The Opposite of Geek (11 page)

like I’ve never seen him. Like a homeless ghost. His skin is grey and dry. His hair is greasy and flat against his head. He smiles at me from behind the wheel in a faintly Dean way. But I still wonder if it’s actually him or if I’m being abducted by his alter ego — the guy who spat those terrible words at me in his apartment.

He reaches to hug me and at least he smells like him.

I ease back into the warm seat. The heater blows air into my face.

“You look good,” he says as he pulls onto the street. “It feels like a year.”

“Ten days can be a year,” I say, stare out the window, watch the neighbourhood go by.

which isn’t far from my house,

but far enough to make me feel

like I couldn’t just run home.

We walk along the causeway

and look down at the loud water

spilling foam into the river below.

The mist that rises cuts through

my jacket. Dean puts his arm around me.

I wish we could just be this couple

looking at the water, wondering where

it came from. But we’re both

in different worlds —

even though we touch, it’s like

we’re doing it from a distance.

We stand above the roar, letting the mist

drench our hair and the collars of our shirts

until we turn into trees. Our feet become roots

that burrow under the concrete and find soil

to eat and water to drink. We are entwined.

We are knotted trunks and reaching branches.

Dean pulls away first. He starts to tell me

how beautiful I am, but I’m hearing it

with different ears. Like the compliment

is something he’s throwing at me.

I ask about the past few days, where he’s been.

He closes his eyes. The tiny blue veins

on his lids pop out against his white-grey skin.

“I’ve been messed up. Just out of it.”

I blink at him. “What does that mean?”

He shrugs, says, “I don’t know.”

But I know, then, as his hands shake a little

and his face twitches. He’s high

or coming down, or something equally terrible.

There’s nothing about him

I recognize.

I ask him to come

to the Spring Fair.

I reach for his cold hand

and tell him what the school,

the community, is doing

for James.

At the name

he freezes, locks his jaw.

I squeeze tighter,

but his hands are limp,

pulling away.

“I can’t. I can’t.”

He swallows the rest

of the words.

“Come on,” I say.

“Your aunt will be there.”

At this he snatches

his hands away.

I step forward. “But why not?”

“I can’t stand to see

them!” he shouts, red

in the whites of his eyes.

“Aunt Miriam

crying by the coffin —

his coffin —

a goddamn wooden box!

I can’t do it.”

He scrunches his face up,

pats his pockets

like he’s looking

for something, then swears.

“I can’t do it again.”

“Wait — you were at the funeral?” I ask.

He looks so, so angry,

tear-someone’s-head-off angry.

“Just for a minute, from outside.

It was so —”

He makes an animal sound,

a gut-wrenching,

dying sound

that goes over the edge,

roars with the foamy water

crashing into the canyon.

Boy-man, you try hard

to escape the sadness, but

it will bury you
.

Chunks eaten with milk
,

no plate or fork, just family

mouths, hands reaching in

School, Saturday morning: laden with boxes, already dusted in sugar, I’m amazed to see how many people are waiting.

It’s not just a crowd. It’s a small concert-worth. Students and parents and teachers and people who work at the grocery store and the hardware store and the gas station. They stand outside, line the halls and wander about, chatting.

“Gretchen!” Ashlyn literally runs into me. “Thank god you’re here!”

“This is a madhouse!” I shout, putting my boxes down on the counter.

“We made some calls, but your posters have gone viral!” she screeches.

“I didn’t put the page online with the posters,” I yell over the din. “Did you?”

She shakes her head and shrugs. “Whoever did is a genius.”

I’ve never seen her look so happy and so insane.

“How will we sell all this stuff?” I ask.

She just laughs. It’s not about selling anymore. It’s the principle.

Ms Long walks in grinning, weighed down with doughnuts. We rush over before they topple.

is on the playing field behind the school,

and with all the tables and booths and people,

you wouldn’t think it was our field at all:

music playing from speakers somewhere,

the smell of popcorn, the slosh-splash of grads filling

a pool that will hold remote-controlled boat races.

