The Henley High Poetry Club Page 5

  “I don’t have plans,” I replied back, way too quickly. This coolness thing was hard to manage.

  “Well, great. Do you think you can come? It starts at seven.”

  I paused for a moment so as not to seem too eager.

  “Um . . . yeah, I think I can make it.”

  Wren smiled. Was it just my imagination, or did she seem a bit nervous too?

  “Lovely.”

  She hesitated for a moment and then pulled a Carmelita. Wren kissed me on the cheek. And suddenly Carmelita was at my side, speaking.

  “Are you ready to go yet? Tyler and I can’t really wait around all night.”

  Car didn’t seem mad, but there was something in her eyes that I hadn’t really seen before.

  I cleared my throat and followed her to the door.

  “Bye!” Wren mouthed to me through the window as we left.

  I was over the moon. But as we walked toward the BART stop to head back to Berkeley, I could tell that something was wrong with Car.

  “So, that was pretty cool, right? What did you guys think?”

  Both of them were silent for a moment.

  Tyler spoke first. “I’ll say one thing’s for sure: those two really go in for theatrics.”

  “Well,” I explained, “the Beat poets were into speaking their work out loud. The performance of the work mattered. They probably went in for theatrics too.”

  Tyler shook his head. “I don’t know, man—tearing up our work right in front of us? It would be one thing if they were Mr. Kim’s dumb Trig work-sheets, but they were poems. More . . . sensitive, you know? That part seemed, well, nutso.”

  Carmelita looked a bit faraway in the eyes.

  “I think that they were just trying to get us amped up, excited, you know? What did you think, Car?”

  At my question she focused and asked, “It was about her, wasn’t it?”

  Tyler jumped in. “Oh yeah, Hunter, your poem was awesome. Really great. Can’t wait to hear your next one.”

  “Hunter?” Carmelita prompted.

  I wished she’d leave it alone; I didn’t want to talk about it. It felt private. I didn’t like hiding things from Carmelita, but I wanted to keep Wren and how I felt about her to myself. I hastily formed a response.

  “Ah well, you know, writers are inspired by all different stuff, all of the time. Especially poetry. It doesn’t always make sense, Car. I just went with . . . what came to me.”

  We had reached the station and were now waiting on the platform. The next train was due in one minute. Carmelita lightly touched my arm.

  “But, ‘flowers in her hair’? ‘New in town,’ ‘house on the hill’? That’s all Wren.”

  I looked down at my sneakers, not sure what to say. Had it been that obvious? If I’d had a chance to review it, I might have tried to be more ambiguous about the idea of the poem. But Wren had been standing right in front of me—what else should I have been inspired by?

  “Come on, Carmelita. That’s not ‘all Wren,’ it’s just whatever, all right? It’s from me, from my own mind, my own pen and paper. Give me more credit than that. I never write so literally.”

  Car still eyed me curiously with the same sadness; Tyler said nothing.

  The train came whooshing into the station. We boarded and found three seats together. Carmelita closed her eyes and rested her head on Tyler’s shoulder.

  She usually did that with me.

  Banking on Carmelita’s usual lateness, the next morning I took my time getting to the lawn of our complex. It was Friday and I was feeling fine and proud of myself for how well I had done yesterday at the poetry club meeting, and looking forward to Saturday and Wren’s dad’s book party. The sun shone brightly and I could smell the dew on the blades beneath my sneakers. I took a deep breath in and savored the moment, beginning to get an idea for my next poem.

  As I approached the bottom of the hill I was met with a plot twist: Carmelita was already there in her aviators, reading what appeared to be a copy of Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch.

  “Just some light reading for a Friday morning, huh? Starting the weekend right?” I joked.

  She looked up and smiled but her tone was serious.

  “That idiot from yesterday recommended it. I figured that he couldn’t be all wrong. This thing did win the Pulitzer after all. Apparently it should be up my literary alley.”

  She stood up and we took off on our usual route.

  “Which idiot—Will? Oh yeah, is this what he needed to speak to you about yesterday?”

