Monsters by Liz Kay

my book club.”
    â€œUgh, your book club.” I went with her once, and only half of them had even picked up the novel. Hers is more of a drinking club.
    â€œHey, I like it, and they’re fun.”
    â€œYou know you could skip the lame books and just drink here.”
    â€œI do drink here.” She raises a glass and hands it to me. “I’m drinking here right now.”
    When she leaves, I rinse the glasses, set them beside the sink. I take a clean rag and wipe down the counters though no one’s eaten here all week. But it’s after midnight, and I’m not tired, and I’m not going to sleep. I cork the open bottle and set it back on the shelf, and then I send a text to Daniel.
Tell Tommy thanks for the hospitality, but now, by comparison, all my booze tastes like shit.
    A few days later, a case of wine is delivered, and with it, a very expensive scotch that’s labeled
For emergencies only
. I don’t plan to open it.

JANUARY

    I PULL UP TO THE SCHOOL and park in one of the visitors’ spots. Stevie’s class is learning about poetry, and he volunteered me to his teacher.
My mommy can come,
I imagine him saying.
She writes books.
Of course, she e-mailed me, so here I am with these haiku handouts and armpits full of anxiety sweat. I’m glad the sweater I’m wearing is black.
    Stevie’s teacher is finishing up reading one of those giant flip books about Lewis and Clark. It must be part of their Nebraska history curriculum. I think about saying,
Can you tell the kids about their contributions to genocide?
but instead I just wait in the doorway.
    â€œNow, kids, we have a very special visitor today.” All the kids twist in their seats to look. “And I know you are all going to do your very best to use your ears and your eyes, but not your . . . ?”
    â€œMouths,” all the kids say.
    â€œThat’s right. Now maybe, Stevie, you could greet our guest and introduce her to the class?”
    Stevie’s still little enough to hug me in front of his friends. Hetakes my hand and pulls me to the front of the class. “This is my mom,” he says.
    â€œMrs. . . . ?” says the teacher.
    â€œMrs. Lane,” Stevie says. I smile at him, and he sits back down.
    â€œHi, guys,” I say, and I wave my hand. “So, Stevie asked me if I would come and talk to you guys about poetry because that’s what I do. Poetry is kind of my job.”
Jesus Christ,
I think,
I sound like an asshole.
“I thought maybe we could start by talking about metaphors. Has your teacher told you what a metaphor is?”
    It turns out that Bashō is not the biggest hit with first-graders, and their little confused faces make me even more anxious. I wish the teacher would just cut me off like I can tell she wants to, but she just lets me talk and talk, and then I get the kids to help me write a haiku on the board.
    â€œWhy don’t we write a poem about one of the animals we’ve been studying?” the teacher says, and a boy in the back says, “Ooh, a bear, a bear.”
    â€œThat’s great,” I say, and I write
bear
on the board. “Now, how do we want to describe it?”
    The teacher says, “What are some good adjectives for a bear?” and then we end up with
furry
, which I don’t think is a particularly interesting adjective, but what do I know?
    â€œOkay,” I say. “What’s something surprising we could compare a furry bear to?”
    â€œA garbage truck!” someone yells, and I’m like,
Nice
, but then the teacher says, “I didn’t see a hand.” She’s a real stickler.
    Stevie puts his hand up, and I think,
Yes
, because I’m doing this for him, or maybe I want him to do it for me. I don’t know, but he says, “A monster,” and I’m like,
Really?
I start to make a face at him like,
Maybe not,
but then the other kids all start