Watch Us Rise(6)

“Of course. I’ve already talked with Mr. Hernandez. We’re going to analyze songs by Chance the Rapper and Kendrick Lamar and compare the lyrics to poems written during the Harlem Renaissance.”

We are midway down the hall when Nadine stops walking. “My class is that way,” she points. “See you at lunch.” She hugs each of us.

Chelsea says goodbye, too, and goes the opposite way.

Isaac and I keep walking in the same direction. “What class do you have first?” he asks.

“Creative writing.”

“Me too,” Isaac says.

“With Mr. Valásquez?”

“Yep.” Isaac smiles.

“Same English class and the same club? We’re going to be together a lot this year,” I say. We turn right at the end of the hallway and walk upstairs to the second floor. “Hope you don’t get tired of me,” I say.

Isaac smiles. “Never.”





Three weeks into the school year and I’ve got my lunch routine down—if I bypass stopping at my locker and go straight to the cafeteria, I can secure a table for me, Jasmine, Nadine, and Isaac before it gets too crowded.

“Beef patty day is officially my favorite lunch,” Isaac says, shoving his tray next to mine.

“Every lunch is your official favorite,” I say, grabbing one of his onion rings. “But I have to admit, this is pretty good.”

Jasmine and Nadine slide into our table with their trays. For the first five minutes, nobody says a word while we open milk cartons, apply heaping amounts of ketchup to our plates, and take our first bites.

“I’m always hungry,” I say. “My entire morning is spent looking at the clock and waiting for this moment right here. This is my favorite part of the day.”

“Me too,” Jasmine says. “We can finally talk. So much is going on—”

“Yeah, I know,” Isaac says. “How’s your dad doing?”

I know how concerned Isaac is, but I also know that Jasmine doesn’t want to talk about her dad all the time. She doesn’t want to be known as the girl whose dad has cancer.

“He’s fine. Everything’s fine,” Jasmine says.

“Because I know when my mom was sick, we . . .”

“It’s not the same thing, okay, and everything is fine,” she says again. I can see the hurt in her eyes, and I put my hand on her back. Isaac can’t help but compare the situation to his own mom. He is always asking me what we could be doing for Jasmine. I wish I had an answer. The only thing I know to do now is to change the subject.

“Can we meet after clubs today?” I blurt out, trying my best. “I need a post-poetry-club support group.”

“Sure,” Nadine says. “Let’s grab dinner at Burger Heights. Does that work?” she asks, eyeing Isaac and Jasmine.

“Yeah, that works for me. That’d be good,” Jasmine says. Isaac nods that he’s in.





“Welcome, young, brilliant poets,” Ms. Hawkins says, opening her door and ushering us inside. She welcomes us in the same singsong fashion every day of clubs. She is the guidance counselor/social worker/lover of poetry who has been our advisor since my freshman year. She really does love poetry in a deep way. The only real problem is that her love of poetry seems to have stopped accumulating in the seventies. Ms. Hawkins was born in the fifties, and I only know that because she mentions it every other week when explaining why it’s so important to look to our past and study our history in order for us to understand the work that’s happening today . . . ?but we somehow never quite get to the work that’s happening today.

We all pile into her office, which is full of beanbag chairs and has two mini love seats, a round table with a few chairs, and posters of poets everywhere. There is one of Langston Hughes, Sylvia Plath, Phillis Wheatley, and Allen Ginsberg. She has a quote by Audre Lorde on the back of her door that reads: Poetry is not only dream and vision; it is the skeleton architecture of our lives. It lays the foundations for a future of change, a bridge across our fears of what has never been before. I love that—I love the thought that poetry can be in our bones, can hold us up and shape our whole lives. I’ve been writing since the sixth grade, when my mom bought me a fancy gold journal that came with the smallest lock and key I’d ever seen. I wrote every day, and I’ve kept a journal since then, with poems about my pet goldfish, the weather, food, and most recently, love, heartbreak, and beauty, or lack thereof. I look around the room. There are seven of us total, including two new freshmen who always seem ready to go, with their journals already out in front of them. The rest of us are sophomores and juniors, and one lone senior . . . ?my nemesis: Jacob Rizer. He’s obsessed with forms like sonnets and sestinas. He’s always answering every question and making sure we understand what he’s doing in his poems. And he’s always picking a fight with me, trying to push and get me to react. Sometimes I think it’s flirting, but there’s always an edge to it. Ms. Hawkins loves him the most, and since it’s the last year for both of them—with Ms. Hawkins retiring (finally) and Jacob graduating, I’m pretty sure they’re both gonna weep when spring comes. I had hoped there would be more new people this year, but September is almost over, and it seems like poetry is destined to stay the lowest-attended club at Amsterdam Heights. But as Ms. Hawkins always says, As long as I am here, and at least two of you, then we are considered an official club.