Page 8 of You've Got a Place Here, Too
“Your assignment was to write a confession as a short poem.”
Dr. Zekiah Lowe’s deep voice rumbles from the front of the class. The first time I heard him speak, I shivered. A full-body response to the sound that seemed to pluck a chord in me. The timbre has been spit shined, polished, but my ears are attuned to the slightest accent. Maybe that comes from growing up as an American in Paris. Living there with my mother, I heard so many languages and accents brushing up against each other. I usually detect accents and inflections. Dr. Lowe’s is smoothed like a carefully pressed suit, but I hear the wrinkle—the lingering traces of Texas none of his degrees and time in the hallowed halls of America’s finest institutions could iron out.
“Of course,” he continues, sliding his hands into the pockets of the jeans he’s paired with a Public Enemy T-shirt and a blazer, fully equipped with elbow patches, “if you’re clever, no one should know what you’re confessing.”
He stands at the front of the class, a tall, commanding figure and one of the smartest men I’ve ever met. The deep mahogany of his skin, well-groomed beard, and tight fade lend him a Kofi Siriboe vibe. Mind, body, smile, soul—all irresistible.
I never stood a chance.
I’ve felt this bond since the day he told us about his father, a military man who ascended in the ranks to general and was disappointed when his son was more interested inHamletthan handguns. I know what it’s like to have a complicated relationship with your father since mine is one of this generation’s most celebrated journalists and authors…but was at times absent from my lifebecausehe was off traveling the world becoming one of this generation’s most celebrated journalists and authors.
“It’s public, but also private,” Dr. Lowe goes on. “You were to write it in such a way that we could never figure it out. Your secret will still be safe. Any volunteers?”
His intent gaze roams the room, looking at everyone around me, but notatme.
That’s what has pushed me to this—what has provoked me to air this clandestine thing hidden in my rib cage and curled up behind my heart. His studied indifference. The lie of it, when I know I’m not in this alone.
At least IthinkI’m not in this alone.
How will I know if I don’t make a move? If I don’t test the waters? Test the theory that thereissomething that draws us together. My breath catching every time our eyes meet. The flare of heat and interest I spy before he has time to tuck it away—those things testify that he feels this, too.
Maybe.
But am I really going to do it? After a semester of wondering if I’m in this alone, am I really going to put myself out there this way? In front of everyone?
In front ofhim?
My heart floats into my throat.
Blood hammers in my ears.
The pulse at my neck beats wildly, untamed.
My head is swimming.
My thoughts—drowning.
My emotions—a maelstrom.
Despite my body’s panicked rebellion, I grip the edge of my desk with one hand and slide the other trembling hand up and into the air.
Dark espresso eyes meet mine over the rims of his black-framed glasses, and his mouth—full, and on a less disciplined man, sensual—tightens. His gaze flicks away from me, as if he’s searching for another volunteer, but there is none. No one wants to do this—to air their deepest, darkest secrets in thinly veiled stanzas. What kind of masochist volunteers for this devastating transparency?
“Anyone?” he asks, still skipping determinedly over me like a stone across water.
I wiggle my fingers and wave my hand to get his attention, which should be unnecessary since I’m the only volunteer of the thirty students, all seated in neat rows in the small classroom. Hayes, which houses the English department, is one of the oldest buildings on campus. It’s muggy outside for May, and the windows are propped open to let in what little breeze might bless us.
“Ms. Wallace,” he sighs, finally meeting my eyes with obvious reluctance. “You’d like to read your poem?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Yes, sir.”
It sometimes feels weird addressing him so formally since he’s not even a decade older than most of us. He leans back, not quite sitting on the desk, but propped against it with arms folded over his strong chest, feet crossed at the ankles.
“Go on.” He nods to me. “Let’s hear it.”
I nod, fix my eyes on my iPad, and let the words I’ve typed there loose.
Tread lightly through my thoughts, soldier.
