Every Last Word

by Tamara Ireland Stone

What if I’m crazy?

I’ll be Samantha again. And more than anything, I’ll be missing Sam.

“What is this place?” I ask again, hearing the amazement in my own voice. Pixie Cut answers me. “We call it Poet’s Corner.”

POETS CORNER

“How can you not remember Andrew? That kid stuttered so badly he couldn’t even say his name. We used to follow him around singing that song.…You have to remember this!”

Oh, God. I do. It’s all starting to come back to me, and when she sings that horrible song again, I can see Kaitlyn and me in our skirts and ponytails, trailing behind him on the playground while he covered his ears, tears streaming down his face, trying to run away from us. We never let him get far.

lowkey sad

“The trick is to recognize your mistakes, take what you need from them, and move on.”

“Then this particular mistake has done its job. Forgive yourself and move on, Sam.”

It takes effort, but I sit up straight and look right at her. “Every last word.”

trail off, thinking about the day Kaitlyn and I crank-called his house over and over again, until his mom finally picked up and screamed in our ears, begging us to stop. Or that time we sat behind him on the bus and cleaned out our backpacks, dropping all our gum wrappers, paper scraps, and pieces of lint down the back of his shirt.

He gives me another smile. That makes three today. This one looks even more genuine than the others. “If I didn’t think you meant it the first time, you wouldn’t be down here.”

I tap it three times. Then I let everything go.

Is this what it’s like to be normal?

“Well, if she looked like a mime, it makes perfect sense that she’s not speaking to you,” he says.

He tosses my phone into the cup holder. “I transferred to a new school in fifth grade, but as you can probably imagine, I was a big target there, too.” He laughs a little, even though it’s not funny at all. “My mom finally took me to see a speech therapist. I went every week, but I didn’t make much progress. Eventually, it seemed easier to just stop talking.”

“Yeah.” He opens the car door and looks at me, smiling. God, I really like it when he does that. “I don’t know.” I smile back at him. “That might make it seem like we’re becoming friends.” “Hmm,” he murmurs. “Maybe we are.”

You’ll tell me he was mean to you, and because I’m your friend”—he brushes his elbow against my arm—“I’ll see him at school and feel the need to defend your honor, and an hour later I’ll be in the ER getting stitches in my eyebrow or something.” I smile. “We’re friends, huh?” He takes a tiny step toward me. Close but not too close. Friends-close. “Can we be?” he asks.

Over the next week, I see AJ everywhere.

I pass by him between classes, and not only after second period the way I’ve intentionally scheduled. At lunch each day, I see him sitting with Emily and Cameron, and when I catch him stealing glances at me, he quickly looks away and pretends to be deep in conversation. I’ve seen him in the student lot twice now, climbing into Sydney’s car. Both times I drove away wishing he’d climbed into mine.

I try to think of something interesting to say—something open-ended that we will have to continue talking about when we have more time. But before I can speak, he reaches out and brushes his thumb against my arm. It’s not a mistake. It’s deliberate. “I’d better get to class,” he says. “Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”

I bite the inside of my cheek three times and head off in the opposite direction.

It’s the way Poet’s Corner is changing my life, exactly like Caroline said it would.

For the first time in a long time, I don’t care what they think.

And without revealing the secret room underneath the school theater, I spend the rest of the session telling her about AJ, Caroline, Sydney, Cameron, Abigail, Jessica, Emily, and Chelsea. My eight new friends.

“It’s not a date,” I say aloud as I run my finger along the glass. “We’re friends.” Even if that’s all we are, it’s okay. This is already more than I ever expected from AJ Olsen.

I’d shrug, but I don’t want to draw any more attention to my shoulders. “Because they get off on the misery of others?”

this made me giggle cause it’s so real

“Come on…Tell me, Sam.” Sam. I love the way he calls me that, but right now, I wish he wouldn’t. It’s completely disarming.

“You saw my songs. I’ve written some incredibly lame stuff.” I start to argue with him, but he doesn’t give me any time. “Tell me, Sam.” His smile is kind, encouraging, contagious, and that dimple…so adorable.

“I didn’t go there looking for you. I went looking for me.” My voice is soft, low, and shaky. “But now, here you are, and somehow, in finding you, I think I’ve found myself.”

AWHH

Before I can open my eyes, I feel him rest his forehead against mine, and his hands slide around my back as he brushes his lips lightly against mine, kissing me like I just said the right thing, not the wrong thing. And this kiss…God, this kiss is soft and warm and perfect,

Please, let this be real. Please, don’t let me be imagining this.

This is a mistake. He doesn’t like me; he likes the person Caroline turned me into. He thinks I’m a normal girl who swims and writes poetry, but I’m not. I’m obsessed with my thoughts and I can’t sleep and I count in threes. He writes music and wears his heart on his sleeve, and I don’t deserve him.

As soon as I part my lips, I hear the words slip out, like they’re floating away from me all by themselves. “I like you too much.” He kisses me again, harder this time. “Good,” he whispers. “I like you too much, too.”

Once we start, we can’t seem to stop.

“Friends don’t lie to each other, Samantha,” Kaitlyn says. “Not ever.” No. Never.

Not even when they don’t like the outfit you’re wearing or your new haircut or the new song you like or the guy you think is cute. My friends—especially Kaitlyn—don’t lie to each other, not ever, even when it’s a kindness designed to spare someone’s feelings.

“Personal?” Alexis asks. “What the hell does that mean?” “It means it’s none of your business, Alexis.”

Finally standing up to her

This sucks. And it feels good at the same time.

This song is for me.

He’s so kind to her. And Emily’s looking at him with such gratitude.

AJ isn’t like the guys the Eights go out with. He’s not popular. He’s not his brother, deemed acceptable even though he’s a year younger,

I look at him, seeing him the way I do: slightly scruffy but beautiful inside and out.

I bring my hand to the back of my neck and dig my fingernail in three times, but I don’t know why I’m upset. This is good.

Not jealous. Just obsessed.

“Really. We’re just…different, Sam. In every way that matters.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, not necessarily to him, but of course that’s how it comes out. “You’re welcome,” he says, kissing me with even more intensity.

And when I’m sure he can’t see me, I bring one hand to my jeans and scratch my leg three times. “I think we should tell people,” I say.

“They’re not going to understand what I see in him.” God, that sounds so shallow. And horrible.

it does but i get it

“When I’m with him, Sue, I don’t feel sick or labeled or broken. I feel normal. He makes me feel totally and completely normal.”

“Of course not. The second he finds out, I cease to be normal. He makes me feel normal because he thinks I am normal.”

“What does that mean to you, Sam? To be ‘better’?” Sane. Healthy. Not sick. Not crazy. “Someone normal! Someone who doesn’t need medication to sleep or keep her thoughts under control. Someone who doesn’t need you.”