Page 24 of August Lane
“You’re in my way,” she said, but it didn’t come out nearly as rude as she wanted. Too breathless instead of the stone-cold bitchiness she’d been going for. Luke stepped aside but kept his eyes on her longer than he should have, probably staring at her ass the way his friends did. Shane Adams, one of the least annoying members of that group, made a wounded noise when she walked past and gestured at her oversized shirt.
“I liked Friday’s outfit better,” he said, and cracked up laughing.
August had made the mistake of wearing a dress last week, something Birdie preferred to jeans. By lunch, she’d wanted to rip it off. The sight of her bare skin had kicked the harassment into overdrive. The girls were nastier. The boys were hornier. August had vowed never to wear it again.
Luke said nothing about her outfit. He’d been respectful so far, but so had Richard at first, who’d opened her car door and asked permission before kissing her. She could picture Luke doing that. She could picture him being so sweet and gentle on a first date that she’d immediately crack herself open again and offer up the pieces.
All the seats in the back of the classroom were taken. August sat near the window to have something to focus on besides the people around her. The sun was blazing, the summer heat relentless. She hated sharinga name with this month. The stubbornness of it. The way it refused to let the season fade gracefully.
She didn’t realize Luke was sitting so close until he was assigned as her partner to think/pair/share the poem they’d been reading. August had spent the five minutes allotted to think about her assignment watching squirrels brawl over an acorn. She quickly skimmed the Langston Hughes poem so she wouldn’t embarrass herself.
Luke had scribbled something on his worksheet. Upon closer inspection, she realized it was music notes. He covered it with one hand and nodded at her blank paper. “Let’s use yours.”
“You read music,” she said, abandoning her plan to stay cool and aloof so he’d stop looking at her the way he was now: hopeful and cautious, as if she wielded power she wasn’t aware of. “When you said you wrote it, I didn’t think you meant literally writing it down, instead of just playing it.”
“Yeah,” Luke said, with a slight head dip like there was something to be embarrassed about. God, to be so lucky. She’d love to read music, but everyone in her family played by ear. “This poem, the rhythm of it… I can hear the melody.” He shook his head. “That sounds so fucking stupid.”
“No, it doesn’t.” She snatched the sheet from under his hand, then stared at what he’d written. It was like trying to decipher hieroglyphics. “What does it sound like?”
He looked over her shoulder. August turned around and saw Shane eyeing them with wide eyes and a giddy smile. He mouthed “Bad girl” to August. She flipped him off.
“None of that!” Their teacher, Mr. Ferris, glared at August. “Turn around and do your work.”
Luke leaned against his desk and lowered his voice. “Ignore that dude,” he said, nodding at Shane. “He’s messy but harmless.”
“He’s never harmedyou,” she said, shoving Luke’s paper onto his desk.
He straightened quickly and glared at Shane. “Did he hurt you?” His voice was low and tight. Heat flowed through her, and she lowered her eyes, staring at her paper until it passed.
He had to know what he was doing. Guys like him always did. The way everyone fawned over him—he’d have to be oblivious not to notice his effect on people. Three weeks into the school year, she’d realized that half the girls were in love with him, probably because he didn’t seem to notice or care. Despite his flirtatious demeanor, August had seen no evidence Luke was unfaithful to his girlfriend, something few of her classmates could hide. Their hands always wandered. Their eyes revealed secrets. Luke seemed impenetrable, except apparently, while talking to strangers in the dark.
He cleared his throat. “What did you think of the poem?”
August looked down at the handout titled “Harlem.” A list of discussion questions followed the text.What dream is Hughes referring to? What do you think happens to a dream deferred?
She tapped her pencil against her desk. “We don’t have to talk about it. No one else is.” She looked pointedly at the bored expressions of their classmates. “I could write the answers and put our names at the top.” Luke looked disappointed. He glanced down at his paper with its mysterious music notes, and August realized she’d just screwed up her best chance to satisfy her curiosity.
“Sure, okay. This is more your thing anyway. Poems.” Luke leaned back in his chair, adopting a careless pose. “I might actually get an A because of you.”
“These questions are easy.” She wroteRACISMin capital letters. “That’s all he wants us to say.”
He glanced at their teacher. Mr. Ferris stared at the clock, picking his nails into angry red nubs. “Do you always mess with that man this way?”
“He only assigns Black writers because he’s forced to. He doesn’t want to talk to us about them.”
“I mean, do you blame him?” Luke looked pointedly at the person beside them, whose worksheet was covered with Biggie Smalls lyrics.
August sighed and erased her answer. “Fine.”
“You’re welcome.” Luke straightened the line of brand-new pencils on his desk. There were four, way more than he needed. August had only one, which was covered in tooth marks and hadn’t been sharpened since the first day of class.
“What do you think it means?”
He shook his head. “I asked you first.”
She read the poem again, slower this time. “Does it dry up / like a raisin in the sun? / Or fester like a sore / And then run?” She read to the end silently. “I vote explosion.”
“Unsurprising.”
