Slammed (6 page)

"Sacrifice…It's what they use to prepare the judges," he says as he slides back into the booth. Somehow, he slides even closer this time.

"Someone performs something that isn't part of the competition so the judges can calibrate their scoring."

"So they can call on anyone? What if they would have called on me?" I ask, suddenly nervous.

“
Well, I guess you should have had something ready,” he says as he smiles at me.

He takes a sip from his drink then leans back against the booth, finding my hand in the dark. Our fingers don't interlock this time, though. Instead, he places my hand on his leg and his fingertips start to trace the outline of my wrist. He gently traces each of my fingers, following the lines and curves of my entire hand. His fingertips feel like electric pulses penetrating my skin.

"Lake," he says quietly as he continues to trace up my wrist and back to my fingertips with a fluid motion. "I don’t know what it is about you…but I like you."

His fingers slide between mine as he takes my hand in his and turns his attention back to the stage. I inhale and reach for my chocolate milk with my free hand, downing the entire glass. The ice feels good against my lips. It cools me off.

They call on a young woman who looks to be around twenty-five. She announces that she is performing a piece she wrote titled
'Blue Sweater.’
The lights are lowered as a spotlight is positioned on her. She raises the microphone and steps forward, staring down at the floor. A hush sweeps over the audience and the only sound in the entire room is the sound of her breath, amplified through the speakers.

She raises her hand to the microphone, still staring down to the floor. She begins to tap her finger against it in a repetitive motion, resonating the sound of a heartbeat. I realize I'm holding my own breath as she begins her piece.

Bom Bom...

Bom Bom...

Bom Bom...

Do you
hear
that?

(Her voice lingering on the word hear)

That's the sound of my heart beating…

(She taps the microphone again)

Bom Bom...

Bom Bom...

Bom Bom...

Do you
hear
that? That's the sound of
your
heart beating.

(She begins to speak faster, much louder than before.)

It was the
first
day of October. I was wearing my
blue
sweater, you know the one I bought at
Dillard’s
? The one with a double knitted
hem
and
holes
in the
ends
of the
sleeves
that I could poke my
thumbs
through when it was cold but I didn't feel like wearing
gloves
? It was the
same
sweater you said made my
eyes
look like reflections of the
stars
on the
ocean
.

You promised to love me
forever
that night...

and
boy

did
you

ever!

It was the
first
day of
December
this time. I was wearing my
blue
sweater, you know the one I bought at
Dillard’s
? The one with a double knitted
hem
and
holes
in the
ends
of the
sleeves
that I could poke my
thumbs
through when it was cold but I didn't feel like wearing
gloves
? It was the
same
sweater you said made my
eyes
look like reflections of the
stars
on the
ocean
.

I told you I was three weeks
late
.

You
said
it was
fate.

You promised to love me forever that night…

and
boy

did
you

ever
!

It was the first day of May. I was wearing my
blue
sweater, although
this
time the double stitched
hem
was
worn
and the
strength
of each thread
tested
as they were pulled
tight
against my
growing
belly.
You
know the one. The same one I bought at
Dillard’s
? The one with
holes
in the
ends
of the
sleeves
that I could poke my
thumbs
through when it was cold but I didn't feel like wearing
gloves
? It was the
same
sweater you said made my
eyes
look like reflections of the
stars
on the
ocean
.

The
SAME
sweater you
RIPPED
off of my body as you
shoved
me to the floor,

calling me a
whore
,

telling me

you didn't
love
me

anymore.

Bom Bom...

Bom Bom...

Bom Bom...

Do you
hear
that? That's the sound of my heart beating.

Bom Bom...

Bom Bom...

Bom Bom...

Do you
hear
that? That's the sound of
your
heart beating.

(There is a long silence as she clasps her hands to her stomach, tears streaming down her face)

Do you
hear
that? Of course you don't. That's the silence of my womb.

Because you

RIPPED

OFF

MY

SWEATER!

The lights come back up and the audience roars. I take a deep breath and wipe tears from my eyes. I am mesmerized by her ability to hypnotize an entire audience with such powerfully portrayed words.
Just words
. I'm immediately addicted and want to hear more. I'm still immobile when Will puts his arm around my shoulders and leans back into the seat with me, bringing me back to reality.

"Well?" he asks.

I accept his embrace and move my head to his shoulder as we both stare out over the crowd. He rests his chin on the top of my head.

"That was unbelievable," I whisper. His hand touches the side of my head, leaning me slightly forward as his lips brush my forehead. I close my eyes and wonder how much more my emotions can be tested. Three days ago, I was devastated, bitter, hopeless. Today I woke up feeling happy for the first time in months. I feel vulnerable. I try to mask my emotions but I feel like everyone knows what I'm thinking and feeling and I don't like it. I don't like being an open book. I feel like I'm up on the stage, pouring my heart out to him, and it scares the hell out of me.

We sit there in the same embrace as several more people perform their pieces. The poetry is as vast and electrifying as the audience. I have never laughed and cried so much. The way these poets were able to lure you into a whole new world, viewing things from a vantage point you have never seen before. Making you feel like you are the mother who lost her baby, or the boy who killed his father, or even the man who got high for the first time and ate
five plates
of bacon. I feel a connection with these poets and their stories. More so, I feel a deeper connection to Will. I can't imagine that he's brave enough to get up on the stage and bare his soul like these people are doing. I have to see it. I
have
to see him do this.

The emcee makes one last appeal for performers.

"Will, you
can't
bring me here and not
perform.
Please do one? Please, please, please?"

He leans his head back against the booth. "You’re killing me, Lake. Like I said, I don't really have anything new.”

"Do something old then," I suggest. "Or do all these people make you
nervous
?"

He tilts his head toward me and smiles. "Not all of them. Just
one
of them."

I suddenly have the urge to kiss him. I suppress the urge, for now, as I continue to plead. I clasp my hands together under my chin.

"Don't make me beg," I say.

"You already
are
!" he laughs. "Alright, alright. But I'm warning you, you asked."

He pulls his wallet out of his pocket just as the emcee is announcing the start of round two. He stands up, holding his three dollars in the air. "I'm in!"

The emcee shields his eyes with his hand, squinting into the audience to see who spoke up. "Ladies and Gentlemen it's one of our very own, Mr. Will Cooper! So nice of you to finally join us," he teases into the microphone.

Will makes his way through the crowd and walks onto the stage and into the spotlight.

"What's the name of your piece tonight Will?" the emcee asks.

"Death," Will replies, looking past the crowd and directly at me. The smile fades from his eyes as he begins his performance.

Death
. The only thing inevitable in life.

People don’t like to
talk
about death because