Every Last Word (31 page)

“You should have gone,” I say plainly. And then I start to panic, wondering what he said to the others. “You didn’t tell anyone…about me…did you?”

“What?” The question clearly catches him off guard. “Of course not. I told them your car wouldn’t start. That’s why we didn’t make it to the city.”

We. Are we still “we”?

“Thanks. Please don’t say anything, okay?”

He’s watching me, waiting, I imagine, for an explanation of some kind. And he deserves one. But I can’t stand the way he’s looking at me right now, his eyes not only full of
questions but also full of pity. He didn’t look at me this way three days ago.

“Look, I want you to know everything,” I say, “but…it’s hard for me. I’ve never told anyone but Caro—” It starts to slip off my lips and
it’s too late to take it back. I hope he didn’t hear me. But he did. It’s all over his face.

“I’ve got to get to class,” I say as I push past him into the crowd, head down, walking away as quickly as I can, and kicking myself for saying her name.

By Tuesday afternoon, I’ve become pretty skilled at sneaking around and avoiding people.

Kaitlyn and Alexis were heading my way between first and second, and I started to panic, but then a group of guys on the lacrosse team walked up to them, and that was all I needed to creep by
without them ever noticing me. Sydney tried to talk with me after U.S. History, but I pretended I didn’t hear her and sped off for the pool. Olivia and I made eye contact a few times during
Trig, but I bolted for the door as soon as the bell rang. I haven’t seen Hailey since she gave me my backpack yesterday morning.

Even though I’m avoiding all of them, I check my texts obsessively. Five from Hailey, two from Alexis, and one from Olivia, all saying pretty much the same thing:

None from Kaitlyn.

And one from AJ:

I can’t decide how to reply to any of them, so I don’t.

I hang out in the bathroom near my fifth period class, watching the time on my phone, and I head for the door with less than a minute to spare. I’ve only taken two steps
into the corridor when I spot AJ standing a few feet away, almost as if he’s waiting for me.

He starts walking and there’s nowhere to hide. Then he stops, looming over me, blocking my way.

“You never read the poems in Caroline’s Corner, did you?”

I shake my head. I have no idea what that is.

He reaches for my hand and places the key inside my open palm. Then he closes my fingers around the thick, braided cord. “Go to the back right corner,” he says. He walks away.

Caroline’s Corner?

My legs are shaking and I feel light-headed as I open the door to my classroom and slide into my desk. I stuff the key under my leg so no one will see it. But during class, I hold it in my hand,
running my thumb back and forth over its sharp edges and deep grooves, thinking about that room.

I’m not sure I can handle going downstairs all alone—I’ve always been with the group or with Caroline. But then I remember that’s not true. Caroline didn’t guide me
that first time. I followed them, but I was completely alone. I brought myself down those stairs and into that room. That’s when I start to understand the connection.

The article I read last Friday night flashes in my mind.
“She loved writing poetry,”
the quote from Caroline’s mom had said.

Caroline was a Poet.

After sixth, I don’t hide in bathrooms or beeline straight for my next class. Instead, I slowly make my way through the crowd, keeping my head up, returning “hellos” and
“what’s ups” from the people I pass, and walk to the theater entrance. I’ve got such a tight grip on the key, I can feel the notches leaving tiny impressions in my palm.

The theater isn’t empty—a drama class is rehearsing a play—but no one notices me climb the stairs, creep past the grand piano, and slip behind the curtain. I open the narrow
door and close it quickly behind me, waiting to be sure no one saw or followed me. Then I step down.

The air feels thicker and it smells dank, like dirty socks and mold, but I breathe deeply and take it all in like I’m experiencing it for the first time. I let my fingers skim the dark
gray walls as I walk down the hallway, feeling the adrenaline pumping through my veins, recognizing how terrified I am right now, and forcing myself to experience every sensation, as if I need to
prove to myself I can do this. That I no longer need her help.

Inside the janitor’s closet, I push the mops to one side, and the door squeaks as I pull it toward me. I look around at the black ceiling and the black floors and the black walls that
hardly look black because they’re covered with so many scraps of paper. The stool is where it always is. The guitar stand is in the corner, but it’s empty now. I flip the closest lamp
on, and then I lock myself inside.

I
look around, taking everything in the way I always do. The first time I was alone down here, I traversed the room, stopping randomly to
read, returning to the poems I liked the most. I remember the sense of calm that washed over me when I finally found the lyrics to AJ’s song, and the joy I felt as I read Sydney’s
fast-food wrappers. I spent hours reading a decade’s worth of poetry written by people who’d graduated long ago. My eyes were burning from fatigue by the time I sat on the couch and
began writing something of my own. When I left that day, I was in awe of every person who’d ever stepped foot in Poet’s Corner.