  My encounter with Wren following the meeting had caused me to totally forget about Carmelita and Will. I suddenly became very curious. What if he had invited Car out somewhere? Anything seemed to be possible as of late, so it wasn’t totally out of the question.

  “Apparently,” Car explained, “my stuff is too dark, heavy, and Dickensian for this club’s creed of lightness and positivity.”

  “He said that to you?”

  “In not so many words, yes.”

  That total idiot. I knew that he wasn’t to be trusted.

  “He can’t do that to you! Tell Ms. Reese! Tell—”

  “—Wren? I doubt that she would be of much help. Honestly, I don’t really care. I think it’s a dumb idea anyway. I’m not going to stop writing. That kid, Will, suggested that what I wrote wasn’t true. But what I wrote was true. It was true for me; it was how I felt at the time. I was pissed off! I worked really hard on the poem that they tore up. I know that everyone had, but I couldn’t move on so easily.”

  We passed Weir’s and I remembered my promise to buy myself a cedar sage chocolate cone. I would do it over the weekend. Maybe I would bring a pint to the book party.

  “I get it,” I responded. “Sorry that Will was so obnoxious.”

  “It’s fine. I just wish—I just wish that you felt the same about it.”

  “I do feel the same! Will is a total jerk!”

  “No, I mean the whole shebang, the club and its plans. I wish we agreed about it, that’s all. I’m kind of surprised. I thought I knew you. It makes me nervous that we don’t agree.”

  Just then a swift and direct October breeze picked up, seeming to come in from off the mountains somewhere near Grizzly Peak. The trees on University Avenue swayed, their branches bending and yielding.

  So this was how change felt. It didn’t feel comfortable at all and I wasn’t sure that I was okay with it.

  We were quiet for a while. Carmelita checked her phone as we stopped at a red light. She laughed at what seemed to be an incoming text and smiled as she typed a response. I wondered who it was from, but Car wasn’t volunteering that information. I almost asked her, but suddenly every potential phrasing sounded awkward or forced in my mind.

  We approached the block of Henley and saw Tyler sauntering around near the entrance. He was talking to Julian Frey. Even though Julian was in Ms. Reese’s class too and liked writing, especially screenplay stuff, he hadn’t been at the club meeting yesterday. I had always liked Julian. He was kind of a quiet kid, but when he did say something it was always pretty smart. His observational powers were intense.

  “Hey, Tyler. Hey, Julian. Where were you yesterday?” I asked.

  “He’s not into it,” Tyler said.

  “Really? But you’re into writing, and you love Jack Kerouac. Isn’t The Dharma Bums your favorite book?”

  A warning bell rang from inside and we all began to walk toward the entrance.

  “This is true,” Julian said. “But the moment I heard that kid Will was involved I lost interest.”

  “See?” said Carmelita.

  “Yes, he’s annoying,” I added, “but the club still seems like it might be a good place to try out material and stuff.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so. It doesn’t give me good vibes.”

  This was troubling to me. Had he forgotten about Wren? She was made of good vibes.

  “What about Wren?” I asked. Carmelita looked at me but quickly turned away.
She hurried ahead toward the lockers.

  “Yeah, her too,” said Julian. “I like how ‘out there’ she is, and she is easy on the eyes. But there’s something unreal about her—and not in a good way.”

  We approached the classroom and found our seats. I looked around for Wren but she didn’t seem to be there yet.

  “Any weekend plans?” Tyler asked me.

  “Going to a book party, I think.”

  “A book party? Far out, where at?”

  “It’s for Wren’s dad. I think it’s at her house.”

  Tyler smiled and raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Ah yes, your girl’s house.”

  “Hey, she’s not really my girl—”

  “Well whatever she is, just tread cautiously, my man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just . . . don’t rush in. Keep your cool for a while. I got a bad feeling yesterday with her and Will. And what they did to Carmelita, man? Not fair.”

  I was starting to get a bit ticked off. Suddenly no one liked this new adventure. Why were they being stubborn? Nobody trusted Wren, for absolutely no reason at all. Didn’t they see what I saw?

