This Girl (Slammed #3)(65)
The laughter from the audience causes her eyes to widen and she spins around to look for the emcee. She’s scared. Whatever she’s doing, it’s completely out of character for her. The emcee nudges her to face the front of the room again. I take a deep breath, silently willing her to keep calm.
She places the microphone back in its stand and lowers it to her height. She closes her eyes and inhales when the guy next to me yells, “Three dollars!”
I could punch him.
Her eyes flick open and she shoves her hand into her pocket, pulling out money to hand to the emcee. After he takes the money, she prepares herself again. “My piece is called—” The emcee interrupts her, tapping her on the shoulder. She shoots him an irritated glance. I expel a deep breath, becoming just as irritated by all the interruptions. She takes the change from him and shoves it back into her pocket, then hisses something at him that makes him retreat off the stage. She turns back toward the audience and her eyes scan the crowd.
She has to know I’m here. What the hell is she doing?
“My piece is called Schooled,” she says into the microphone. I swallow the lump in my throat. If I wanted to move at this point, my body would fail me. I’m completely frozen as I watch her take several deep breaths, then begin her piece.
I got schooled this year.
By everyone.
By my little brother . . .
by The Avett Brothers . . .
by my mother, my best friend, my teacher, my father,
and
by
a
boy.
A boy that I’m seriously, deeply, madly, incredibly, and undeniably in love with.
I got so schooled this year.
By a nine-year-old.
He taught me that it’s okay to live life
a little backward.
And how to laugh
At what you would think
is unlaughable.
I got schooled this year
By a band
They taught me how to find that feeling of feeling again.
They taught me how to decide what to be
And go be it.
I got schooled this year.
By a cancer patient.
She taught me so much. She’s still teaching me so much.
She taught me to question.
To never regret.
She taught me to push my boundaries,
Because that’s what they’re there for.
She told me to find a balance between head and heart
And then
she taught me how . . .
I got schooled this year
By a foster kid.
She taught me to respect the hand that I was dealt.
And to be grateful I was even dealt a hand.
She taught me that family
Doesn’t have to be blood.
Sometimes your family
are your friends.
I got schooled this year
By my teacher
He taught me
That the points are not the point,
The point is poetry . . .
I got schooled this year
By my father.
He taught me that heroes aren’t always invincible
And that the magic
is within me.
I got schooled this year
by
a
boy.
A boy that I’m seriously, deeply, madly, incredibly, and undeniably in love with.
And he taught me the most important thing of all—
To put the emphasis
On life.
COMPLETELY.
Utterly.
Frozen.
My eyes drop to the table in front of me when she finishes. Her words are still sinking in.
A boy that I’m seriously, deeply, madly, incredibly, and undeniably in love with.
In love with?
That’s what she said.
In love with. As in present tense.
She loves me. Layken Cohen loves me.
“Hold up your scores, man,” the guy next to me says, forcing the scorecard into my hand. I look at it, then look up at the stage. She’s not up there anymore. I spin around and see her making her way toward the exit in a hurry.
What the hell am I doing just sitting here? She’s waiting on me to acknowledge everything she just said, and I’m sitting here frozen like an idiot.
I stand up when the judges to the right of me hold up their scorecards. Three of them gave her a nine, the other an 8.5. I round the front of the table and flip the scores on all of their cards to tens. The points may not be the point, but her poetry kicked ass. “She gets tens.”
I turn around and jump onto the stage. I grab the microphone out of the emcee’s hands and he rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up in the air.
“Not again,” he says, defeated.
I spot her as soon as she swings the doors open to step outside. “That’s not a good idea,” I say into the microphone. She stops in her tracks, then slowly turns around to face the stage. “You shouldn’t leave before you get your scores.”
She looks at the judges’ table, then back to me. When she makes eye contact, she smiles.
I grip the microphone, hell bent on performing the piece I wrote for her, but the magnetic pull to jump off the stage and take her in my arms is overwhelming. I stand firm, wanting her to hear what I have to say first. “I’d like to perform a piece,” I say, looking at the emcee. “It’s an emergency.” He nods and takes a few steps back. I turn around to face Lake again. She’s standing in the center of the room now, staring up at me.