After I Wake (11 page)

“I love the fact that you don't need any grammar at all to make a poem good. There's no punctuation, you can make the spacing do whatever it wants, and you pretty much rule how it flows. They're random little snippets of adorable,” he supplies while I nod.

“It's freeing and loose, like sitting on a hill in flowy clothing in the wind and having no responsibilities in the world, and it's utterly fantastic,” I reply. Emmett nods.

“I like that feeling. Let's climb a hill and wear flowy clothing and have no responsibilities.” Emmett develops a dreamy look in his eyes.

I think about possible places where we can do exactly that, but my imaginary hill becomes steep and muddy and uncomfortable once a new thought strikes me.

“We could do that back home, in all fairness,” I start nonchalantly. “But I couldn't. All my flowy sitting on a hill clothes are tank top things.”

“Well, the windy hill of responsibility freeness is a judgment-free zone. Besides, your dress for tomorrow shows that all off anyways, right? It proves how much you've overcome and how you have your battle scars and all that stuff, and I love you in the most fraternal, platonic way possible, and I'd probably be hopelessly in love with you if I didn't love guys so damn much. So, you know, in conclusion, smile and stuff.” Emmett finishes awkwardly before finding himself being hugged in a most violent manner by me.

“Are you aware of how perfect you are, my dear Emmett?” I accidentally say it to his shoulder.

“I've heard it said before, I won't lie. But you're pretty awesome too, getting me out of school and letting me ignore my homework. It's so boring. If I have to spend one more day in that class, I'm going to beat myself with a Spork.”

I have to laugh at him before reminding him that the day is Saturday.

“But why with a Spork?” I ask curiously, having finally processed the last bit.

“Because they are dull and will keep me awake in class and stuff. The teacher has an incredibly dry delivery of the same lessons we learned last year.” His words are rushed, as if he's been building up an arsenal of reasons to go crazy since the first day of school. But with this being Emmett, he likely has.

“And would you have a Spork handy for the very moment you lose it?” I keep the conversation open, waiting to see where Emmett takes it.

“Alas, I would likely not. But I would make sure to have a handy dandy Spork at the ready if I were to ever go to prison.” At this latest response, my mom looks up from her book. She's intrigued too.

“Why in the world would you ever go to prison, Emmett?” Mom easily slides into the conversation.

“Probably for attempting to stab someone with a Spork,” he replies just as easily.

“I see,” she replies seriously. I wonder how we'd sound to passersby if there were any.

“Wouldn't they confiscate your Spork?” I ponder, and Emmett nods gravely.

“It is likely, but the best way to eat Jell-O is with a Spork, and if we were to have Jell-O one day, I would request a Spork to eat it with. And they would give me one because I am so well behaved. And hopefully they won't have my record so they wouldn't know about my unfortunate Spork-related history. Then I would hide it in my shoe and bring it back to my cell and thus dig my way out of incarceration.” I share a glance with my mother, wondering why Emmett chose to bring the conversation that way.

“Why would you dig out of incarceration with a Spork? If the prongs get dented, doesn't it render it useless?” I easily poke a gaping, Spork-shaped hole in Emmett's plan.

Naturally, he is not to be outdone.

“Well, if that were to be the case, I'd have a spoon for backup, because spoons are nice, and consequently beneficial for digging out of the prison of your choice. Also, I can use a spoon to eat cake if they serve it in prison. And if all else fails, and I am unable to escape, I will use either my Spork or spoon to hit people over the head with for long enough that they go insane.”

Emmett nods once, satisfied with his discussion and turns his music back on, no longer listening to me or my mother. I think back on what Emmett just said, and I have to admit that we've talked about weirder things. For example, the ending of a dinosaur movie: All the dinosaurs die, a meteor hits the Earth, and all that fun stuff. But Emmett wanted to know what would happen if the dinosaurs had survived.

