The Trouble with Emily Dickinson (2 page)

“The most technically advanced Nikes couldn’t
help you with your vertical.”

JJ knew full well that at six feet tall,
Queenie didn’t need any help jumping in order to get a clear shot
at the basket.

“It’s my parents’ money, so what do you
care?”

“I don’t.”

“Good. Shoot the ball.”

JJ launched the ball into the air and it
swished through the net. Queenie caught it and passed it back. JJ
dribbled to the foul line, crossed over and shot again. The ball
sank gracefully through the hoop.

“Can’t stop me tonight!” she shouted, as she
peeked at the clock on the wall. Her heart sank instantly. “Uh
oh.”

“What?” Queenie asked, as she laid the ball
up easily against the backboard.

JJ picked up her cell phone to check her
calendar. “I completely forgot. I’m supposed to be tutoring at the
library right now.”

“So you’re late, don’t go.”

JJ already was sprawled on the floor,
struggling to untie the knots in her shoes. “I can’t just skip it.
Unlike you, I have to work for my money.”

“I resent that,” Queenie said, squeezing the
basketball with both hands. “It takes hard work to ask my parents
for money. It requires a certain skill, persistence and the wit of
a seasoned con artist.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure it must be a struggle to
go through life as a McBride.” JJ slid one leg into her warm-ups,
trying to shove her things into her gym bag at the same time.

Queenie stepped over to let JJ use her lanky
frame for support. “I can’t help it if my parents are incredibly
wealthy,” she said. “At least I get to reap the benefits.”

“Lucky you.”

“So what illiterate soccer player are you
tutoring tonight, anyway?”

JJ slipped her flip-flops on and took the
ball from Queenie’s hands. “No soccer player tonight. I drew the
hot ticket in the lottery this time.”

“Cheerleader?”

JJ nodded.

“Seriously? Who?”

“None other than the homecoming queen
herself, THE Kendal McCarthy.”

Queenie raised an eyebrow. “Well, then, you
best get a move on. Don’t want to keep little Miss McCarthy
waiting.”

“I’m sure she’s trembling with anticipation.”
JJ threw on her navy baseball cap and slung her gym bag over her
shoulder. “Do me a favor and stay out of trouble tonight, will you?
We have an early practice tomorrow.”

“Gee, okay, Mom. I’ll be good, I
promise.”

JJ ignored Queenie’s retort and hurried out
of the athletic center. It was a quarter past nine and she was
supposed to have been at the library at exactly 9 p.m. to meet
Kendal. She sped up her pace as she crossed the street and headed
across the lawn.

The rain-soaked grass dampened her socks and
she wished she’d been wearing sneakers instead of flip-flops. Other
students passed her, giggling and laughing. The weekend had
begun.

Maintaining a solid reputation had become an
essential way of life at Sampson Academy. JJ had yet to step foot
into a soccer party, or even the boys’ dormitory for that matter.
She and her basketball teammates had formed their own clique to
help deal with the stereotypes that came with being female athletes
at a private school full of over-privileged kids.

During her freshman year, JJ had entertained
the idea of joining a few campus organizations because she longed
to be a part of something other than basketball.

But Queenie had steered her away from
anything and everything superficial. So JJ belonged to a group of
non-conformists made up of straight-edged kids who neither drank
nor smoked, nor cheated on tests. Some were athletes, some social
outcasts, and some were studious kids who, like JJ, just didn’t fit
the so-called Sampson student profile. There was a certain pride in
being part of that group, something that said, “I don’t need to fit
in or be popular.” Queenie had instilled that pride in JJ, and she
felt forever in Queenie’s debt.

The Page Library was quieter than the campus
outside. As its air of calm eased into her ears, JJ felt her body
relax. She searched around the room, filled with tables and
countless rows of books. It wasn’t hard to spot Kendal. She was the
only other student in the library and she was sitting at the
farthest table from the door, next to the biography section. JJ
walked up behind her and set her bag down on the table.

“I’m really sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I
was shooting hoops in the athletic center and lost track of
time.”

