Page 73 of The Mistake

“The car,” I mutter. “I was comparing her lips to this cherry-red Cutlass I fixed up when I was a kid. Drawing on my own experience, that kind of thing.”

Tucker shakes his head in exasperation. “You should have compared them tocherries, dumbass.”

He’s right. I should have. I’m a terrible poet and I do know it.

“Hey,” I say as inspiration strikes. “What if I steal the words to ‘Amazing Grace’? I can change it to…um…Terrific Grace.”

“Yup,” Garrett cracks. “Pure gold right there. TerrificGrace.”

I ponder the next line. “How sweet…”

“Your ass,” Tucker supplies.

Garrett snorts. “Brilliant minds at work. Terrific Grace, how sweet your ass.” He types on his phone again.

“Jesus Christ, will you quit dictating this conversation to Hannah?” I grumble. “Bros before hos, dude.”

“Call my girlfriend a ho one more time and you won’t have a bro.”

Tucker chuckles. “Seriously, why are you writing poetry for this chick?”

“Because I’m trying to win her back. This is one of her requirements.”

That gets Garrett’s attention. He perks up, phone poised in hand as he asks, “What are the other ones?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“Golly gee, if you do half as good a job on those as you’re doing with this epic poem, then you’ll get her back in no time!”

I give him the finger. “Sarcasm not appreciated.” Then I swipe the notepad from Tuck’s hand and head for the doorway. “PS? Next time either of you need to score points with your ladies? Don’t ask me for help. Jackasses.”

Their wild laughter follows me all the way upstairs. I duck into my room and kick the door shut, then spend the next hour typing up the sorriest excuse for poetry on my laptop. Jesus. I’m putting more effort into this damn poem than for my actual classes. I still have fifty pages to read for my econ course, and a marketing plan to outline, but am I doing either of those things? Nope.

I reach for my cell and text Grace.

Me: What’s your email address?

She answers almost instantly.

Her: [email protected]

Me: Incoming.

This time around, she takes her sweet time messaging back. Forty-five minutes to be exact. I’m thirty pages into my reading assignment when my phone buzzes.

Her: Don’t quit your day job, Emily Dickinson.

Me: Hey, you didn’t say it had to be GOOD.

Her: Touché. D- on the poem. Can’t wait to see your collage.

Me: How do you feel about glitter? And dick pics?

Her: If there’s a pic of your dick on that collage, I’m photocopying it and passing it around in the student center.

Me: Bad idea. You’ll give all the other dudes an inferiority complex.

Her: Or an ego boost.

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