Every Last Word (25 page)

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” Sue’s expression barely changes, but she’s quiet for a long time.

What have I done?

“Have I ever told you about Anthony?” she finally asks.

I shake my head.

“He was a patient of mine many years ago. He had synesthesia. It’s a disorder where, in essence, your five senses have their wires crossed. In this case, Anthony could
hear
in
color.”

“I’ll trade him,” I say. “That sounds really cool.”

“It wasn’t to him. It affected his daily life. He had a hard time concentrating at work, especially in meetings when there were multiple people speaking at the same time. He
couldn’t tolerate crowds. He felt like his brain was on overload, constantly receiving stimuli. It was physically draining.

“We worked together for a long time, and after a while, his perspective started to change. He began to realize no one else heard music quite the way he did. No one else knew that his
wife’s voice was this really unique shade of purple. ‘Normal’ people couldn’t see the color of laughter, and he began to feel sorry for them, because they’d never get
to experience the world the way he did. I think that’s a lovely way to look at special minds.”

I roll my eyes. “Really, Sue? Special?”

“Very. Your brain works differently, Sam. Sometimes it does things that scare you. But it’s very special, and so are you.”

“Thank you.” I smile at her. It’s a kind thing to say. But I know where she’s going here. “You’re sharing this story to make me tell AJ, aren’t
you?”

“I’m not making you do anything. Whether or not you tell him is entirely up to you. I’m merely reminding you to embrace who you are and surround yourself with people who do the
same.”

“Okay.”

“And you know what’s totally ‘normal’?” she asks. “To feel the way you’re feeling right now. It’s okay to want a life without medication. And a
life without me.”

“I’m sorry I said that.”

“Don’t be. I’m incredibly proud of you, Sam. You’re doing great.”

I am. And it feels good. But I’m still not about to tell AJ my secret.

T
he next night, my phone chirps as I’m sprawled across my bed, doing my French homework. I pick it up and check the screen.

“P.C.?” As in Poet’s Corner? It’s seven forty-five on a Thursday night. That can’t be right. I check the recipients of the group message and see the long list of
phone numbers.

I wait for someone else to reply, but no one does, so I type:

I press
SEND
, and AJ responds right away.

My pulse is racing as I leap off my bed and slip out of my sweats and into a fresh pair of jeans and a clean sweater. It’s freezing outside, so I throw my swim parka over my arm. I grab my
swim bag off the floor and my car keys off my desk.

Mom, Dad, and Paige are sitting together on the couch watching a movie. “I’m going to go swim some laps,” I announce, feeding my arms through my jacket and hoping I look
convincing.

“This late?” Dad asks, and before I can say anything, Mom chimes in and says, “She always swims this late.” She waves me off. “Have fun.”

I’m feeling a little guilty as I put the car in reverse and back out of the driveway, and a lot guilty as I drive right past the street that leads to the pool, but guilt turns to
nervousness as I pull into the student lot. I drive to a spot that allows me to park with the odometer on three.

AJ’s waiting for me inside the gate. He spreads his arms wide. “Welcome to your first P.M.”

“Do I even want to know what a P.M. is?” I don’t like this. I’m not good with surprises.

“Every once in a while we meet at night, just to shake things up. They’re fun. You’ll see.”

He checks the surroundings to be sure we’re alone, and then he reaches out and grabs the zipper on my swim parka. He gives it a tug, pulling me toward him. “You look gorgeous, by the
way.”

I laugh in his face. “That’s not possible. I was doing homework and I rushed out the door. I didn’t even put any makeup on.”

“Like I said…” He slowly unzips my parka down to my waist and slips his arms inside and around my back, pulling me closer, pressing his body against mine. “Gorgeous,”
he whispers. He tips his head down and kisses me, and my lips part for him like they always do. I’ll never get enough of this. I’ll never get tired of kissing him.

I want to stay out here, alone with him for the next hour or two, but I know everyone’s inside. And besides, it’s freezing. He slides his arms away, zips my jacket up to my chin, and
kisses my nose.

“That’s mean,” I say. “How am I supposed keep my hands off you now?”

“You don’t have to. We could tell them tonight.”

I think about my conversation with Sue yesterday. We could. I want to. But I’ve been mentally preparing to tell the Eights first. I haven’t even thought about how to tell everyone
downstairs.

“Never mind,” he says before I can respond. He kisses my forehead. “We’ll tell them later.”

He drops the subject and picks up my hand instead, leading me to the theater door. I’m surprised it’s unlocked, and I give him a questioning look.

“I texted Mr. B and asked him to leave it open tonight.”

He drops my hand before we step into the dark theater. I can see them up on stage, all huddled together under the dim lighting, and I do a quick count of the shadows. Seven. Everyone’s
here.

For some reason, we’re all keeping silent, sneaking as quietly as we can through the door and down the stairs. It’s strange to be in the theater at night, but it really
shouldn’t feel that different; these hallways are always dark and dimly lit, even in broad daylight. When AJ unbolts the door, everyone slips inside and heads straight for the lamps, flipping
them on until they light up our paper walls.

I sit on one of the couches at the back of the room, and Caroline settles in next to me. “I’m nervous,” I whisper when I’m sure no one’s paying attention.
“This is weird.”

She spreads her arms across the back of the sofa, and when her flannel falls open, I can read her T-shirt:
CONSIDER THIS DIEM CARPED
.

“Stop worrying. This is a good thing. Don’t twist it into something else,” she warns.

AJ and Sydney both step onto the stage at the same time. When he looks at her sideways, as if he’s wondering what she’s doing up there, she bumps his hip with hers. “Before we
get started, I have an announcement to make.” She waves a thin stack of papers in the air.

