After I Wake (13 page)

Me: Not really, though I strongly suspect it involves change, evolution and such, but also compassion and emotion. I have to give it some thought, I suppose.

(I think some more about how rude she sounded but keep those thoughts silent.)

Summer: That's alright. Now, what would you say your recent relationship with poetry is like?

Me: Well, not a day goes by that I don't think about it. I've spent so much of my life completely immersed in the poetry world. But I've been exploring it as I always have and reading lots of old favorites. I've only actually written one poem recently. That is actually the reason I initially refused this offer. I felt like poetry wasn't important enough at the time. I've since changed my mind as my mental state improved. I can't picture a life without poems because they make up so much of my life, and I'm glad to have that mentality back. But the one poem I wrote, it's completely awful and will never see the light of day.

Summer: Why is that?

Me: Well, it rhymes. I despise rhyming poems because I'm just really not a fan of the scheme. Rhymes get annoying to me.

(Oops… I wasn't going to mention that I hate rhymes. Oh well.)

Summer: I see.

Me: It's a weird opinion. But I have lots of opinions, and I'm entitled to them because every human reserves the right to an opinion, including those who embody humanity in the barest sense of the word, which is, you know, kind of me.

Summer: Anything to say in general about anything?

Me: The world's fucked up. But there is one cool thing. You can say whatever you want to say and someone's going to hear it. And that could change someone's life.

(She gasps politely, but doesn't seem all that disturbed by my swearing because she's processing the second part. To her, I'm probably just a stupid teenager and swearing is the norm. Even though she's right, and swearing is so much fun.)

The interview goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on, and it doesn't seem to end, covering all sorts of random topics and tangents. There's no way this is going to fit into a two-page spread, and I wonder what isn't going to make the final cut.

We leave finally, with her looking at me quizzically and with me feeling thoroughly annoyed. I change back to my long sleeves, and while feeling protected and shielded again, return to the lobby where my mom and Emmett will be waiting for me.

I spend the whole elevator ride down wondering how I did, whether I sounded rude or snobby, if I was self-absorbed or fair, and could I have done better. I suppose I won't know until I get the magazine in the mail, since I already applied for a subscription.

I swallow my anxieties and reunite with my mother and Emmett so we can go back to the hotel.

 

 

W
E
SPEND
the rest of the day looking for a restaurant suitable to what each of us wants, but settle for subs in the end. I describe the photo shoot at length and the interview between bites of meatball sub and express a desire to do neither of them again, hopefully, or at least not for a very long time.

The night is uneventful, we finish eating, return to the hotel, my mom showers the city off of her, and I shower the makeup and long day off, and Emmett showers because he decides he needs to use the last of the hot water.

When I look at the clock, it is barely after ten, but the sky is dark and illuminated by the skyscrapers towering outside the window. I admire the sight while pushing my unruly hair down.

My mom is still up, lounging on her bed, having brought my laptop with her because all she has at home is our desktop, and she needs to work for a few minutes. I sit on the pullout bed we located in the couch that I claimed for myself when we entered the room and watch her type.

When my mom types, or more accurately whenever she concentrates on something, the very tip of her tongue sneaks through her lips, and she bites it absently. I suspect that my mom is working because in order for her to complete her job she only needs a connection to the Internet. It must be fun to be able to work with computers online and work from home. She never has to deal with annoying employees except through e-mail.

Emmett is on the other bed, his wet hair dampening the pillow and slowly acquiring his usual shaggy look, though he has promised to put gel or something in it for the event tomorrow and slick it back. He's pretending to sleep, but I see the small white cord of his headphones wrapped around his ear and I know he is listening to music and creating music videos in his head.

I perch in the corner of the couch in pajamas, with my stump, yes, stump, holding down a notepad on the arm of the couch and attempting to practice writing with my right hand. It's still a foreign sensation to be forced into right-handedness, but I'm adapting, trying to do Darwin proud. It is a nice thought, though, to think that one day I will be used to writing with my right hand, that it will come easily and instinctively, and the handwriting will be just as cramped and messy as ever. Or maybe neater, but I sincerely doubt that. I'm not that dedicated.

 

 

T
HE
MAJORITY
of the next day passes without anything exciting happening. We walk around the city some more and look for moderately famous people, though we find none. We stop for lunch, but I can only nibble briefly on my real New York pizza. I prefer New Haven, Connecticut, pizza, anyways.

All too soon it is time to return to the hotel and get ready for the ceremony. I find that as we get closer to the hotel to change and get ready, breathing becomes a slight challenge. I get just a little woozy, and then very nauseous. My mom notices and hurries us to the hotel room and sits me on the bed, instructing me to curl up and keep my head between my knees.

“What is this?” My voice is barely audible through the layers of clothing I am speaking to.

“I think it's a panic attack of sorts,” my mom guesses. “Are you nervous for the ceremony?” I nod in response, and my voice comes out muffled.

“There are going to be strangers listening to me read my poem… and they're going to see my scars and arm. I'm scared.” I have all of these thoughts at once, and they overwhelm me. My stomach roils.

“When have you ever been scared? This is a first, Carter.” Emmett's voice floats into my ear, and I find that he is sitting next to me, his legs pulled into a similar position. “Really,” he continues. “You're always so full of confidence and you walk all briskly and stuff and you have a good idea of what is going on. You write killer poetry, and I envy the color of your hair a ridiculous amount. So what makes you nervous now? This is like the judgment-free hill of flowy clothing but without a hill and white clothes. We're dressing up for a night on the town and our clothes are better than the judgment-free hill of flowy clothing because I have a motherfucking bow tie… (He apologizes to my mom's vaguely annoyed grunt) and I think we should enjoy it,” he finishes grandly.

“You couldn't have hair this color if you tried. It's all genetic.” I lift my head and elbow him, smiling a little.