Kendal stopped texting and looked up from her
cell phone, seemingly unconcerned with the fact that JJ had been
late. She was dressed casually in a pale pink hoodie and jeans.
“You’re my tutor?” she asked.

JJ promptly removed her hat and ran her hand
through her short hair, “What? Don’t I look the part?”

“I guess I was expecting someone who looked a
little more—studious.”

JJ cracked a confident smile and pulled out a
chair to sit down. “Well, don’t let my jock exterior fool you. I
can actually read and write somewhat well.” There was an edge to
her voice she hadn’t quite intended.

“I’m sorry,” Kendal said quickly. “I didn’t
mean anything by that.”

“It’s okay,” JJ extended her hand. “I was
just joking. I’m JJ.” Kendal reached across the table and shook her
hand cautiously.

“I’ve seen you around school. You’re Kendal,
right?”

Kendal nodded, a little shamefully. “I bet
you’re not surprised to be tutoring a cheerleader. You must get us
and the soccer team all of the time.”

JJ smiled. “The soccer team and I go way
back.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Seriously though, I tutor a lot of different
people. Some are soccer players and others are just regular
students who are having trouble grasping a subject. Everyone needs
help now and then.”

“I’ve always had trouble in school,” Kendal
confessed. “It’s something I have had to work harder at. I have
friends who can wake up after a late night out, go to class and
pass a test without even studying. I’d give anything to be able to
do that.”

“My friend, Queenie, is like that,” said JJ.
She ran her hand through her hair again, something she often did
when she was stuck on what to say next. “But I always tell her that
college isn’t as easy as high school, and that she should start
getting in the habit of studying now. It’s a completely different
kind of reality. So, it’s good you are learning how to study and
put the work in. You’ll be much more prepared next year in
college.”

“I guess I never looked at it that way,” said
Kendal.

JJ suddenly imagined Queenie’s image
appearing over Kendal’s left shoulder. Queenie would be rolling her
eyes so far to the side of her head that they’d practically pop out
of her ear. JJ realized she’d started to sound like a motivational
speaker. “So—what seems to be the problem with Women’s
Literature?”

Kendal emitted a dramatic groan. “I feel like
I don’t understand what any of these authors are saying. When we
discuss a poem in class, or when Ms. Chin explains what a poem
means, I don’t understand where everybody’s coming from. I’m
completely lost. I might as well be reading a foreign
language.”

JJ understood Kendal’s frustration, though
she couldn’t relate to it. Literature and poetry always had been
easy for her, and since she was a writer herself, she had little
trouble comprehending abstract ideas or appreciating
originality.

“Well, let’s take a look at the poem you have
to write about for tomorrow’s class. Ms. Chin has her students
write a one-page response to readings, right?”

“Unfortunately, my responses don’t even make
up half a page.”

JJ turned the book around to face her and
noticed that Kendal wouldn’t be able to look at it upside down.
“Maybe it’s better if you sit next to me,” she said. “Just so we
can read it together.”

Kendal switched chairs and accidentally
brushed her leg against JJ’s in the process. It distracted her,
stealing her attention away from the book momentarily.

JJ looked up from the page, fully aware that
Kendal was staring at her. As soon as their eyes met she looked
away, yet something sweet lingered in the air around them.

“You smell nice,” JJ heard herself say,
wincing when she realized what she’d said. “I mean—your shampoo—it
smells nice, like fruity or something.”

“Um—thanks,” Kendal said.

“I mean, you know,” JJ rambled on, to break
the ensuing awkward silence. “It smells like strawberries or
something like that.”

“Thanks.” Kendal repositioned her body in the
chair and cleared her throat. She was nervous for some reason and
for a second she forgot why she was even in the library until she
saw the book of poetry open in front of them. “So, I read this
twice and I still don’t get it,” she said, pointing at the
page.

JJ followed the lines of the poem with her
index finger. “Okay. First off—the trouble with Emily Dickinson is
that she writes ambiguously, meaning a lot of the words that she
uses aren’t meant to be taken literally.”

“You mean what she’s saying in the poem isn’t
really what people think she’s saying?”