I said they'd probably develop technology or something, and Emmett ended the conversation with the idea of raptors in human clothes, parading around to the tune of “All dinosaurs are equal, but some are more equal than others.” He proceeded to name it Jurassic Farm.

So, all things considered, Emmett knows how to make any conversation infinitely more interesting. I've lost my train of thought, which is funny because I'm on a train, so I bring myself back to the present, and more specifically, the train.

I lean over to have a miniature discussion with my mother. “Remind me to keep him away from Sporks in the future.”

“Oh that's a given. And you should encourage him to write more. He has quite the interesting brain. I'd like to see that Jurassic Farm you two were planning the other night when I was making salad.” I gape at her.

“Why were you listening to us?”

“Isn't it obvious, Carter? Your friend knows how to carry incredibly interesting and fairly eloquent conversations.” I nod soberly, because she is right, finishing the conversation, choosing to lean back into the uncomfortable seats that squeak whenever you put weight on them.

Sometime after that, I fall into a light sleep, lulled by the annoying clacking of train wheels.

 

 

W
ELL
,
THE
city is gorgeous, though I already knew that.

New York City is a pure adrenaline rush, filled with gritty people who all have their own individual stories and memories, and they're all haunted by their own experiences. Whether they are tourists or live there, they keep moving in a city that never stops, and it is glorious. I make a mental note to write that down once we get to the hotel.

We all do the basic human-required toilet-related actions that Emmett commonly refers to as “whizzing,” and head out, looking for a cozy shop my mother frequented in the years before I was born, that she's returned to several times. She swears by their cinnamon rolls and pumpkin lattes. Honestly, if my mother ever explored her true purpose, I think it'd be to find the perfect cinnamon bun. It's a mission of mine too, to find a glorious cinnamon bun with the universe baked into its center and the stars drizzled into the icing.

By some small miracle, we find it in quick time and duck in, out of the uncharacteristically breezy winds.

“Bit nippy, isn't it?” the nearly ancient woman behind the counter remarks mildly, and then smiles wide at my mother. Looks are deceiving, though, because the woman is thin and wiry. She takes apart and cleans a large coffee grinder with a practiced ease.

“Magda, it's good to see you.” My mom hugs her over the counter and introduces us to Magda, the owner and proprietor of the Coffee Slam for the past twenty-two years. She gives my mother a coffee on the house, but my mother insists tipping her the full price.

“You'd love it here even more if you turned around, Car.” My mother notices me staring at her latte foam mustache and wipes it off. I follow her instruction and turn around, encountering a wall-to-wall bookshelf full of worn books that stink richly of that weird old-book aroma that pervades all literature eventually. The scents of the books and coffee mingle in the air deliciously. I can see why my mom loves it here so much.

I rush at the bookshelf and scan the titles immediately, looking for any poetry that may be mixed in. I find an old book of mixed poets; the title advertises the best of the seventies. My mother appears, taking the book and expertly flipping it open.

“You'll like those, I think,” my mom says. Magda's voice drifts over the counter dimly.

“People leave books in passing or donate them when they see the bookshelf. They like to bring them in and trade them out. I have a very nice little free book business going, and I have for years, since your mother gave me the idea. Those bookshelves used to hold coffee mugs that were broken but still usable by my opinion. I kept them around because they looked nice.

“But your mother, she snuck books behind the mugs when she didn't have enough room in her backpack and didn't want them getting stolen. She thought I didn't see her, but I thought it was cute. There was a day when I took the books and put them behind the counter to keep them safe, and your mother came in, looking for her books. She didn't want to ask me if I'd seen them, but I called her over to the counter to give her the books, and I swear I never saw someone look so grateful. She was here nearly every day, not always buying coffee, but I could forgive that. She kept giving me business.”

“I loved it here. I didn't want to be anywhere else when I studied,” my mom interjects, but Magda isn't done.

