takes
two steps backward, moving toward the path.
After that first time, all I wanted to do was hang out in Poet’s Corner for the rest of the afternoon, reading the walls. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to read every single poem without
interruption.
I want to follow him.
I take a tentative step in AJ’s direction.
I want to trust him.
He turns around and starts walking, stopping briefly at the table to grab his backpack, and we continue across the grass, straight to the theater. I follow him up to the stage, down the stairs,
past the mops and brooms, and into Poet’s Corner. He keeps the door open to let light in, and points at the closest lamp. “Hit the light?” he asks.
He bolts the door behind us, and together, the two of us round the room, turning on lamps as we go. He’s faster than I am, but we still meet each other near the front.
“Sit down.” He sits on the edge of the short, makeshift stage and I settle in next to him, trying to forget how I made a complete ass of myself in this very spot less than three
hours ago.
“So here’s how this works.” He clears his throat. “The current members have discussed it, and we would like to consider you, Samantha—
Sam
—McAllister,
for membership in Poet’s Corner.”
“Why?”
His brow furrows. “Why what?”
“Why do you want me to join? You guys don’t even know me.”
“Well, it’s not that simple. You’ll need to read first. Then we vote.”
“So if my poem sucks, I don’t get to stay?”
“No. We all write stuff that sucks. We’re not judging your poetry.”
“What
are
you judging?”
“I don’t know. Your…sincerity, I guess.”
He slaps his palms on his legs, stands quickly, and then holds his hand out to help me up. I take it. I think he’s going to let it drop, but he doesn’t. He pulls me over to the
center of the stage, right next to the stool.
“You should see things from this vantage point first, so you can get used to being up here.” He grabs my arms and pivots me around so I’m facing the rows of empty chairs and
couches.
“How often?”
“No rules around that.” I hear his voice from behind my right shoulder. “You can come up here as often or as little as you like. You have to read once, to put yourself on even
ground with the rest of us, but after that, it’s up to you.”
The idea of reading makes me feel sick again, so I reach for a new topic. “Where did all this furniture come from?” I can’t imagine how they got all this stuff in here. It
looks impossible, especially when you consider that steep, narrow staircase.
When I turn around again, AJ is perched on the stool with one leg resting on the rung and the other on the floor. His arms are crossed over his chest. From this vantage point, they look kind of
muscular. Up until this moment, I thought he was tall and kind of lanky, in a cute way. He’s not lanky.
“Prop room,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“When you come down the stairs, you turn to the right to get in here. But if you take a left instead, you wind up in the prop room.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The prop room?”
“It’s the room directly beneath the stage,” he explains. “There’s this huge freight elevator they use to bring the furniture up and down for performances. Once the
play is done and they no longer need the stage set, those items live in the prop room until they need them again. Or, until they’re relocated.”
“Relocated?”
He uncrosses his arms and points to the orange couch he sat in the first time I was here. “That’s our newest acquisition. Cameron and I had to take the legs off to get it around that
tight corner at the bottom of the stairs. It was wedged in the doorframe for a good ten minutes before we were finally able to jiggle it through.” He stands up quickly, takes a bow, and sits
down again. “But we pulled it off.”
I grin at him. “You got that couch through that door?”
“Barely.”
As I scan the
two steps backward, moving toward the path.
After that first time, all I wanted to do was hang out in Poet’s Corner for the rest of the afternoon, reading the walls. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to read every single poem without
interruption.
I want to follow him.
I take a tentative step in AJ’s direction.
I want to trust him.
He turns around and starts walking, stopping briefly at the table to grab his backpack, and we continue across the grass, straight to the theater. I follow him up to the stage, down the stairs,
past the mops and brooms, and into Poet’s Corner. He keeps the door open to let light in, and points at the closest lamp. “Hit the light?” he asks.
He bolts the door behind us, and together, the two of us round the room, turning on lamps as we go. He’s faster than I am, but we still meet each other near the front.
“Sit down.” He sits on the edge of the short, makeshift stage and I settle in next to him, trying to forget how I made a complete ass of myself in this very spot less than three
hours ago.
“So here’s how this works.” He clears his throat. “The current members have discussed it, and we would like to consider you, Samantha—
Sam
—McAllister,
for membership in Poet’s Corner.”
“Why?”
His brow furrows. “Why what?”
“Why do you want me to join? You guys don’t even know me.”
“Well, it’s not that simple. You’ll need to read first. Then we vote.”
“So if my poem sucks, I don’t get to stay?”
“No. We all write stuff that sucks. We’re not judging your poetry.”
“What
are
you judging?”
“I don’t know. Your…sincerity, I guess.”
He slaps his palms on his legs, stands quickly, and then holds his hand out to help me up. I take it. I think he’s going to let it drop, but he doesn’t. He pulls me over to the
center of the stage, right next to the stool.
“You should see things from this vantage point first, so you can get used to being up here.” He grabs my arms and pivots me around so I’m facing the rows of empty chairs and
couches.
“How often?”
“No rules around that.” I hear his voice from behind my right shoulder. “You can come up here as often or as little as you like. You have to read once, to put yourself on even
ground with the rest of us, but after that, it’s up to you.”
The idea of reading makes me feel sick again, so I reach for a new topic. “Where did all this furniture come from?” I can’t imagine how they got all this stuff in here. It
looks impossible, especially when you consider that steep, narrow staircase.
When I turn around again, AJ is perched on the stool with one leg resting on the rung and the other on the floor. His arms are crossed over his chest. From this vantage point, they look kind of
muscular. Up until this moment, I thought he was tall and kind of lanky, in a cute way. He’s not lanky.
“Prop room,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“When you come down the stairs, you turn to the right to get in here. But if you take a left instead, you wind up in the prop room.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The prop room?”
“It’s the room directly beneath the stage,” he explains. “There’s this huge freight elevator they use to bring the furniture up and down for performances. Once the
play is done and they no longer need the stage set, those items live in the prop room until they need them again. Or, until they’re relocated.”
“Relocated?”
He uncrosses his arms and points to the orange couch he sat in the first time I was here. “That’s our newest acquisition. Cameron and I had to take the legs off to get it around that
tight corner at the bottom of the stairs. It was wedged in the doorframe for a good ten minutes before we were finally able to jiggle it through.” He stands up quickly, takes a bow, and sits
down again. “But we pulled it off.”
I grin at him. “You got that couch through that door?”
“Barely.”
As I scan the
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