room, it dawns on me why everything is mismatched and looks like it came from completely different time periods. An antique bookcase with a modern lamp. A retro ’70s chair
with a sleek metal end table. “Everything in here came from the prop room?”
“Yep.”
“Don’t they miss this stuff?”
“Eh. Pieces have been disappearing little by little over the last decade, ever since Poet’s Corner began. I’m sure they miss things occasionally, especially the big
stuff.”
“Like, for instance, a bright orange couch.”
“Exactly.”
“And even if they did miss it,” I say, suppressing a smile, “they’d have no idea where to look.”
“Secret room.” His mouth curves up on one side. “I should probably feel a little bit guilty, shouldn’t I?”
“Maybe a little bit,” I say, holding up my hand, thumb and finger nearly touching.
“It’s not like they were stolen.”
“Of course not. They were simply relocated.”
“That couch is really comfortable.” He steps past me and jumps down onto the ground with a thud. He falls back into the orange sofa, running his hands back and forth across the
cushions. “And inspirational. You know, if you’re looking for something to write about, this couch would make a great topic.”
I laugh. “Why would I want to write about a piece of furniture?” I have a mental illness and four superficial friends. Surely I have more fodder for a poetic career than to need an
ugly orange couch.
When he grins, that dimple on the left side of his mouth catches my eye. “I have no idea.” Then he lets his head fall backward and he stares up at the ceiling. “This is good.
Keep ’em coming.” He motions toward himself with one hand. “What other questions do you have for me, Sam?”
Sam. Again. That makes two.
I walk around the stage, getting a feel for it under my feet. I run my fingertips across the stool, remembering how terrified I was up here. It feels like it’s daring me to sit on it
again, so I hop up and take a look around. The room looks different now that it’s emptier. Safer. At least now I feel like a poet wannabe and not a stripper.
AJ’s still reclining into the couch, watching me.
“Tell me more about the rules. You can’t criticize anyone’s poetry, especially your own, right?”
“True,” he says. “And the last time I broke that one, you saw the ramifications firsthand.”
I remember how AJ stood up here with his guitar dangling from the strap, inviting his friends to throw paper at him. “Yes, I did.” Thinking back on that day reminds me of something
else I’ve been wondering about.
“Why do you always start by saying where you wrote your poem? Why does that matter?”
“Is there a place you like to go when you write? Is there one particular place that inspires you?”
I picture my room, huddled down in my sheets far past my bedtime, writing until my hand hurts. It’s fine, but I wouldn’t call it inspirational. Then I think about the pool.
“Yeah.”
AJ looks right at me. “We think those places matter. We think they’re worth sharing, you know? Because when you share them, they become part of the poem.”
Goose bumps travel up my arms. “Hmm. I like that.”
“Yeah, me too. Which reminds me of another.” He hops back onto the stage and stands right in front of me. “The first poem you read in Poet’s Corner has to be written
here.”
“What?”
“Yep.”
Crap. Back in history class, Sydney wasn’t telling me I had to get up on stage. How could I have been so stupid? “Why did you guys let me start reading today?”
He laughs. “You were going for it. I don’t think any of us knew how to stop you.”
I hide my face. “Until I stopped myself.”
“And I think I speak for all of us when I say we were sorry you did.”
“Really?”
They wanted me here.
“Of course. You would’ve been pummeled with paper when you finished, and I, for one, was especially looking forward to that
with a sleek metal end table. “Everything in here came from the prop room?”
“Yep.”
“Don’t they miss this stuff?”
“Eh. Pieces have been disappearing little by little over the last decade, ever since Poet’s Corner began. I’m sure they miss things occasionally, especially the big
stuff.”
“Like, for instance, a bright orange couch.”
“Exactly.”
“And even if they did miss it,” I say, suppressing a smile, “they’d have no idea where to look.”
“Secret room.” His mouth curves up on one side. “I should probably feel a little bit guilty, shouldn’t I?”
“Maybe a little bit,” I say, holding up my hand, thumb and finger nearly touching.
“It’s not like they were stolen.”
“Of course not. They were simply relocated.”
“That couch is really comfortable.” He steps past me and jumps down onto the ground with a thud. He falls back into the orange sofa, running his hands back and forth across the
cushions. “And inspirational. You know, if you’re looking for something to write about, this couch would make a great topic.”
I laugh. “Why would I want to write about a piece of furniture?” I have a mental illness and four superficial friends. Surely I have more fodder for a poetic career than to need an
ugly orange couch.
When he grins, that dimple on the left side of his mouth catches my eye. “I have no idea.” Then he lets his head fall backward and he stares up at the ceiling. “This is good.
Keep ’em coming.” He motions toward himself with one hand. “What other questions do you have for me, Sam?”
Sam. Again. That makes two.
I walk around the stage, getting a feel for it under my feet. I run my fingertips across the stool, remembering how terrified I was up here. It feels like it’s daring me to sit on it
again, so I hop up and take a look around. The room looks different now that it’s emptier. Safer. At least now I feel like a poet wannabe and not a stripper.
AJ’s still reclining into the couch, watching me.
“Tell me more about the rules. You can’t criticize anyone’s poetry, especially your own, right?”
“True,” he says. “And the last time I broke that one, you saw the ramifications firsthand.”
I remember how AJ stood up here with his guitar dangling from the strap, inviting his friends to throw paper at him. “Yes, I did.” Thinking back on that day reminds me of something
else I’ve been wondering about.
“Why do you always start by saying where you wrote your poem? Why does that matter?”
“Is there a place you like to go when you write? Is there one particular place that inspires you?”
I picture my room, huddled down in my sheets far past my bedtime, writing until my hand hurts. It’s fine, but I wouldn’t call it inspirational. Then I think about the pool.
“Yeah.”
AJ looks right at me. “We think those places matter. We think they’re worth sharing, you know? Because when you share them, they become part of the poem.”
Goose bumps travel up my arms. “Hmm. I like that.”
“Yeah, me too. Which reminds me of another.” He hops back onto the stage and stands right in front of me. “The first poem you read in Poet’s Corner has to be written
here.”
“What?”
“Yep.”
Crap. Back in history class, Sydney wasn’t telling me I had to get up on stage. How could I have been so stupid? “Why did you guys let me start reading today?”
He laughs. “You were going for it. I don’t think any of us knew how to stop you.”
I hide my face. “Until I stopped myself.”
“And I think I speak for all of us when I say we were sorry you did.”
“Really?”
They wanted me here.
“Of course. You would’ve been pummeled with paper when you finished, and I, for one, was especially looking forward to that
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