“New York was and is so busy that books never mattered to the people. Novels were the nitty-gritty little somethings that the busy people never had the time to pay attention to. So the books just went on the bookshelf. People came back for their books sometimes, and they were always waiting on the bookshelf for them. If not, I let people trade them. Good old-fashioned take a book, leave a book.” She gave a nostalgic sigh. “Those were some fast-paced times, weren't they Nancy?”

My mom just laughs at her, in the friendliest way possible. “In my defense, Magda, those were the early nineties, and I was paying my way through college. I had to save money, not spend it on books like that.”

“Wait, Mom, you hoarded books?” She just smiles and nods at me.

We linger in the shop for hours and chat idly while some customers drift in, Magda filling each of their orders expertly and with a speed that could rival the one that Emmett creates texts at, greeting them by name, and asking if they want their usual orders.

Emmett sits on a cracked leather chair in the corner with a hot cocoa in his lap, texting slowly, furrowing his brow at the phone before putting it away with a disgusted face. He's been doing this more and more often, and though I haven't voiced it, I'm starting to get a little concerned.

“You know, business isn't what it used to be. Chain stores have been taking my customers, you see,” Magda says while I sip a perfect hot cocoa, having demolished a cinnamon bun that could rival the glory of the universe itself. I feel so spoiled; I got two cinnamon buns in one day. Magda continues and I look up.

“I may have to close down soon, other than the morning rush, I don't make too much anymore. Taxes are too high in the city, and I can't afford to hire help. I may need to sell the place. I could rent it out, make some more money, but I have enough to live comfortably.”

My mom emits a small noise and rushes to hug Magda again, apologizing profusely while simultaneously praising her illustrious career. We say our good-byes slowly as my mom lingers. She doesn't want to go. We scurry out the door, and my mother wipes away a stray tear.

“She was like a second mother to me, almost, during my college years,” my mom murmurs. “She let me set up all the books and stuff. It was really nice of her. She let me work there for a little while when I couldn't pay my tuition.” A sigh. “She's just such a good person, for the sake of being good. I used to aspire to be just like her.”

“Ma, you are like that,” I assure her. “You are one of the best people ever. Well, I mean, like, as your daughter I'm kind of obligated to say that, but I still believe it. Now, how long until the photo shoot?” My mother checks her phone.

“About fifteen minutes and a few blocks away. Let's get going, shall we?” I nod, and so does Emmett, so we throw ourselves into the crowds, rushing to and fro, and hurry off to the building where the official headquarters of the National Poetry Accolades live, barely making it in time.

 

 

W
E
GET
to the building and run in, drawing the location of where we need to be out of a bored woman sitting behind an information desk, and go to the thirteenth floor. We are greeted politely, and I am whisked away to a room where four people wait for me.

One man steps forward and introduces himself as Pete, my photographer, and he shakes my hand before disappearing, consulting notes he had scribbled onto his arm about lighting angles and whatnot.

The next person is Alexandria, and she introduces herself as my makeup and hair artist and proceeds to compliment the size of my pores, which I thank her for, confused as to why my pores are so notable.

After that is Chanelle, the woman in charge of my clothing. She gives me a once-over before squealing that she has a purple shirt that should fit perfectly.

The last person to step forward is Alexander Brown himself, and he hugs me warmly, thanking me again for agreeing to do this, while slipping in a comment about the interviewer being ready when I'm done with the photos.

I follow all of their instructions for the next little while, letting the professionals do their work. I am dressed in a purple lacey thing that has three-quarter sleeves, leaving some scars incredibly visible, and my hair is gently tousled and spiked up from its usual flattish position. It might be something I'll have to do in the future, because the spiky hair is pretty interesting.

Pete sneaks around with a smaller camera, taking behind-the-scenes photos he plans to slip into the interview once it's printed, and I have a feeling he'll be sticking around for the interview to snap more pictures of me. The worst part is the knowing they'll all be Photoshopped and airbrushed to make me look like a different person that I know will only vaguely resemble me in looks. I say nothing for a while, wondering what to talk about when the actual interview rolls around.