The May air is warm, finally, and I can smell

flowers — probably because there’s a stall selling

gardenware. I stand in the middle of all the chaos —

students, parents, teachers milling around me —

and just exist.

not to plan, but that’s okay because our plan

did not include fifty tonnes of baked good

donations this morning, or all the extra people

who’ve shown up to help.

Random people come up to me and say how

cool this is and that they like my posters.

Even Drama Queens with embryonic dogs in tow:

“We’re totally going to buy a fruit tart later,

Gretchen,” they giggle. “Are they low fat?”

I remind myself that this is more than

I could have hoped for — people who would have

ignored me before are saying they like

the posters, that they are sorry about James.

I can’t magic high school into a place

where we all hold hands and get along.

James couldn’t do it either,

even with his diagrams and theories.

But things aren’t hopeless.

It’s afternoon and I’ve been at the baking table for three hours.

Ms Long arrives, snags a brownie and squeezes my arm. “Nice shirt,” she says. “Do I know who made it?”

I nod, looking down at the PoEM t-shirt James made me.

“This is actually perfect,” Ms Long says. “I’m going to announce the scholarship in a few minutes. Mrs. Tarden is here —” she points and I see her walking toward us, her face tired but relaxed.

I cringe as Garth/Thor throws a date bar at some other kid’s head. It hits the cash box and things dissolve from there.

“And I was hoping you could say a few words,” Ms Long is saying. “In fact, it would be great if you could read a poem.”

I choke on air. “What?”

“You’ve written some very eloquent poems about James. I just thought it might be fitting to read one here.”

Now I know she’s lost it. Great — the one person I thought I could count on.

“You wrote poetry about James?”

I swing around so fast I almost hit Mrs. Tarden, who’s snuck up behind me and has a terribly hopeful look on her face.

and that is the worst thing, because I can’t say no —

it’s his mother, the woman

who smells like cinnamon and who knows

I understood her son,

and she knows I will say yes,

even if I say it by blushing and stammering.

This is the craziest thing

I have ever done — next to putting up lost posters

for a dead boy.

This isn’t a poetry reading venue

or even a slam.

There can’t be a crowd

more hostile to random acts of poetry.

I sit behind the baking table as Ms Long tells everyone that there will be an announcement.

And an impromptu poetry reading — why doesn’t she say that? Maybe she’s afraid that would send people running in the other direction. She’d be right. I lower my head between my knees.

There’s a tap on my shoulder. Garth/Thor breathes honey doughnut breath into my ear. “Gretchen, on behalf of The Foodies, and also my buddies in the D&D club, we want to say we think you did a really kick-ass thing.”

I turn and find about ten of the cooking club members, including a weeping Ashlyn, standing there.

“A lot of us acted like judgemental jerks. James was clearly a cool guy. We have to live with our, uh, jerkiness.” Garth/Thor looks helplessly at the others. “But we’re all really glad we can be here. We think this is a pretty cool way to have a memorial service.”

Ms Long waves me to get up. She must have magical abilities because a crowd has gathered. A sizeable one.

I perch (Me! Perching!)

beside Ms Long,

who stands (Ms Long! Standing!)

in front of the baking tables.

Then she is speaking

about the scholarship

and blah blah blah

and soon it will be

my turn to form words,

and Mrs. Tarden is there,

smiling at us,

and my parents, Layla, waiting.

My eyes lock, without my permission,

onto the swim team congregation

(where did they come from?).

Shay stands in front, giggling.

She pokes a guy behind her,

who grabs her waist. Nemiah’s dark head

peeks out between various broad torsos.

into my hand —

a piece of paper,

as Ms Long steps back,

urging me forward,

even though I’m too stunned

to look anywhere but at my shoes.

Until this moment

it hasn’t occurred to me

that I didn’t bring any poetry with me.

There’s no time to think about

where the paper came from

because she’s whispering,

“Forget they’re here.

Read it to James.”

someone yells from the back of the crowd.

Others giggle. Feet shuffle.

Mumble mumble.

Oh my god.

Someone makes another joke

and Shay explodes in braying laughter —

now that I think about it,

she’s always sounded like a donkey.

But the crowd

doesn’t laugh with her.

