Slammed (Slammed #1)(25)
The entire class starts to protest.
“That wasn’t the deal! You said we just had to observe. Now we have to perform?” says Gavin.
“No. Well, technically not. Everyone in here is required to attend one slam. You aren't required to perform, I just want you to observe. However, there’s a chance you could be chosen to be the sacrifice, so it wouldn't hurt to have something prepared.”
Several students ask what the sacrifice is in unison. Will explains the term and how it can be anyone chosen at random. Therefore, he wants everyone to have a piece ready before the night they are to attend, just in case.
“What if we want to perform?” Eddie asks.
“I’ll tell you what. We’ll make one more deal. Whomever willingly slams will be exempt from the final.”
“Sweet, I’m in,” Eddie says.
“What if we don’t go?” Javi asks.
“Then you’re missing out on something amazing. And you get an F for participation,” he replies.
Javi rolls his eyes and groans at Will's response.
“So, what kinds of things can we write about?” Eddie asks.
Will moves to the front of the desk and sits, only inches from me.
“There are no rules, you can write about anything. You can write about love, food, your hobby, something significant that’s happened in your life. You can write about how much you hate your Poetry teacher. Write about anything, as long as it’s something you’re passionate about. If the audience doesn’t feel your passion, they won’t feel you—and that’s never fun, believe me.” He says this as though he speaks from experience.
“What about sex? Can we write about that?” Javi asks. It’s obvious he’s trying to push Will’s buttons. Will remains cool.
“Anything. As long as it doesn’t get you in hot water with your parents. I’ll be sending permission slips home for the slam at the end of the week.”
“What if they don’t let us go? I mean, it is a club,” A student asks from the back of the room.
“I understand if they have hesitations. If there are any parents that don’t feel comfortable, I’ll talk to them about it. I also don’t want transportation to be an issue. This club is somewhat of a drive, so if it’s an issue, I’ll take a school vehicle. Whatever the obstacle, we’ll work through it. I’m very passionate about Slam Poetry and don’t feel I’ll be doing justice as your teacher if I don’t allow you the opportunity to experience this in person.
“I’ll answer questions throughout the week regarding the semester requirement. But for now, let's get back to today's assignment. You have the entire class period to complete the poem. We’ll start presenting them tomorrow. Get to it.”
I open my notebook and lay it flat on my desk. I stare at it, not having the first clue as to what to write about. The only thing that’s been on my mind lately is Will and there’s no way I’m doing a poem about him.
By the end of the class period, the only thing that’s written on my paper is my name. I glance up to Will who is seated at his desk, biting the corner of his bottom lip. His eyes are focused on my desk, down on the poem that I’ve yet to write. He glances up and sees me watching him. It’s the first eye contact we’ve had in three weeks. Surprisingly, he doesn’t immediately look away. If he had any idea how this lip biting quirk affected me, he'd stop. The intensity in his eyes causes me to flush as the room suddenly becomes warm. His stare is impenetrable by nothing but the final class dismissal bell. He stands and walks to the door, holding it open for the students exiting. I immediately put away my notebook and throw my bag over my shoulder. I don’t make eye contact when I leave the classroom, but I can feel him watching me.
Just when I think he’s forgotten about me, he goes and does something like this. The entire rest of the day I’m extremely quiet as I attempt to analyze his actions. I eventually come up with just one conclusion: He’s just as confused as I am.
***
I’m relieved to feel the warm sun beating down on my face as I walk toward my jeep. The weather has been insanely cold going into October. The predictions are that the next two weeks will be a nice respite from the snow before the full winter season begins. I insert the key into the ignition and turn it.
Nothing happens.
Great, my jeep is shot. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I pop the hood on the jeep and take a look. There's a bunch of wires and metal, that's about all I can comprehend from a mechanical standpoint. I do know what the battery looks like so I grab a crowbar from the trunk and tap it against the battery. After a failed attempt at getting the ignition to turn over again, I resort to pounding a little harder until I'm pretty much bludgeoning the battery out of sheer frustration.
"That's not a good idea."
Will walks up beside me, satchel across his chest, looking very much like a teacher and less like Will.
"You've made it clear that you don't think a lot of what I do is a very good idea," I say as I return my focus back under the hood.
"What's wrong, it won't crank?" He bends forward under the hood and starts to mess with wires.
I don't understand what he's doing. One day he tells me he doesn't want to speak to me, the next minute he’s staring me down in class and now he's under my hood trying to help me. I'm not a fan of inconsistency.