Point of Retreat (Slammed #2)(69)

“Butterfly you, Mark.

Butterfly you, Brendan.

Butterfly you, Colby.”

(When she finishes passing out the butterflies, she walks back onto the stage and places the microphone back into the stand.)

“I have one thing to say to you

And I’m not referring to the bullies

Or the ones they pursue.

I’m referring to those of you that just stand by

The ones who don’t take up for those of us that cry

Those of you who just…turn a blind eye.

After all it’s not you it’s happening to

You aren’t the one being bullied

And you aren’t the one being rude

It isn’t your hand that’s throwing the food

But…it is your mouth not speaking up

It is your feet not taking a stand

It is your arm not lending a hand

It is your heart

Not giving a damn.

So take up for yourself

Take up for your friends

I challenge you to be someone

Who doesn’t give in.

Don’t give in.

Don’t let them win.”

As soon as ‘damn’ comes out of Kiersten’s mouth, Mrs. Brill is marching onto the stage. Luckily, Kiersten finishes her poem and rushes off the stage before Mrs. Brill reaches her. The audience is in shock. Well, most of the audience. Everyone on our row is giving her a standing ovation.

As Mrs. Brill announces the next performance and we take our seats, Sherry whispers to me, “I didn’t get the whole ‘butterfly’ thing, but the rest of it was so good.”

“Yeah it was,” I agree. “It was butterflying excellent.”

Caulder is called onto the stage next. He looks nervous. I’m nervous for him. Lake’s nervous, too. I wish I knew what he was doing so I could have given him some advice before he got up there. Lake zooms the camera in and focuses it on Caulder. I take a deep breath, hoping he can get through it without cussing. Mrs. Brill already has her eye on us. Caulder walks to the microphone and introduces his talent.

“I’m Caulder. I’m also doing a slam tonight. It’s called ‘Suck and sweet.’”

Oh no, here we go again.

I’ve had a lot of sucks in life

A lot

My parents died almost four years ago, right after I turned seven

With every day that goes by I remember them less and less

Like my mom…I remember that she used to sing.

She was always happy,

always dancing.

Other than what I’ve seen of her in pictures, I don’t really remember what she looks like.

Or what she smells like

Or what she sounds like

And my Dad

I remember more things about him, but only because I thought he was the most amazing man in the world.

He was smart. He knew the answer to everything.

And he was strong.

And he played the guitar.

I used to love lying in bed at night, listening to the music coming from the living room.

I miss that the most.

His music.

After they died, I went to live with my grandma and grandpaul.

Don’t get me wrong…I love my grandparents.

But I loved my home even more.

It reminded me of them.

Of my mom and dad.

My brother had just started college the year they died.

He knew how much I wanted to be home.

He knew how much it meant to me,

so he made it happen.

I was only seven at the time, so I let him do it.

I let him give up his entire life just so I could be home.

Just so I wouldn’t be so sad.

If I could do it all over again, I would have never let him take me.

He deserved a shot, too. A shot at being young.

But sometimes when you’re seven, the world isn’t in 3-D.

So,

I owe a lot to my brother.

A lot of ‘thank you’s’

A lot of ‘I’m sorry’s’

A lot of ‘I love you’s’

I owe a lot to you, Will

For making the sucks in my life a little less suckier

And my sweet?

My sweet is right now.

I wonder if a person can cry too much? If so, I’m definitely reaching my quota this month. I stand up and make my way past Sherry and David and out into the aisle. When Caulder walks down the steps to the stage, I pick him up and give him the biggest damn hug I’ve ever given him.

“I love you, Caulder.”

***

We don’t stay for the awards. The kids are excited to be spending the evening with Sherry and David, so they were all in a hurry to leave. Kiersten and Caulder didn’t seem to care who won, which made me a little proud. After all, I’ve been drilling Allan Wolf’s quote into Kiersten’s head every time I give her advice about poetry. “The points are not the point; the point is poetry.”

After David and Sherry drive away with the boys, Lake and I walk to the car and I open the door for her.

“Where are we eating? I’m hungry,” she says.

I don’t answer her. I shut her door and walk around to the driver’s side. I reach into the backseat and grab two sacks out of the floorboard and hand one to her. “We don’t have time to stop and eat. I made us grilled cheese.”