“There’s an open-mic night at this small club in the city tomorrow. All ages. Anyone’s invited to read. Or
sing
,” she says, looking pointedly at AJ and then back
at the group. She gives the flyers to Emily, who starts passing them around.

“Larger stage than this,” Sydney says, tapping her foot against the bare wood, “and far less comfortable seating.” AJ blows a kiss at his couch. “But we hope the
room will be equally friendly.”

“Who’s
we
?” Emily asks.

“So far, Abigail, Cameron, Jessica, and me. The three of them are doing ‘The Raven,’ and they’re now up to nine stanzas, so you won’t want to miss it. And
I’ll be reading something especially tasty, of course.” Sydney folds the flyer in half and fans herself. Then she gets serious again. “Look, none of us have ever read outside this
room, and we’re all fairly terrified, so come cheer us on. Please.”

Then she looks right at AJ. “If you think you
might
perform, and need something like, say, a guitar, you should bring that along.” She steps off the stage.

“I’m going to pass,” he says. “But I’ll be there in the front row, cheering for you guys.” AJ plants himself on the stool, resting one foot on a rung and the
other on the floor. It reminds me of that day we were down here together, when he told me all about the rules of Poet’s Corner and then left me alone to read its walls.

He’s only wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but he’s so adorable right now. I want to leap up there and plant kisses all over his face. That’d be one way to tell the rest of them, I
guess.

“Okay, take out your notebooks or whatever you write in,” AJ says. Sydney holds a jumbo-size plastic bag of wrappers and napkins in the air. I had no idea she had so many poems.
It’s hard to believe she can zip that thing closed.

“Ideally, everyone should read tonight, but if you don’t want to, that’s okay,” he continues.

Caroline crosses her legs at the ankle and reclines into the couch like she’s settling in for the night.

“You’re not reading?” She shakes her head. “Why not?” I whisper, and she makes a face. “I should force you up on that stage like you forced me.”

“
Pfft
. I’d like to see you try.”

“Since Sam’s new, I’ll explain how it works,” AJ says. “One of the other members will join you on stage and randomly pick one of your poems. You read it to the
group. If you don’t want to read it, ask for another one or just pass. It’s not a requirement to read or anything, but this is a long-standing tradition, started by the original
founders of Poet’s Corner.” He shrugs. “As far as I can tell, it’s some twisted trust exercise designed to humiliate us in front of each other.”

Everyone laughs. AJ looks at me. “Be glad you didn’t find us sooner, Sam. If you’d heard the ridiculous song I had to play last time, you wouldn’t have stuck
around.”

That’s impossible.

“Okay, who’s up first?” He jumps off stage. “Cameron, you read. Abigail, you choose.”

I reach for my yellow notebook. The blue poems are my favorites, but the yellow ones are the safest.

Cameron hands Abigail a three-ring binder, and she picks a page from the back. As it turns out, this poem isn’t about his parents’ divorce. It’s about a girl. He’s
reading so quietly we all have to strain to hear him, but as he describes her long black hair, I think I understand why. I’m pretty sure this poem is about Jessica. They have been working on
‘The Raven’ together. Maybe AJ and I aren’t the only secret down here. Cameron’s face is still bright red as he picks a poem for Abigail.

She takes one look at his pick and lets out a whoop. “Yes! Easy.” She launches in, reading a totally innocuous little rhyme about the sunset. Lucky.

Abigail picks for Emily. She doesn’t show any emotion when she sees what she has to read. And for the first few lines, she manages to keep it together through a poem that’s basically
about all the things her mom might not be around to see. But after she reads a verse about our high school graduation, she stops. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I can’t do
this tonight. Who’s next?”

In a matter of seconds, Jessica is bounding up onto the stage, long black braids trailing behind her like ribbons on a kite, just like Cameron described them.

She hands Emily a bright purple book with a black rubber band around it, and Emily picks a page and hurries back to her seat. Jessica reads a short piece about her math teacher’s horrible
breath and gives us a much needed mood change.

Chelsea reads next. We’re nearing the end of the line and I’m starting to get nervous about my turn. I can feel myself tuning out the voices on the stage and giving the ones in my
head far more attention than they deserve.

They could pick anything. I have no control.

The voices are getting louder, closing in, and my palms are starting to sweat. I need to go. I need to get it over with. But when Chelsea finishes, she immediately points at Sydney, calling her
up to the stage.

At least it’s Sydney.

Chelsea reaches into the plastic bag and pulls out a piece of pink cardboard. She starts to hand it to her, but Sydney won’t take it. “Nope. Pick another one, please.”

“Syd.”

“Another one, please.” Sydney can’t stand still. I’ve never seen her flustered. “Read it to yourself,” she says, “but then pick again, please. That Taco
Bell one is really funny.”

Chelsea is quiet as she reads it. Then she leans over and whispers in Sydney’s ear.

Sydney considers her for a long time before she finally steps off the stage and collapses into the couch.

Chelsea holds the piece of pink cardboard in both hands. “I’ve been granted permission to read this lovely poem,” Chelsea says. “It’s untitled. And I’m going
to go out on a limb here and say it was penned in a doughnut shop.”

Sydney’s face is buried in the couch cushions in front of her, but she nods dramatically.

Whoa. I’m dying to know who she’s referring to. Someone older? A teacher?

Everyone’s clapping and looking over at Sydney, but she’s facedown on the couch now, underneath one of the throw pillows. “Someone go next,” she yells.
“Quickly.”

“I’ll go,” I say, and I step up on the stage, handing Chelsea my yellow notebook as I perch myself on the stool. She feeds her finger into a random page near the back and hands
it to me.