The Trouble with Emily Dickinson (14 page)

JJ dreaded the day that her work would be
shared with the class. She hoped that she’d be able to keep flying
just under the radar, turning in assignments that made a positive
impression on Mrs. Clark, but, at the same time, were overshadowed
by the work of someone else. It soon became apparent that JJ could
fly under the radar for only so long.

That day, the one that had provoked countless
nightmares in which JJ awoke from a dead sleep drenched in sweat
with her heart racing, turned out to be today.

As soon as the class was seated, Mrs. Clark
gave JJ an encouraging nod. And at that moment, JJ knew. She knew
even before the simple white sheet of paper with the title of her
poem in big, bold letters written at the top landed on her
desk.

Her stomach curled itself up into a ball, and
she was hit with the urge to run to the bathroom.

Before JJ could escape the claustrophobic
classroom walls, however, Mrs. Clark cleared her throat. It was her
obligatory signal that she was about to start class. The chatter
ceased. Everyone sat up straight. And all eyes were focused at the
front of the room.

“Class, today I would like to start off by
discussing a poem that was handed in last Friday as part of your
free writing assignment.”

Free writing was done before the close of
every class. Students were to use the last fifteen minutes to write
whatever popped into their heads, whether it was the beginning of a
novel, a short story, a journal entry or a poem. It didn’t matter.
They were free to write whatever they wanted. And JJ had written a
poem.

It wasn’t just a few scribbled lines though,
like many of her previous free writing efforts. This poem had flown
effortlessly from her pen as if by its own will. She’d been
thinking of her relationship with her mother, and how her mother
had always wanted a daughter who was just like her. She’d wanted a
daughter who was girly, who liked cheerleading and boys. JJ was the
exact opposite. Their relationship had suffered because of it,
because JJ felt that she’d never lived up to her mother’s
expectations.

She’d written the first line on a whim,
hoping for some closure. The result was a poem that was far more
personal than she’d originally intended.

“JJ, would you stand up please and read your
poem for the class?”

JJ stared up at Mrs. Clark, unable to move.
She felt the sweat gather under her arms and the nausea swell in
her stomach. Her heart sped up to a pace that the rest of her body
couldn’t possibly match.

She looked down at the flimsy paper in her
hands. Her lips moved slowly, mouthing the first line, but no
audible words came out.

“You might want to stand up,” Mrs. Clark
advised. “And speak up a bit.”

JJ’s legs were like two masses of jelly. She
trembled as she stood. Her mouth was as dry as a stale piece of
bread, and her tongue stuck to her teeth. She tried to speak once
more, and again no sound emerged.

With all those eager eyes upon her, JJ felt
as though she was under a microscope. She glanced from face to face
in a panic, her eyes darting around the room so fast that she felt
dizzy.

“JJ—are you okay?” Mrs. Clark asked.

“I’m—I’m not feeling so well,” JJ managed.
“May I go to the restroom?”

Mrs. Clark nodded, and JJ bolted from the
room. Only she didn’t head to the restroom. Instead, she ran
through the front doors of the classroom building and burst out
into the open air.

She breathed heavily, taking in each breath
slowly and releasing it more slowly than the last. When her
heartbeat returned to normal, she sat down on a nearby bench. She
knew Mrs. Clark would be wondering where she’d gone, but she also
knew that if she went back to class she’d have to read the poem to
everyone. And that wasn’t going to happen. Not now, not ever.

Instead, JJ sat contentedly on the wooden
bench, admiring the fresh landscaping along the stone path that led
up to Heath Hall, the building for English classes. She waited
until students began to file out the front doors, signaling that
her class had ended. When the last couple of students trickled out,
she stood up and walked back inside to retrieve her belongings from
the classroom.

Mrs. Clark was still in the room, shuffling
through papers on her desk. JJ tiptoed in, and then cringed when
she heard Mrs. Clark’s nasal voice.

“Are you okay? Where did you go?”

JJ straightened up, slinging her backpack
over her shoulder. “I didn’t feel good, so I decided to leave
class.”