Someone mutters
shut up, Shay
 —

I’m shocked to see it’s a lacrosse guy,

sneering at her in a way usually reserved

for the much less popular.

Someone else grabs her by the waist,

yanks her shrieking body

off the ground.

Throws her over his shoulder.

Her skinny butt wriggles

in the air, her boots kicking,

until she disappears

behind the crowd — who clap,

then cheer, then

stare at me.

Oh, right.

I’m on.

is a poem — my poem.

Until this second I had no idea

it would be the right thing

to read here, but it is.

No words I could have thought up

would be as good or as true.

Everything else would get stuck

in my mouth

like peanut butter.

These words are strong and black

on the page.

If I’m a poetry geek,

wearing it on my t-shirt for all to witness,

then so be it.

Four corners, four directions
,

where we stop and wait and go

and wait
,

take turns deciding the way
.

Last night you stood in the middle
,

invisible to the cars

that drove through you
,

around you
.

I watched from one side

as you watched me
.

You said nothing, your hands

open and still
.

I thought:

this is the note, this is

the note. And when I woke up

I wondered, what was the note?

Your goodbye note to me
.

The crossroads
,

halfway to day, halfway to night
,

the silent in-between
.

You said: I’m going this way —

which way will you go?

There are different kinds of intersections
.

Different notes for everyone
.

All paths meeting, joining
,

and parting again
.

My way will be

because of you
.

– Gretchen Meyers

I see them gagging,

see them turning away,

I want to run,

find a hole to live in forever,

bad idea bad idea bad idea,

But …

and the air has stopped buzzing.

No car engine, popcorn machine,

murmur or giggle.

Everything in the world

stops.

The crowd is silent

and I imagine us

breathing together, in and out.

And because it seems

like the only thing to do,

what Buson, Issa and Bashō

would do,

I imagine the words

floating up,

absorbed into the same cloud

that will rain on us later,

and the words will fall again

around us, like a new poem.

I didn’t think it could happen,

but this is what he would have wanted.

What I want.

All of us, even though

it’s not perfect,

the tormentors and bystanders

and victims,

the geeks — each of us one

in our own way,

being still,

being the same

because

we

are.

is the not-so-hot

leader of the swim team

being dumped

into the cold water

of the boat racing pool.

Rumour has it

you could see her patch

through her wet dress.

with doughnuts and muffins we don’t need, I hear my name across the parking lot. It’s Nemiah. She runs up to me in her funny way — until now I hadn’t noticed her run is so weird. I wonder if the swim team sees it.

She looks at my parents and Layla as if they might bite her. Mum gets into the car. They all do. We are alone beside the loaded trunk.

“I thought that was so amazing of you,” she says. “I mean, so brave and everything. I’ve really missed that about you.”

It’s like she thinks I’ll run away. But I’ve suddenly lost the will to hate her after all these months. We watch people leave the fair with their purchases and winnings. It’s hard to know who should speak next.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “about what happened with us. I was a loser.”

“Yeah,” I say. “You kind of were.” It’s impossible to find the right words, now the apology I’ve imagined since she left is actually happening.

She tries to smile. “Could we go for coffee?”

I don’t have to speak to that. And I don’t have to take her back. I nod. We’ll see.

As we leave, the school shrinking

behind us, houses flashing past,

exhaustion settling on me like a heavy blanket,

a hunch grows in my gut.

I am cliqueless, without a brand name,

but I have friends.

Better: I know what matters to me.

James showed me that.

I write what I know.

I have an inkling that might take me somewhere,

pen in hand.

His voicemail picks up

and I take a deep breath.

“I just wanted you to know

how well it went at the fair.

Your aunt was so happy —

James has a scholarship

in his name. I feel like

he’s happy too, wherever he is.

Enough sadness.”

I pause, not sure what else to say.

The phone line crackles a little.

“Call me if you want to talk.

I’ll always listen.”

I go
,

you stay;

two autumns
.

– Buson

thinking of how much

I never want to see another

baked good again,

there’s a little knock

on my door,

and Layla opens it

a crack and whispers,

“Cupcakes for breakfast tomorrow!”