“My dear Carter, if I had hair that color I would very likely be a male model. You are well aware of how I made puberty my bitch, no? Except I'd be a terrible model, and I have nothing that remotely resembles the ab-ular muscles.” He pauses for a breath and references the slightest pudge under his shirt.

“But though I've gone and made puberty my bitch, Car, you've made this entire situation your bitch. I have never met a single other person in my life who has had the experiences in the past months that you have had, but you have come back from it so strongly that you have a new sort of normal, and you have regained and then doubled the awesomeness you possessed before.” Emmett seems done for real now, because this time he flourishes his arms grandly before sweeping me into a hug. I feel suffocated for a moment and begin to pull away, but I force myself to relax and enjoy the hug because I know Emmett means well.

I whisper my profuse thanks and one last playful taunt about my hair to him before pulling out of the hug, grabbing my dress off the doorknob, and disappearing into the bathroom to change. I feel all right again. There is some banging about outside, and I assume Emmett and my mother have some arrangement figured out in which they change their clothes as well.

I try to clear my mind, focusing on pulling off the layers required by an unexpected chilly day. The clothes all hit the floor, and I slip the dress on, keeping my eyes closed the whole time, for once not seeing the scars that dance across my thighs or up my arms. It's a bit of an unpleasant reality to open my eyes to them, so I take a small solace in not needing to see them for a little while.

After the dress is on, I have to zipper it, and that of course takes some effort because it's hard enough with two hands, let alone one. The zipper is on my back, and I wrestle with the dress quite a bit before resolving to have my mom help me. I look in the mirror, mussing my hair and gently spiking it up like it was in the interview and take some makeup out of the bag I left on the bathroom counter this morning. I carefully put on lipstick before putting the tube in one of my totally awesome dress pockets and gently put mascara on, successfully not stabbing myself in the eyeballs. I put on a little bit of blush and smear some eye shadow on because it's not hard to fuck up the basics of makeup. Lastly, I step back to look at myself in the mirror and suck in my guts.

I look almost elegant. It's kind of nice.

 

 

W
E
ALL
conglomerate back in the main room. After I step out of the bathroom, Emmett rushes in, tuxedoed including his bow tie decorated with bow ties and clutching at his bladder. I neatly sidestep and look to my mom. She is wearing a sleeveless navy blue dress and has swept her hair into a long ponytail that hangs down her back. She works on her phone, checking e-mails or something like that.

When Emmett rejoins us, having emptied his bladder and gelled his hair into something not shaggy and fairly nice. I try to walk out the door, but my mom spins me to face her, her phone camera inches away from my face.

“We need pictures,” she informs me with a grin. I shudder visibly and feel my pulse escalate because I do not want pictures taken of me while I am so… exposed.

“What is this, prom?” I joke weakly, hiding behind Emmett, even though there is not much of him to hide behind, and inform my mother politely and firmly that I will not have pictures taken of me, and if they are utterly necessary then they may wait until after the ceremony and people have already stared at me in great amounts.

Eventually I emerge from my place behind Emmett for just one picture—because my mom is so good at talking me into doing things—and go to my suitcase, digging out my old leather jacket and shrugging it on over the blemishes that make up my skin and going to the door to leave. My mom stops me and hands me a lacey shawl to put over my shoulders that matches the dress, and I grumpily put down my leather jacket, even though it's black and awesome and matches the dress just as well.

We've decided to hail a cab, and I hope we can get one in time. But when we arrive in the lobby, we find that there is a limo waiting to take us to the ceremony. I look to Emmett, but he is clearly as surprised as I am. My mom has a twinkle in her eye, and I know she was in on it somehow.

We all scoot into the limo, black and inconspicuous in the city, and I look at Emmett to see how he is reacting, but he is staring at his phone. When he sees that I am looking at him he smiles extra wide, baring his teeth at me like a wolf, and slips the phone into the inside pocket of his tuxedo, hiding whatever he was looking at.

One of my least favorite things about male tuxedos is that they have pockets on the inside of their jackets. How come my jackets don't have inside pockets to keep things safe? Girls are forced to keep things in their bras instead, and that's annoying and highly unfortunate for those not gifted with chests that can actually conceal phones. I can't conceal a phone; it'd stick out and just be creepy.

I blink and lose the thought, and gaze at the interior of the limousine. It has a tiny fridge, and I can't help but grin. Standard-sized appliances are cute but small versions are absurdly adorable. I open it and pull out glass containers filled with sparkling water and hold them out in offering to my mother and Emmett, who both accept. I hand two to my mom, and she opens one and hands it back to me. I do not say anything, but I am thankful. We sit in silence, quietly sipping our water.

I put mine away after my hand starts shaking, and I lean back into the seat as my nerves start to creep back. I'm freaking out. My mom notices and pulls me to her side where I huddle against her. I close my eyes and take deep breaths for the remainder of the ride, willing my stomach to calm down and trying not to vomit everywhere.

“Excited?” my mom asks, but I don't hear it over my elevated heartbeat.

“Completely.” I lie so well I fool myself for a minute.

We arrive all too soon, and I am forced to swallow my anxieties again and step out of the limo. The building has a nice exterior, and I find that if the weather were not so cold, I would quite enjoy staying outside and further admiring the exterior of the building for quite a while. I stop to do so, but my mother nudges me in the door before I can make a stand and stay outside.

We walk down a long hallway with plush carpeting that threatens to consume my ankles, and I feel like I would trip and hurt myself, which could get me out of the event, but my shoes are far too flat for that to happen. The only other people in the hallway are disappearing through the door at the other end. They look just as fancy as I do. Everything is quiet for a moment. It's not something you'd expect in a busy city, and it'll probably not be quiet for much longer.