lowered and he was staring at the floor between his feet.
I went back to the beginning and read the first poem more carefully.
It was good. I reread it and it was even better the second time. It wasn't just good, it was really good. It wasn't that sappy junk, either, that teenagers sometimes write and then imagine they're tortured poets. This was real poetry. Being a writer, I considered myself somewhat of an expert. I wasn't good at poetry myself, but at least I could recognize a good poem when I read one.
"Who wrote these?" I said, turning the page.
Luke glanced up. "I did."
I stopped reading. "You wrote this?"
He nodded.
I shook my head. "I don't get it. Your secret is poems?"
99
The Stillburrow Crush
by Linda Kage
He jerked to his feet then. "Never mind," he said, reaching for his notebook. But I held it away from him. He gave me a warning look. I, of course, ignored it.
"No, I guess you don't get it," he said, letting me win the notebook war. He took a huge step back, as if he needed space before he exploded. "I'm a football player. A tough guy.
I'm not supposed to write sissy poetry. Everyone would think I'm gay."
"Not every male poet is gay," I said. "What about Shakespeare? Robert Frost? E. E. Cummings? Lord Byron?
Now he was a real ladies' man."
"He didn't grow up in Stillburrow, either," Luke said.
I shrugged, because he was right. That would be the first assumption folks around these parts would make if they knew he leaned toward artistic pursuits.
"But it's not just that," he said. "My father expects me to go into business. To be a banker, like him."
"So be a banker," I said. "You can still write poetry on the side. That way if your work never sells, at least you have banking to fall back on."
Luke ran a hand through his hair, turned in a circle and came back to face me. "And I'm scared," he said.
My eyebrows shot up when I heard this quiet admission.
"This is important to me. I mean I really, really like doing it. And I didn't want to show it to someone and find out I'm bad. That's why I've been bugging you so much." He sat down on the bed again. When he looked up at me, his eyes were pleading and my heart fell directly at his feet.
100
The Stillburrow Crush
by Linda Kage
"I didn't dare take it to a teacher. It had to be someone my age. And you're the best writer in the whole school, Carrie. You'd know if it was any good or not. Plus I've learned you're extremely honest. You wouldn't lie to me." He looked at the notebook in my hands. "So what do you think?"
Suddenly, it felt like I was holding the Holy Grail in my grasp. This was Luke Carter's heart and soul. If I told him it was bad, it would break his spirit. But could I be completely honest? I mean, I had a crush on the guy. I'd tell him I loved any piece of rubbish he wrote to make him feel better.
All right, all right, I wouldn't. I can't deny the truth. To be honest, I was suddenly jealous.
It wasn't fair. Luke Carter had the money. He had the popularity. He was already the football star. And what did I have? Writing was my only claim to fame and now he wanted that too? If anyone read these poems, they'd stop calling me
"The Stillburrow Writer" and suddenly Luke would be Mr.
Shakespeare himself. I couldn't tell him how good he was.
But I couldn't tell him he was bad, either.
Talk about being stuck in a bad situation, huh?
And then an idea hit me. "Why don't we let the students of Stillburrow decide?"
His eyebrows crinkled in distrust. "What do you mean?"
I flipped open the notebook and scanned more poems.
"Why don't we put a few sample pieces in the paper?" When his mouth opened in an instant refusal, I quickly added,
"Anonymously, of course. I'll make it a survey on the editor's page. I can say that an unnamed poet would like the public's 101
The Stillburrow Crush
by Linda Kage
opinion on his or her work. 'Please reply with your thoughts on these poems.'"
Luke seemed to deliberate. I decided to put on a little more
I went back to the beginning and read the first poem more carefully.
It was good. I reread it and it was even better the second time. It wasn't just good, it was really good. It wasn't that sappy junk, either, that teenagers sometimes write and then imagine they're tortured poets. This was real poetry. Being a writer, I considered myself somewhat of an expert. I wasn't good at poetry myself, but at least I could recognize a good poem when I read one.
"Who wrote these?" I said, turning the page.
Luke glanced up. "I did."
I stopped reading. "You wrote this?"
He nodded.
I shook my head. "I don't get it. Your secret is poems?"
99
The Stillburrow Crush
by Linda Kage
He jerked to his feet then. "Never mind," he said, reaching for his notebook. But I held it away from him. He gave me a warning look. I, of course, ignored it.
"No, I guess you don't get it," he said, letting me win the notebook war. He took a huge step back, as if he needed space before he exploded. "I'm a football player. A tough guy.
I'm not supposed to write sissy poetry. Everyone would think I'm gay."
"Not every male poet is gay," I said. "What about Shakespeare? Robert Frost? E. E. Cummings? Lord Byron?
Now he was a real ladies' man."
"He didn't grow up in Stillburrow, either," Luke said.
I shrugged, because he was right. That would be the first assumption folks around these parts would make if they knew he leaned toward artistic pursuits.
"But it's not just that," he said. "My father expects me to go into business. To be a banker, like him."
"So be a banker," I said. "You can still write poetry on the side. That way if your work never sells, at least you have banking to fall back on."
Luke ran a hand through his hair, turned in a circle and came back to face me. "And I'm scared," he said.
My eyebrows shot up when I heard this quiet admission.
"This is important to me. I mean I really, really like doing it. And I didn't want to show it to someone and find out I'm bad. That's why I've been bugging you so much." He sat down on the bed again. When he looked up at me, his eyes were pleading and my heart fell directly at his feet.
100
The Stillburrow Crush
by Linda Kage
"I didn't dare take it to a teacher. It had to be someone my age. And you're the best writer in the whole school, Carrie. You'd know if it was any good or not. Plus I've learned you're extremely honest. You wouldn't lie to me." He looked at the notebook in my hands. "So what do you think?"
Suddenly, it felt like I was holding the Holy Grail in my grasp. This was Luke Carter's heart and soul. If I told him it was bad, it would break his spirit. But could I be completely honest? I mean, I had a crush on the guy. I'd tell him I loved any piece of rubbish he wrote to make him feel better.
All right, all right, I wouldn't. I can't deny the truth. To be honest, I was suddenly jealous.
It wasn't fair. Luke Carter had the money. He had the popularity. He was already the football star. And what did I have? Writing was my only claim to fame and now he wanted that too? If anyone read these poems, they'd stop calling me
"The Stillburrow Writer" and suddenly Luke would be Mr.
Shakespeare himself. I couldn't tell him how good he was.
But I couldn't tell him he was bad, either.
Talk about being stuck in a bad situation, huh?
And then an idea hit me. "Why don't we let the students of Stillburrow decide?"
His eyebrows crinkled in distrust. "What do you mean?"
I flipped open the notebook and scanned more poems.
"Why don't we put a few sample pieces in the paper?" When his mouth opened in an instant refusal, I quickly added,
"Anonymously, of course. I'll make it a survey on the editor's page. I can say that an unnamed poet would like the public's 101
The Stillburrow Crush
by Linda Kage
opinion on his or her work. 'Please reply with your thoughts on these poems.'"
Luke seemed to deliberate. I decided to put on a little more
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