Amy Inspired - Bethany Pierce [13]
“Well, I had my qualms about you dating a writer,” she said, doctoring her coffee with a third creamer. “I don’t know what I’d do if Jake was. We’d kill each other out of sheer competition. And at least you have time to focus on your writing now.” She perked up, remembering: “Did you get any news from Exatrope?”
“Rejected.”
“What? But your style is perfect for them.”The sincerity of her surprise at this news endeared me to her forever. “Amy, this is not your week.”
Everett said, “I’m beginning to think it’s not her decade.”
Everett had agreed to be my date for the poetry reading that night so I would be with company if Adam showed. The reading was held in the upstairs galleries of the Fuhler Art Building. As a member of the committee that had instituted the reading, I was obliged to attend. Three student performances were to be given simultaneously in three different galleries, the idea being that the audience changed rooms instead of the poets taking turns. I supposed it was meant to be interactive; mostly it reminded me of channel surfing.
“I can’t stand it,” Everett said.
We were sitting on folding chairs in gallery two. Fifteen rows up, a tall man with panty hose over his face was reading a sonnet. Behind him, a video montage of war headlines flashed on a projector screen. When it became apparent that the ten-minute recitation was only prelude to a second collection of poems, Everett began to fidget. He preferred rhythm, lyricism. These kinds of readings provoked him to panic, a minor detail I wished I’d remembered before demanding he come with me.
“Can we leave?”
“We can’t leave while he’s performing,” I whispered.
Over our own poet, we heard three others; the walls separating the galleries did not reach all the way to the ceiling.
“I want to leave,” he whispered back. His voice was petulant, like a child’s.
“We’ll wait until he’s done.”
He groaned under his breath, bent over, and started breathing into the program he’d folded into a tube. I noticed he was missing a button on his right cuff. He was typically dressed: old jeans and a white-collared shirt under a tweed jacket. At thirty-two he was completely bald up top. His glasses were horn-rimmed, his one stylish ornamentation. His intelligence eclipsed his social skills. Our friendship still surprised me.
When the panty hose performance was over, the emcee returned to the microphone. “All right, ladies and gentlemen, for your listening pleasure, please give a warm welcome to Jason Burkie.”
“It’s one of your students,” Everett said unnecessarily.
Jason held the microphone, still in its stand, right against his lips. “I’m Jason Burkie,” he said. “Can you all hear me?”
He held his poems up to his eyes, then paused. He spotted me over the rim of his paper. “This goes out to Ms. Gallagher, bestlooking English teacher in Copenhagen.”
There was a ripple of laughter. People turned in their seats searching the room. A few applauded, and one wolf-whistled. I nodded, waved tentatively, and slid down in my chair.
Jason was grinning. “All right!” He punched the air. “Power to the English teachers.”
“He’s a total moron,” Everett said. “Do you encourage this kind of Neanderthal stupidity in your classroom?”
Jason read his work with unbridled pride. It was evident that he considered his performance superior to those that had preceded his.
Everett nudged me halfway through the fifth poem. “Do you know that guy?” He nodded his head toward the right side of the room.
I turned slowly to follow Everett’s gaze. A tall man stood against the far wall, his arms folded across his chest. Our eyes met. Immediately he looked away.
“I’ve never seen him before.”
“Well, he’s been staring at you.”
“I’m sure he wasn’t doing it on purpose.”
“Um, yes, well, the performance is up there, and his eyes were here.”
“Everett, honestly, can you just pay attention for five seconds.”
I glanced