Now I take slow, measured steps toward the low bookcase in the right corner and flip on the lamp so it illuminates the wall. I never made it over here that first day, and over the last few
months, I don’t recall planting any of my own poetry here. If I had, I might have noticed what made this spot so unique.

Unlike the other walls in Poet’s Corner, everything here is written on the same lined, three-hole-punched paper and penned in the same handwriting—each letter perfectly shaped, each
word perfectly spaced.

Next to the lamp, I notice a wooden pencil box. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands, running my fingertip over the intricately carved swirls and waves. On the lid, I see three letters:
C.E.M.

I return the box to the bookcase and slowly peel it open. The notebook paper inside looks rumpled, and with shaking hands, I remove it from its home and unfold it along the creases. It’s
not a poem. It’s a letter. My breath catches deep in my throat when I realize it’s written in the exact same handwriting I see on the wall in front of me.

My hand instinctively goes to the cord around my neck, and I squeeze it in my fist.

Caroline’s Corner.

That’s why Mr. B leaves the theater door open when AJ asks him to. Why he keeps this room a secret. Why he pops in every once in a while to vacuum and empty the trash.

He knew Caroline. He built out this room for her, hid the door, and camouflaged the lock to keep it a secret. She asked him to pass the key along, and he honored her last wish. He’s been
doing it ever since she died.

Still gripping her letter in one hand, I grab the edge of the bookcase with the other. My knees aren’t feeling too stable right now.

Caroline Madsen started Poet’s Corner.

I take a step closer and brush my hand along the pages, as if I’m introducing myself for the first time.

These are her poems.

I read the titles and skim over the first lines, but some of them are placed too high and I can’t see the words from here. I walk to the front of the room, grab the stool from the stage,
and bring it back to the corner, standing on top of it so I can get a closer look.

On the highest point of the wall, I spot a poem titled “Insecurity,” and I read it to myself. Then I move to the next one, called “Alone in the Dark.” And the next one,
which is untitled, but begins with the words, “Alliteration is alarmingly addictive.”

They’re beautiful and hilarious, and the more I read, the more I cry and the harder I laugh. But something doesn’t feel right, and it’s not until I’m halfway through her
fourth poem that I realize what it is.

I start reading aloud.

As I begin reading her fifth poem, I arch my back and square my shoulders, standing taller, reading louder and stronger and clearer, and it feels good to speak her words—to listen to them
come to life again—even if there’s no one else around to hear how incredible they are. I read the rest of them the same way, in a loud, booming, confident voice, the way I imagine she
would have wanted it.

I’ve read more than fifty poems, and finally, there’s only one left. It’s placed low on the wall, closest to the wooden pencil box, and there’s something about the way
it’s mounted, with the black paint still exposed, acting like a thin frame, that makes me wonder if it’s special somehow.

It’s called “Every Last Word.” I read to myself this time.

I cover my mouth, tears streaming down my face. It’s written in threes.

I read it again, out loud this time, even though my voice cracks and I have to stop after every other line to catch my breath. Sometimes I stop because I want to let the meaning of a word or
phrase sink deep into my skin. But I keep going, crying harder as I read that final line.

This was her last poem.

And I realize that Caroline
did
bring me here, in her own strange way, to these people, to this room, knowing how much I needed this place.

This room changed her life. And it’s just beginning to change mine.

I picture Sydney, sitting alone in fast-food restaurants, writing the funny things she reads to us and the deeper thoughts she never shares. And Chelsea, writing poem after poem about the guy
who broke her heart. Emily, sitting at her mom’s bedside, watching her slip away and trying to hold her here a little longer. AJ propped up against his bed, playing his guitar and trying to
find the perfect words to match the notes. Cameron, watching his parents fall apart and trying not to do the same himself. Jessica and her booming voice in a tiny body, full of contagious
confidence. And Abigail, whose poems are deep and astute, who had me at “As if.” Now that I know her better, her poetry no longer surprises me.

They’re my friends. And I realize I know a whole lot more about them than they know about me.

My next step is so clear. I leap off the chair and head for my backpack, feeling inspired to write for the first time in four days. I reach inside for my yellow notebook, because when Caroline
was part of my life, she made me stronger, better, and happier. And that’s the part of myself I need to reconnect with right now.

I sit on the orange couch with my feet folded underneath me. The pen feels solid in my hand, and when I bring it to the paper, I’m relieved to feel the words flowing out like someone
turned on the spigot.

And before I know it, I’ve filled the page with a poem for Caroline. It voices what she means to me and how much I miss her and why this room of hers matters, not just to me but to
everyone who’s ever found it. And, while it doesn’t say it in so many words, it’s also a poem for my new friends, promising that from now on I’ll be a lot braver with my
words than I was before.