  “And Julian doesn’t dig it either. He’s usually on the ball with that stuff.”

  “Yeah well, he wasn’t there. And they really liked my poem.”

  “It was great, Hunter. You know I love your stuff. Just don’t let your ego, you know, skew everything—”

  “Hey, my ego’s fine.”

  Tyler put his hands up in surrender. “I’m sure it is man, I’m sure it is.”

  The last bell rang and Ms. Reese came waltzing into the room. Wren was with her and wore a green dress made of different patches of fabric that looked like a cascade of Redwood tree leaves. My face felt hot and I tried to keep cool in my spot on the ottoman. My shoulders were practically up to my ears in tension from the conversations with Carmelita, Julian, and Tyler. I sure could use some of Wren’s relaxation iced tea.

  “Good morning, everyone,” said Ms. Reese as she started to write some upcoming due dates for assignments on the board. “How did the club meeting go yesterday?”

  “It was super awesome, Ms. Reese. Some extra creative vibes were flowing for sure. Hunter wrote an incredible poem,” said Wren.

  “Well done, Hunter! I’d love to read it. That reminds me—I have some exciting news. In conjunction with this new extracurricular, the Lit department here at Henley High has decided to hold a junior year poetry contest!”

  The excitement in the room was palpable. Wren beamed from ear to ear; Carmelita nudged me and said, “You’d better enter this thing.”

  “Entries—one poem per person—are due by next Friday and you can drop them off at the Literature office,” Ms. Reese explained. “The judges will be three editors at Dandicat Press, and the winner will have his or her poem published in the Press’s journal. Quite a thrilling reward. I encourage all of you here to submit something into the contest.”

  A poetry contest here at Henley High—publication in a real literary journal! I couldn’t wait to submit something. I would have to write for the next week. Screw “first thought, best thought” for a while. I wanted my entry to be extra perfect. It would have the energy of “first thought, best thought” writing of course, but it would also have the time and attention of careful editing and revising. I wanted to cover all of my bases just to be safe.

  On Saturday night at around six thirty, Dad and I got into the car to go to Wren’s house. Dad had agreed to drive me because Wren’s house was all the way up in the hills and, like many locations in the Bay Area, it was a bit difficult to reach directly via public transport.

  Having never been to a book party, I hadn’t been exactly sure how to dress for one. In the end I chose my best jeans and desert boots, my Grateful Dead t-shirt, and a corduroy blazer. I slicked my hair back a bit too with some fancy hair gel that I found in Mom and Dad’s bathroom. It kind of smelled like high-quality paint that had sat out in the sun, but it did make me look a bit older.

  Mom had suggested that I bring something to the party, so that morning I had ridden my bike to Weir’s Weird Ice Cream Shop and bought a quart of their Cedar Sage Chocolate. I hoped that Wren and her dad would like it.

  “Looking sharp, Hunt,” my dad said as we walked to our car, which was parked across the street from the complex.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  As we approached the car, Ramon and Amelia came walking toward our home with stacks of books in their hands.

  “Hi, Professor,” Ramon said. “Hey, Hunter. We just raided the library.”

  “Good idea, Ramon. Excited to read your next paper. Hi, Amelia.”

  “Where are you guys off to?” Amelia smiled at me and I felt myself tense up in anxiousness—and just when I was trying to keep it cool in preparation for my big night, too.

  “A book party, for my friend’s dad.”

  “Sam, in the Music department,” my dad added. “He’s got a new book out on the history of the San Francisco music scene.”

  “Oh wow, that’s great!” Amelia exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. “I’ve heard about Sam; he’s got quite a reputation at Berkeley now. Didn’t he date Carly Simon?”

  “So the story goes,” Dad answered. “Wish I could’ve dated her myself; I had quite a crush on her back then—”

  “All right Dad, I don’t want to be late,” I interjected. I didn’t need to hear his ramblings about Carly again—not at the moment. He was bordering on embarrassing me here in front of Amelia.

  Dad snapped back to planet Earth and unlocked the car doors.

