Page 13 of Poetry By Dead Men
"I—" I have no words.My cheeks are on fire now, but I don’t look away. I want to memorize every second of my time with him. Tuck them away so I can revisit them later.
Bobby leans forward in his chair and pulls out his phone, handing it to me. "How can I wait until you come to me? The once fleet mornings linger by the way. Their sunny smiles touched with malicious glee. At my unrest, they seem to pause, and play like truant children, while I sigh and say—"
"How can I wait…" my soft voice mixes with his rich tenor, almost breathless as I take the phone from his hand and stare at it. "Ella Wheeler Wilcox. But…" I trail off, understanding what he wants and finding myself confused at the same time.I feel like I’m in a movie, and I have the urge to pinch myself to see if it’s actually possible this boy just quoted one of my favorite poets.
“I memorized it, in case you came back.” Bobby stares into my eyes as if committing every fleck of color to memory.
“You did?” I breathe, even though hejusttold me that’s exactly what happened. I’m frozen in place, my heart thundering so hard, I hear it roaring in my ears. He memorized the poem forme. It’s so impossible I almost don’t think it’s true. And yet, he says it is, and I believe him.
“I’d like your number." He nods at the phone. "Um… If you'd like, of course. I have more poetry I can recite if that one didn’t do the trick. Or maybe someRomeo and Juliet?”
“You memorizedRomeo and Juliet? It’s one of my favorites.” My heart swells, but I tilt my head, not convinced he can recite an entire play.
His answering smile is cheeky. “‘Romeo, Romeo. Wherefore art thou, Romeo? Thus, with a kiss, I die. To be, or not to be. That is the question.’”
I laugh. “That last one’sHamlet,” I say, tapping my number into his phone and handing it back to him, a shockwave radiating through my skin when our fingers touch. “You’re close, though.”
“‘Fair is foul, and foul is fair?’” He raises his eyebrows.
“Macbeth.” I say, trying my best to look calm even though I’m absolutely giddy.
He presses his full lips together in a smile before looking down at his watch, and that beautiful smile disappears as his lips tip into a frown. I have the sudden urge to make a joke. A silly face. Anything to see his eyes twinkle and his cheek dimple.
“I have to go. I’m sorry, but I’m so glad you came back. Will you be here tomorrow?” he asks.
“And Friday,” I blurt out, wincing at my inability to play it cool.
Bobby stands, grabbing his backpack. “‘Sweet, so would I. Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow. That I shall say good night till it be morrow,’” he says with an over-the-top flourish of his hand. He pulls a bright-pink, slightly wilted flower from his pocket and hands it to me. His fingers brush mine—only for a second—but it’s enough to rip the air from my lungs.
It’s a wild rose.
A summer bloom, just like from the Wilcox poem, and I have the urge to pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming. My cheeks ache from my smile and my head swims, but it isn’t until he’s walking out the door that I realize he quoted the play correctly, and as I trail my fingers along the flower’s petals, I can’t help but wonder if maybe he memorized it for me after all.
I tap on Molly’s front door later that night with a few gentle kicks, my arms too full to use my hands. Twizzlers, Nerds, and Skittles for me, and mini MilkyWays and Hershey's Kisses for her. It's one of the first things we bonded over. I prefer fruity candy, and she prefers chocolate. It was an excellent arrangement growing up trick or treating, and probably the perfect recipe for becoming best friends.
Molly opens the door and pulls me inside, grabbing a bag.
"What Lies BeneathorRosemary's Baby?" she asks, plopping down on the ridiculously comfortable couch in her family’s home theater.
"I was thinkingThe Shining?" I say, settling in next to her and grabbing a blanket.
"Oooooh." She nudges my arm before continuing, "Stephen King. I like it." She searches her DVR and hits play without further discussion, and instantly, the room is plunged into pitch black as the opening credits roll.
My popcorn-filled hand is halfway to my mouth and two creepy little girls appear in the hallway of the Overlook Hotel when Molly suddenly pauses the movie.
"I need to tell you something," she says. Her voice is shaky, and I slowly lower my hand full of popcorn.
"What’s wrong?"I ask, my stomach dropping.
"I don't even want to say it." She covers her face, and I sit up to grab her hand.
"Is Michael—I mean, is his cancer—" My stomach drops. Her little brother has normally wiggled his way into joining our movie nights by now, and I wonder if he’s back in the hospital.
"No! No. Michael’s okay. Or…he hasn’t gotten any worse. Sorry, I should’ve…" She trails off. "It’s about me, and I’m fine. But I’ve made a big decision.”
"You're freaking me out. Just tell me," I beg, my whole body on edge.
"I’m not going to college." The words tumble from Molly's lips as if she's been struggling to hold in a mouth full of marbles for days.
