No one notices the words.
Like a herd of cattle, they walk over them, stomping their way into school as Micah and I watch from my car. But then, finally, a girl stops, picks up a piece of chalk from the bucket, and crouches down.
“She’s writing something!” I say, hitting Micah, who’s half-asleep in the passenger seat. He probably got as much shut-eye as I did last night. It was almost dawn by the time I fell asleep after my confrontation with Alice, which means I slept through strength training this morning and my head is foggy. I chug an energy drink like my life depends on it.
“Go guerrilla poets of Ridgeline High,” Micah says with his eyes closed, weakly fist-pumping.
A few others have stopped now, looking at the ground.
“Do you think they like it? They probably hate it,” I say. “Maybe they don’t hate it.”
Micah turns sideways in the seat and props his backpack like a pillow underneath his head.
“You’re a roller coaster of emotions, Lily Larkin,” he says. “Remember, art is putting a piece of yourself out there and saying, ‘Look, world. Here I am. Like it or not.’ ”
Still, knowing they’re reading my words makes my head a little woozy, my heart a little erratic, like I’m standing on the cliff again. The warning bell forces us from the car, and we walk toward our artwork.
Micah groans, throwing up his hands. “Oh, come on, seriously?”
Someone has sketched a crudely shaped, and egregiously enormous, penis next to our art. He rubs the addition with the side of his hand. “It’s official. We go to school with imbeciles.”
“Well, it’s a good thing we don’t care what they think,” I say, smiling, although my mind is not really on the penis. It’s on the new words, scrawled in chalk next to My greatest fear is…
Principal Porter
my parents
not being enough
rolling the dice on a fart
spiders
oblivion—RIP, Augustus Waters
being alone
Micah has managed to eviscerate most of the phallic chalk, and he stands next to me, mouthing the words.
“Well,” He says, “it’s not exactly Shakespeare.”
“True.” But people read my words. They connected. I take a picture of the chalk art and all the new words. “But it’s something.”
“Is it you?”
Sam’s staring at me in the orchestra room where we meet up before track, her violin perched on her shoulder, her bow pointed accusingly at me.
“Is what me?”
“The chalk poetry. Kali swears it’s not her. And she asked me if it was you, and not like I would tell Kali anything, but you would tell me, right?”
She’s waiting for me to answer. Of course I’d tell her. Under normal circumstances. This is Sam. Sam who knew about Alice and didn’t tell. But these are not normal circumstances. And what I wrote in that poem is stuff I’ve never told Sam—or anyone else.
What if she doesn’t understand?
What if she thinks I’m nuts?
What if
What if
What if
The what-ifs push her away from me.
“It’s not me,” I say.
“Well, Kali is capital-P pissed about it. And I guess part of me secretly hoped it was you just to stick it to her.” Sam packs her violin into her case and flips the little silver locks into place.
“How’s the solo coming?” I ask.
Sam groans and rolls her eyes. “Terrible. I can’t get the timing right, and rumor has it, there may be some college scouts in the audience. My parents only mention it fifty-six times a day.”
“You’re a shoo-in for first chair,” I say, linking my arm through hers as we head to track. “Seriously, Sam, there’s no one better.”
“You have to say that. It’s in the best-friend handbook,” she says, laughing, and my guilt for keeping secrets lifts slightly off my shoulders.
Coach puts it right back on.
“You missed training this morning,” he says.
“I know. I’m sorry. I had—”
“I don’t need excuses, Larkin. I need someone I can count on, and frankly, I’m seeing a bigger commitment from some of the other runners.” He looks at me intensely, like he’s trying to show me how serious I should be taking this. And I am. Of course I am. I’ve been training to win state since freshman year. I’m not about to lose it now. “If I’m going to put you in the qualifier, I need to be able to count on you.”
“You can.”
He looks me dead in the eye. “Whatever else you have going on, stop thinking about it. You’ve got to give a hundred percent here, or I can find someone who will.”
After practice, I watch from my car as more people add words to the sidewalk in front of the school. So even though Coach’s warning makes it hard to breathe and makes my fingers want to reach for my skin, I reach for my notebook instead.
All in My Head
Relax.
Calm down.
Just
Don’t
Think
About
It.
Ask me not to breathe.
For the blood to halt in my veins.
Not to exist.
Not to be me.
Isn’t that what you mean?
Be someone different.
Someone better.
Someone who
Isn’t
All
Wrong.