“Are you feeling better now?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“This didn’t have anything to do with me
asking you to read your poem in front of the class, did it?”

“No.”

“Because that would be a shame. Of all the
writing I go through day in and day out,” Mrs. Clark tapped the
stack of papers at her desk, “this is by far one of the best poems
I have read in a long time. It deserves to be shared with the
class. And the class deserves to hear it.”

“You mean you didn’t read it or discuss it
after I left?”

“It’s not my poem to read. It’s yours. It’s
yours to share.”

“But—what if I’m not exactly comfortable
with—what if I don’t want to share it?”

Mrs. Clark made a slight clicking tsk-tsk
sound, and removed her glasses from her face. “I can’t force you to
read it, JJ,” she said. “But I will ask you this—what good is
writing, what good is art for that matter, if you can’t share it
with the world? Part of this class involves active participation.
And by participation I mean interacting with your classmates,
offering criticism of their work, and taking in criticism of your
own. How else do you expect to grow as a writer?”

“Emily Dickinson never shared her work,” JJ
reasoned.

“And Dickinson died without ever realizing
her true potential.”

“Maybe she wanted it that way.”

“Maybe she did. But is that what you
want?”

JJ said nothing.

“I’d hate to have to lower your grade simply
because you refused to read your poem out loud.” Mrs. Clark relaxed
back in her chair and gently folded her arms across her chest. “Be
prepared to have another go at it on Monday.”

“All right,” JJ muttered and walked toward
the classroom door. “I’ll read it on Monday.”

“I’m not doing this to be mean,” Mrs. Clark
called after her. Her teacher’s words stopped JJ at the threshold.
“I’m doing this because I think you are a very talented writer. But
you’re not as confident in your writing as you are, say, on the
basketball court. I’m giving you an opportunity to take a
last-second shot and win the game. To shine in the spotlight
because I believe in your talent, just as your basketball coach
believes in you. Understand the correlation?”

JJ nodded. She understood. And she was
flattered that Mrs. Clark had taken such an interest in her
writing. But that didn’t mean she liked the idea any better. It
didn’t mean that the thought of having to share her work in front
of the entire class still didn’t scare her to death.

CHAPTER 20

Practice that afternoon felt like it lasted
an eternity. JJ couldn’t concentrate. She kept thinking about her
writing class and the fact that her date with Kendal was only a few
hours away. Coach Cook had finally incorporated a ball into
practice, and JJ ruined a golden opportunity to teach the freshmen
about what it took to start for the Sampson Lady Yellow Jackets
basketball team. She missed easy shots from the elbow of the lane,
flubbed numerous breakaway layups and had the ball stolen right
from her hands three times in a row by an overzealous freshman
eager to make it into the starting lineup.

The locker room afterwards was extra stuffy,
and not because of the sweat. Unlike JJ, Queenie, as usual, had
another outstanding practice, garnering such comments from Coach
Cook as, “Nice job, McBride” and “That’s how a starter practices,
ladies. Watch and learn. Watch and learn.”

“Where was your head today?” Queenie asked as
soon as they reached the locker room.

“That’s something I would expect Coach to
say,” JJ replied dryly.

“Hey, relax.” Queenie peeled the headband
from her forehead. “I’m just checking in. You’ve been out of it
since this morning.”

JJ leaned against her locker, “I’m sorry, I
just have a lot on my mind.”

“Like cheerleading queens and dates at coffee
shops?”

“Kendal has nothing to do with it.”

Queenie held up her hands in surrender.
“Touchy, aren’t we?”

JJ was about to confide in Queenie about what
had happened earlier during writing class when Coach Cook loudly
cleared her throat behind them.

“Jenkins!” She barked from the doorway. “May
I see you for a moment?”

JJ cast her eyes at Queenie, who stifled a
laugh. Just what I need, JJ thought.

Once in the confines of her office, Coach
Cook closed the door tightly behind them. JJ remembered Queenie’s
story about Dean Hoffman walking in, carrying a rose. At that
moment she felt the urge to wink at Coach Cook just to see what she
would say.