  “I hear you, Hunter. Have a great night guys,” he said as he put the key into the ignition.

  “You too, Professor. Have a great time at the party, Hunter!” Amelia called out as she and Ramon headed into the building.

  The evening was beautiful, with a cool breeze rushing through the open car windows. Streaks of orange, pink, green, and blue colored the sky above, and a star or two were just barely visible against the horizon. I couldn’t wait to see Wren.

  Her house was in North Berkeley Hills, a bit of a ways up from our place near the university. I usually didn’t come to this part of town too much; the last time I had been was to visit my dentist. I remembered having a filling done and trying to distract myself with the panoramic views of Berkeley and the bay that the office windows offered.

  As we drove down the winding roads, Dad wanted to hear all about the poetry club meeting. I told him how it had gone down—that my poem had been singled out, and that Will seemed to be a questionable character. I even told him about the public destruction of the work that we had brought in, and about the upcoming contest. And that Carmelita, Tyler, and even Julian Frey, had seemed . . . less than excited . . . about the whole thing.

  “What would you do, Dad?”

  “Well, about which part?”

  I sighed in frustration. “I don’t know—about how my best friends aren’t into something that I’m super into, especially when it’s something that they were always into before. Why don’t they like Wren?”

  “Well, Hunter,” Dad began, before sighing and furrowing his brow. He had interrupted himself to clarify his point; I’d heard his students complain about it before. Sometimes Dad took a while to express an idea.

  “People, even friends, change . . . you know,” he went on.

  Cars passed by us on either side of the highway. I didn’t think that I was changing as fast as the cars were riding, was I? I didn’t feel that different!

  “I’m all for creative freedom and thinking outside of the box,” Dad elaborated. His brow was furrowed in concentration. “But these kids shouldn’t have gotten on Carmelita’s case so fast, regardless of what they thought.”

  Sometimes Dad’s speeches, like this one, went on forever. I hoped that he’d wrap it up soon.

  “Some kids, you know, like to play teacher just a little too much. The power goes to their heads. I’ve had students like that
.”

  Were Wren and Will playing teacher? Carmelita probably would’ve said so.

  “You’re serious about your writing too, which is, well, your mom and I are proud of you.”

  I didn’t want this to turn into a fifties sitcom father-son act, though I did appreciate Dad’s understanding.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “When I was sixteen, all I did was go to concerts and get . . . well, go to concerts and chill out, let’s say.”

  I smiled. I knew what that was code for. Dad always knew how to put things into perspective for me. It was probably the teacher in him.

  We had reached the end of a long path on Buena Vista Way, the street where Wren’s house was supposed to be. My dad made a right turn and suddenly we were in front of this huge and wacky-looking structure. There were high arches and all different-sized windows, seemingly placed at random—sort of like a cross between a fun house and a church. A bunch of cars were parked in the driveway and on the street, a sign that I wasn’t the first guest to arrive. Music that sounded mystical and full of guitars could be heard coming from the house.

  Dad and I got out of the car. I checked my bag with the ice cream for leaks. It was slightly melty but still in good shape.

  “Quite a place,” Dad said.

  “Yep,” I replied, stopping halfway up the entry path. I didn’t really want Wren to see him dropping me off.

  “Well, thanks a lot for the ride, Dad. I’ll see you later.”

  “Not so fast kiddo—I want to say hi to Sam.”

  I couldn’t wait until Mom and Dad would let me take the car out at night on my own; according to them, I had to wait until I turned seventeen in February. I hoped that Mr. Cooper would answer the door as I rang the doorbell. After a few moments no one answered, so I knocked loudly three times.

  The door swung open to reveal Wren wearing a lavender dress and a necklace made of daisies. Flower designs in glittery gold paint were drawn on her cheeks. She looked beautiful; she looked like the girl I’d always imagined myself with but never really thought existed in reality. She reached her arms out to hug me hello.

  “Thanks so much for coming, Hunter. Hey, Dr. Zivotovsky! Do you want to come in? My dad is somewhere inside if you want to say hi, although everyone’s all over him right now. His book is supposed to be a hit!”