has told me how bad I am at flirting. She’s right. I never know the right words. Can’t even catch a smile from Hasan without running for the toilet brush.
Silence. Have they stopped talking because of us? Can’t look up. I press the release button and wriggle my wrist out, dropping my side to the floor with a clank . Stretch out my legs in front of me. Deep breath. Head up.
“We could still use poetry but in a different way,” I say, all business now. Bubble popped. Nimra. Yes, I’ll look at Nimra.
“What are you thinking?” she asks. She must have felt 100 percent of my attention hitting her all at once.
“We-ll…” I draw it out, since I don’t exactly know what I’m thinking. I look around and see Amanda in the leather vest. Damien in an eye patch, now trying on the bustier over his T-shirt. Nimra in a flower lei. Can’t bear to look at Will, but the wig. That repulsive wig. “What if we all pick a favorite poem and put up samples? Beat poetry, haikus, sonnets—anything, really.”
Nimra nods, then Amanda. Damien’s too busy wrestling with the clasp on the bustier to respond. I see Will’s head bobbing out of the corner of my eye. Zara looks up, examining the ceiling, and makes a duck face.
“And we could make the paper in the shape of a scroll,” I say, on a roll now, “to go with the feather pens.”
Well, now that you mention the feather pens … “Okay.” Zara nods. “That might work.” She looks to Damien, who looks at his chest in the bustier. “Well?” she says.
“That’s better.” I’m not sure if he’s talking about my idea or the bustier. “I’m doing Jimi Hendrix.”
Zara opens her mouth to protest—probably not Robert Frost-ish enough for her—but closes it after a look from all of us. We take a few minutes to iron out supplies, who’s getting what, and how we’re going to make this work. Nimra, who’s also a member of the Art Club, thinks she can make the paper into the shape of a scroll.
When she says Art Club, a cloud moves over me. It’s been twenty-four hours since I thought about Ainsley at all. Saint Ainsley, president of the Art Club. I didn’t even notice whether Celeste was in English today.
“Maybe I can get the Art Club to help me put up the paper and shape it,” Nimra says.
“That would be great.” Zara scribbles something on her clipboard.
“I’m sure the six of us could handle it,” I say.
“The more hands, the better,” Zara chirps, like some forty-year-old rounding up volunteers for a church fundraiser. Discussion closed.
Zara gives us some assignments for the next meeting, which isn’t until Monday. Almost a week away. It’s only been two days, but the thought of returning to the dusty library, Ms. Hillary shuffling around, falls flat. I want to do this every day for the rest of the year—hide in a prop closet with lunatics. Zara can come and bark orders if she must.
As soon as we have things sorted, Zara and Nimra get up and leave. Damien, Amanda, Will and I stay back.
“Just like a little poodle,” Damien says about Zara, “yipping in your ear.”
We all sit with our legs stretched to the center of the circle, a lopsided star. Damien makes a halfhearted attempt to throw more props in our direction, but we’re lazy now. Tossing words back and forth. Amanda’s giggles ring over everything. A sad sinking feeling when the bell goes.
* * *
“What’s with you and that Will guy?” Damien asks me in Spanish class.
Daniela leans in, looking back and forth between Damien and me. Every part of me shuts down.
“What do you mean?” I say.
“He obviously likes you.”
Over the ringing in my ears, I hear Daniela’s voice. “Will who? Which Will?”
Mercifully, Damien left out and you like him .
“He just sits by me in English,” I say.
“Well”—he gives me that raised-eyebrow look again—“he ‘just sits by you’ in our meetings too.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “Try sitting in a different spot
Silence. Have they stopped talking because of us? Can’t look up. I press the release button and wriggle my wrist out, dropping my side to the floor with a clank . Stretch out my legs in front of me. Deep breath. Head up.
“We could still use poetry but in a different way,” I say, all business now. Bubble popped. Nimra. Yes, I’ll look at Nimra.
“What are you thinking?” she asks. She must have felt 100 percent of my attention hitting her all at once.
“We-ll…” I draw it out, since I don’t exactly know what I’m thinking. I look around and see Amanda in the leather vest. Damien in an eye patch, now trying on the bustier over his T-shirt. Nimra in a flower lei. Can’t bear to look at Will, but the wig. That repulsive wig. “What if we all pick a favorite poem and put up samples? Beat poetry, haikus, sonnets—anything, really.”
Nimra nods, then Amanda. Damien’s too busy wrestling with the clasp on the bustier to respond. I see Will’s head bobbing out of the corner of my eye. Zara looks up, examining the ceiling, and makes a duck face.
“And we could make the paper in the shape of a scroll,” I say, on a roll now, “to go with the feather pens.”
Well, now that you mention the feather pens … “Okay.” Zara nods. “That might work.” She looks to Damien, who looks at his chest in the bustier. “Well?” she says.
“That’s better.” I’m not sure if he’s talking about my idea or the bustier. “I’m doing Jimi Hendrix.”
Zara opens her mouth to protest—probably not Robert Frost-ish enough for her—but closes it after a look from all of us. We take a few minutes to iron out supplies, who’s getting what, and how we’re going to make this work. Nimra, who’s also a member of the Art Club, thinks she can make the paper into the shape of a scroll.
When she says Art Club, a cloud moves over me. It’s been twenty-four hours since I thought about Ainsley at all. Saint Ainsley, president of the Art Club. I didn’t even notice whether Celeste was in English today.
“Maybe I can get the Art Club to help me put up the paper and shape it,” Nimra says.
“That would be great.” Zara scribbles something on her clipboard.
“I’m sure the six of us could handle it,” I say.
“The more hands, the better,” Zara chirps, like some forty-year-old rounding up volunteers for a church fundraiser. Discussion closed.
Zara gives us some assignments for the next meeting, which isn’t until Monday. Almost a week away. It’s only been two days, but the thought of returning to the dusty library, Ms. Hillary shuffling around, falls flat. I want to do this every day for the rest of the year—hide in a prop closet with lunatics. Zara can come and bark orders if she must.
As soon as we have things sorted, Zara and Nimra get up and leave. Damien, Amanda, Will and I stay back.
“Just like a little poodle,” Damien says about Zara, “yipping in your ear.”
We all sit with our legs stretched to the center of the circle, a lopsided star. Damien makes a halfhearted attempt to throw more props in our direction, but we’re lazy now. Tossing words back and forth. Amanda’s giggles ring over everything. A sad sinking feeling when the bell goes.
* * *
“What’s with you and that Will guy?” Damien asks me in Spanish class.
Daniela leans in, looking back and forth between Damien and me. Every part of me shuts down.
“What do you mean?” I say.
“He obviously likes you.”
Over the ringing in my ears, I hear Daniela’s voice. “Will who? Which Will?”
Mercifully, Damien left out and you like him .
“He just sits by me in English,” I say.
“Well”—he gives me that raised-eyebrow look again—“he ‘just sits by you’ in our meetings too.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “Try sitting in a different spot
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