“Sort of. See, Dickinson wrote ambiguously
because that’s just the way she wrote. She knew what the poems
meant and that was all that mattered to her. She never intended
them to be published because she was afraid that readers would
interpret them in ways she didn’t want them to. Some scholars tend
to refer to her as a ‘private poet,’ because it wasn’t until after
her death that her talent for poetic expression was discovered and
ultimately became respected by others.”

“That’s kind of depressing that she wasn’t
discovered until after her death. Was she afraid to share her work
or something?”

“I don’t know.” JJ picked at the page with
her fingers. “I don’t think that matters. There are plenty of
talented writers out there who prefer to keep their poetry to
themselves.”

“It seems like a waste of time, though. Why
even write if you aren’t going to share your work with other
people?”

“Some people don’t need approval from others
in order to call themselves writers,” said JJ, looking up from the
book. “It isn’t as important as you might think.”

“All that I’m saying is—”

“Can we get back to the poem?”

Kendal bit back her words and proceeded to
read the next few lines out loud. “A long, long sleep, a famous
sleep. That makes no show for dawn. By stretch of limb or stir of
lid. An independent one.” She paused and looked up from the page.
“Is that about a nap?”

“Well, more like the kind of nap you don’t
wake up from,” said JJ. “Read the last two lines.”

“To bask centuries away, not once look up for
noon . . . bask centuries away . . . she’s talking about death,
right? A long, long sleep.”

“Good. Now you’re reading between the lines.
And that’s one of the keys to reading poetry.”

They discussed the poem at length, along with
a few others for over an hour. Kendal struggled to make sense of
most of them, but found comfort in JJ’s encouragement.

“It might help if you learned a little bit
about Dickinson’s background. Knowing where authors came from and
what they’re about can help you understand their writing
better.”

“In what way?”

“Well, for instance, one of the themes
Dickinson often writes about is love. Only she wrote about it as a
thing to be felt and not just a thing to be said. Poetry gave her a
way to explore the feeling of love to the fullest extent, in a way
most people never let themselves experience.” It didn’t take JJ
long to notice that Kendal was staring at her again. “What did I
say?”

“Nothing,” said Kendal. She blinked and
looked away, as if she were keeping a secret. “It’s easy to see why
you’re such a good tutor. I learned more about Emily Dickinson in
the last hour than I have my entire life.” She closed the book and
tapped at the cover. “You were highly recommended to me by my
advisor, you know. He said you were one of the best. Most tutors
I’ve had come off sounding condescending. It’s as if they assume
I’m an idiot because I’m a cheerleader.”

“I didn’t think that.”

“I’m sure you had some preconceived notions
though.”

“Possibly,” JJ admitted. “But no more than
what you thought about me when I first got here. You said it
yourself, you were expecting someone a bit more studious,
remember?”

“Well, we’re even then.”

JJ began to pack up her things and pointed to
Kendal’s folder. “I think you’ve got a good amount of notes to
write your one-page response for your class tomorrow,” she
said.

Kendal looked over the scribbles in her
notebook. “Are you kidding? I think I actually have enough to write
at least five pages.”

JJ studied her, admiring the child-like
expression on her face. It was then that she realized she’d never
really seen Kendal McCarthy up close. She was more than
beautiful.

“What?” Kendal asked.

“Nothing,” said JJ. It was her turn to look
away this time. “I should get back to my dorm. I’ve got some
reading to do and we have an early practice tomorrow.” She slowly
packed the rest of her things into her gym bag, slid her hat on
backwards, and then checked around and under the table making sure
she hadn’t forgotten anything. “I’ll see you next session,” she
said finally. “Same place, same time, except I’ll be on time.”

“Yeah, same time,” Kendal said, laughing. She
picked up her cell phone and added the date in her calendar.

JJ stood still for half a second longer,
letting the sound of Kendal’s laughter sweep over her before she
turned to leave. She walked back to her dorm room reliving each
moment of their interaction in her head, recalling the tidbits of
conversation, and the warm sensation she felt whenever Kendal
accidentally brushed against her.