chapter ten

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chapter ten

THE WEEK WENT BY SLOWER than I expected. I talked to Kyle a lot more during lunch, I studied for a fake test - that I supposedly missed - when my mom was around, I forced myself to watch football with my dad for once, and Mason's new mantra was 'I'm sorry.'

In literature class, my teacher made us write a poem based on something someone had said to us before. Immediately, May Parker popped into my mind and that day on the roof of the city grocery store.

I opened up my journal and clicked the top of my blue pen before diving into the pages.

"You're a hard book to read;

With small font and a

complicated plot line.

You're not paperback

because you're worth more

and the cover is extraordinary.

But everything inside

denies ones expectations.

And I'm not sure if I am

advanced enough to finish

the book."

     Once the ten minutes of free-write was up, my teacher made us share to our table. I was nervous, so I let everyone go before me. Nobody's poem was like mine; they were all about the time when their boyfriend told them they were beautiful without makeup on, or the time when their coach told them that they were the best on the team, or even the time when they met a celebrity.

     Hesitantly, I shared my poem with a shaky voice. When I finished, everyone was looking at me with wide eyes and their mouths agape.

     "Holy shit." One girl named Mackenzie said. She was friends with Julia. "You're like a real poet."

     "Oh, no not really." I chuckled softly.

     "Did someone actually say that to you?" The boy sitting next to me, Carson, asked. I nodded my head.

     "When Ms Porter asks who wants to share to the class, you have to share." Mackenzie said. The last girl at the table, Francis, nodded her head.

     "That was like Emily... Oh, what's her face?" Francis asked. "That famous poet?"

"Emily Dickinson?" I elaborated. She snapped her fingers and nodded her head fast.

"Yes, her! That was like Emily Dickinson material." She smiled. "Or any other famous poet, I don't know their names." She chuckled.

"Her last name was Dickinson?" Carson chuckled.

"Grow a pear, Carson." Mackenzie rolled her eyes.

"But, really." Francis focused her attention on me. "You should share that. And if not, I'll read it for you."

"I don't know." I shook my head and placed my pencil inside the notebook. I closed it and took a deep breath.

     "You should do it." Mackenzie nodded. "That poem made all our poems look like a lump of shit."

     "Lump of shit?" Carson turned to Mackenzie. "Who the hell says 'lump of shit?'"

     "Oh, shut up." Mackenzie snapped and leaned forward on the table across from me. "That was good." She smiled. "You're always so quiet but I knew you had some sort of talent in you."

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