go.”
Still trying to control her coughing, she took a sip from her soda. “No, really. Let’s stay a little while. He might show up.” I watched her closely and a moment later she was better. She smiled. “I’m fine. I promise.”
That’s what I love about Azra. Even though this wasn’t her kind of place, she put up with it because she knew it was important to me.
So we agreed to stay, for now.
I was a little disappointed that Calvin wasn’t here, but mostly I was just nervous. Before we came I figured that as long as I was going to a poetry reading, I might as well read something. It would be an opportunity to be the new, visible Floey Packer. So I’d brought my haiku poems, including a new one:
out of the cold air
a tiny ray of sunlight
come in, meet my soul
All together, it wouldn’t take long to read every poem I’d written. Still, I’d put my name on the reading list when I’d bought the coffee. Dead Bird Girl was reader number six. I was number eleven. It was a giant step for me. Old Floey would
never
have signed up to read poems in public, exposed like a fish in an aquarium. But even though she was fading, I could still feel her—my stomach felt woozy, my palms were sweaty and my heart was pounding pretty hard. I had to stop myself from gripping the table.
The girl finished her poem, everyone clapped, she sat down and somebody called out for the next reader. An old man with a big beer gut, number seven, stood up and ambled to the front of the room. I don’t really remember his poem—I think it was about being afraid of flying or something like that.
I couldn’t concentrate. I kept imagining myself in the light where the beer-gut man was standing.
waiting for my turn
a deer staring at headlights
fresh roadkill tonight
“You don’t have to go up there,” Azra whispered. “Look at you. You’re a mess. Relax.”
After the old man, the next one up was a young guy in a cowboy hat. I didn’t really pay much attention to him, either. I hardly even looked at him. I had to force myself to stay in the chair and not run out the door. No matter how panicky I felt, I was determined to make myself go up there when they called my number.
Azra chewed on her straw.
I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the voice reading the poem. The cowboy spoke with long, slow vowels. His voice was strong and emotional and strangely familiar. In fact, the more I listened to it, the more familiar it sounded. I opened my eyes to get a better look at him.
I couldn’t believe it.
“Oh my God, Azra,” I said. “It’s him.”
“Him who?” she said. But then when she realized who I meant she practically sprained her neck trying to get a look.
“He’s a cowboy? You didn’t tell me he’s a cowboy.”
“Shhh!” I said. I was trying to watch and listen.
Out of his suit, Calvin looked different. He was still cute, but in an uncombed,
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