“You know me, JJ, I don’t like to kid around
when it comes to basketball,” Coach Cook said. “So I’m going to get
straight to the point. And the point is that you played horribly
today.”

“I know, Coach,” JJ acknowledged. “I didn’t
play well at all.”

“Didn’t play well? That’s an understatement!
I don’t start players who perform like that. I don’t have to remind
you of what it takes to be a starter for this team, do I?”

JJ lowered her eyes to the ground, “No,
Coach.”

“You are the starting point guard. You are
the floor general. How do you expect to lead the team during a game
when you can’t even be a leader during practice?”

JJ opened her mouth to respond but Coach Cook
cut her off.

“I expect more from you, JJ,” she said, as
her feathered hair flapped in the breeze coming from the fan on her
desk. “You’ve been a part of this team for three years, a big part
of it. You brought Queenie to the team. And you two are my senior
captains. I need you to play with confidence.”

Apparently, you’re not the only one who
expects more from me, JJ thought.

“I hope that you get over whatever was ailing
you today and come ready to play tomorrow. You better get your game
in gear. I’d hate to have to start a freshman in your place for our
very first game of the season.”

JJ felt Coach Cook’s eyes zero in on her.

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Coach,” she replied.

“Good.”

JJ arose from her chair and exited the
office, feeling even worse than she’d felt earlier that morning
when she’d abandoned her writing class.

“Everything okay?” Queenie asked. She was
already showered and dressed, sitting on a locker room bench,
playing with her iPhone.

“Peachy,” JJ said.

“Don’t worry about Coach,” Queenie said.

“Easy for you to say. Coach is like your best
friend now.”

Ignoring that comment, Queenie asked if JJ
wanted to join her for dinner in downtown Richmond.

“I think it’s about time I charged up my
father’s credit card,” she said. “They just paid the last balance
off earlier this week.”

“You can be such a jerk with them,” JJ
snapped.

“Says you.”

“I’m busy tonight, remember?”

“Oh, right. Your non-date with the
non-lesbian. So sorry I can’t be a fly on the wall for that one.”
Queenie punched JJ lightly in the arm. “Don’t do anything
stupid.”

* * *

Kendal stood in front of the floor-length
mirror, wondering about her outfit. She’d decided on a pair of
hip-hugger jeans, a slimming red graphic T-shirt, and a matching
red hooded sweatshirt. She stood facing the doorway, admiring her
backside when Christine came into the room.

“You’re wearing that?” Christine asked.
Clearly, she wasn’t a fan of the outfit Kendal had chosen.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Kendal
asked, admiring her jeans. “I thought I looked good.”

“You do. But maybe you should wear something
a little sexier for Kyan’s benefit.”

Kendal groaned. When she’d gotten dressed
that evening, she hadn’t been thinking of Kyan. She’d been thinking
of JJ, and, as a result, it had taken much longer than she’d
anticipated to pick out an outfit.

“For the umpteenth time, I’m only going to
this party tonight with Kyan as friends.”

“Right,” Christine smiled wryly. “So how long
is that poetry thing going to last again?”

Kendal shrugged. “I have no idea. I’ve never
been to one before.” She went back to studying herself in the
mirror.

“I can’t believe you are going to go with
her.”

Not again, thought Kendal. She’d been over it
a billion and one times with Christine. She wanted to go to The
Spot. She wanted to try something different. It was as simple as
that.

Christine flopped down on top of her bed,
stomach-first. She casually flipped through the pages of one of her
many magazines as Kendal continued to scrutinize her own
appearance. Kendal ran her long fingers through her hair, pulling
it back and swinging it forward, mulling over which way accented
her features better.

“So—what are you going to do if she makes a
pass at you?” Christine asked still staring at the pages of her
magazine.

“Christine!” Kendal spun around. “Why would
you even ask that?”

“I don’t know. I’m just asking. Personally,
I’d be creeped out.”

“Creeped out? Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”

“No, it’s the truth.”

“You wouldn’t be flattered at all?” Kendal
couldn’t help smiling at the thought of JJ flirting with her.

“Flattered? Kendal, that’s gross!”

“Why is it gross? It’s just one person
finding another person attractive.”