Slammed (Slammed #1)(11)
"Is it like a competition?" I ask.
"It's complicated," he says. "It differs between every club. Normally during a slam, the judges are picked at random from the audience and they assign points to each performance. The one with the most points at the end of the night wins. That's how they do it here, anyway.”
"So do you slam?" I ask.
"Sometimes. Sometimes I judge, sometimes I just watch."
"Are you performing tonight?"
"Nah. Just an observer tonight. I don't really have anything ready."
I'm disappointed. It would be amazing to see him perform on stage. I still have no idea what slam poetry is, but I'm really curious to see him do anything that requires a performance.
"Bummer," I say.
"You want something to drink?" he says.
"Sure. I'll take some chocolate milk."
"Chocolate milk? Really?"
"With ice."
"Okay," he says as he slides out of the booth. "One chocolate milk on the rocks coming right up."
While he's gone, the emcee comes to the stage and attempts to pump up the crowd. No one is in the back of the room where we're seated, so I feel a little silly when I yell 'yeah!' with the rest of the crowd. I sink further into my seat and decide just to be a spectator for the remainder of the night.
The emcee announces it’s time to pick the judges and the entire crowd roars, almost everyone wanting to be chosen. They pick five people at random and move them to the judging table. As Will walks back to the booth with our drinks, the emcee announces it's time for the 'sac,' and chooses someone at random.
"What's the sac?" I ask as he hands me my drink.
"Sacrifice…It's what they use to prepare the judges," he says as he slides back into the booth. Somehow, he slides even closer this time.
"Someone performs something that isn't part of the competition so the judges can calibrate their scoring."
"So they can call on anyone? What if they would have called on me?" I ask, suddenly nervous.
“Well, I guess you should have had something ready,” he says as he smiles at me.
He takes a sip from his drink then leans back against the booth, finding my hand in the dark. Our fingers don't interlock this time, though. Instead, he places my hand on his leg and his fingertips start to trace the outline of my wrist. He gently traces each of my fingers, following the lines and curves of my entire hand. His fingertips feel like electric pulses penetrating my skin.
"Lake," he says quietly as he continues to trace up my wrist and back to my fingertips with a fluid motion. "I don’t know what it is about you…but I like you."
His fingers slide between mine as he takes my hand in his and turns his attention back to the stage. I inhale and reach for my chocolate milk with my free hand, downing the entire glass. The ice feels good against my lips. It cools me off.
They call on a young woman who looks to be around twenty-five. She announces that she is performing a piece she wrote titled 'Blue Sweater.’ The lights are lowered as a spotlight is positioned on her. She raises the microphone and steps forward, staring down at the floor. A hush sweeps over the audience and the only sound in the entire room is the sound of her breath, amplified through the speakers.
She raises her hand to the microphone, still staring down to the floor. She begins to tap her finger against it in a repetitive motion, resonating the sound of a heartbeat. I realize I'm holding my own breath as she begins her piece.
Bom Bom...
Bom Bom...
Bom Bom...
Do you hear that?
(Her voice lingering on the word hear)
That's the sound of my heart beating…
(She taps the microphone again)
Bom Bom...
Bom Bom...
Bom Bom...
Do you hear that? That's the sound of your heart beating.
(She begins to speak faster, much louder than before.)
It was the first day of October. I was wearing my blue sweater, you know the one I bought at Dillard’s? The one with a double knitted hem and holes in the ends of the sleeves that I could poke my thumbs through when it was cold but I didn't feel like wearing gloves? It was the same sweater you said made my eyes look like reflections of the stars on the ocean.
You promised to love me forever that night...
and boy
did you
ever!
It was the first day of December this time. I was wearing my blue sweater, you know the one I bought at Dillard’s? The one with a double knitted hem and holes in the ends of the sleeves that I could poke my thumbs through when it was cold but I didn't feel like wearing gloves? It was the same sweater you said made my eyes look like reflections of the stars on the ocean.
I told you I was three weeks late.
You said it was fate.
You promised to love me forever that night…
and boy
did you
ever!
It was the first day of May. I was wearing my blue sweater, although this time the double stitched hem was worn and the strength of each thread tested as they were pulled tight against my growing belly. You know the one. The same one I bought at Dillard’s? The one with holes in the ends of the sleeves that I could poke my thumbs through when it was cold but I didn't feel like wearing gloves? It was the same sweater you said made my eyes look like reflections of the stars on the ocean.