It takes a moment for me to get what he means. He’s talking about what I did yesterday. “I didn’t—”
He throws me a disbelieving stare. “It was dumb, not to mention ineffective. G to F? No one cares about that. If you really want to scare someone, go with something like S to A. Wider stretch, ergo, bigger panic.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
“Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“Okay,” I repeat.
He ducks his head down and smiles.
“I thought you didn’t see me. Yesterday, I mean.”
Until I said it, I hadn’t realized I’d wanted him to see me. In another drastic epiphany, like the one I had in class about words, I realize I don’t want to be invisible to him. Not to him.
But why? I don’t get it. What is this madness?
“I told you, I have many talents. Sniffing out crazy is one of them.”
I gasp and he chuckles. He called me crazy. I absolutely hate that, but as I watch him leave, it’s not anger that I’m feeling.
It’s something else. Something magical.
I’m dense when it comes to art, be it a book, a painting, or whatever. I don’t understand the allure of it. I don’t understand how bland circular lines on a painting, nonsensical words in a book, or a broken piece of clay inspire devotion in people.
Even so, I’ve read Thomas’ book of poems at least a hundred times since Monday. In fact, this book has kept me company throughout the week when I couldn’t sleep at night. The tiny words on the paper seem to have risen and attached themselves to my skin. I feel them everywhere, all the time, as if I know them. They are my friends. I know where they are coming from.
As if I know what Thomas was thinking when he wrote these lines.
Emma was right—Thomas is indeed a genius. He is magic. He went to school here before moving to Brooklyn, and he was the one who started the Labyrinth, an online journal that features varied pieces from both upcoming and established poets, prose writers, playwrights, and so on.
I’m so far removed from him, from these people, but still, I’m back at the Labyrinth, the artistic maze. I’m skipping political science—the class I missed last week—again, but I don’t care. I want to be inside this mysterious building.
I enter and feel an instant warmth seeping into my body. Now that I’m not in pursuit of someone, I give myself time to study things. It smells like campfire: smoky and marshmallow-y. The sounds are still there, lively and energetic as ever.
My boots hit the polished cement floor as I walk farther in. The walls have a chipped brick fa?ade, giving it an industrial look. It is dotted with countless colored flyers and photos. I take in every single face displayed up there; most of them are group shots, and the location is eerily similar: a bar. The flyers are for readings—some outdated, some upcoming—or for singing auditions, band performances, theatre productions, et cetera.
I turn the corner and almost bump into someone. He’s carrying a stack of papers and speed walking. I mutter my apologies but he doesn’t pay me any mind. A burst of laughter floats out of a classroom and I find myself smiling in return. Running footsteps above indicate that the theatre people still haven’t found an auditorium to practice in.
This place is something, isn’t it? This building is a living, breathing thing.
I go inside the classroom and take my seat in the back like the last time. A few minutes later, Professor Abrams comes in. He takes off his coat and drapes it on the chair, revealing a black shirt that molds over the tight arches of his shoulder and pecs. The languidness in his demeanor while at the bookstore is gone. He’s strained inside these four walls, chiseled from a rock, but no less handsome.
Like last time, he fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt. I realize it’s a ritual of some sort, as if he’s preparing himself for the torture ahead.
“I want a circle,” he declares when he is comfortable with the state of his cuffs.
Confused, we stay still and silent. He studies us with uncanny eyes. “How many of you have taken a workshop before?”
Without giving us a chance to answer, he shakes his head. “Never mind. I don’t care. In my class, you’ll sit in a circle, and…” He folds his arms across his chest. “You’re going to read your work out loud. We’ll take some time to ponder, and then we’ll talk about it. I want everyone to pitch in, and I don’t want repeated comments. If someone has said what you were going to say, then think of something else. Is that clear?”
Not a word, not even a breath.
Professor Abrams lets out a sharp puff of breath. “Are we clear?”
Broken out of the shocked trance, we all nod our heads and spring up from our seats. The room is filled with the screech of chairs being dragged across the floor. Five minutes later, we’re all seated in a semicircle around the professor, who perches on the edge of his desk, elbows on his thighs and fingers laced.
Somehow, I’ve ended up directly in front of him. This is the line of fire, and I’m going to get burned before this class is over.
He straightens and picks up a thin yellow folder from the desk, perusing it. “When I call your name, tell me about your essay, who your favorite author is, and how he or she inspires you and your writing.” He looks up and grimaces. “I’m boring myself just talking about it, but it’s in the syllabus.”
Emma smiles, sitting up in her chair. She is loving the chance to interact with her rock-star poet. Me? I’m crouching, because I completely forgot about the homework.
Hide. Hide.
Just as the thought occurs, I dismiss it. As it turns out, I want him to pay attention to me. I don’t want him to gloss over me like he’s doing other students. I want him to see me even though I’m doing everything I can to curl up and become invisible in a room full of students.
Again, what is this madness?
He keeps reading off names from the list in his hands and dismissing them right as they begin speaking. His eyes glaze over. I can see it. I wonder if it’s visible to other students.
Even though I’m restless, shifting in my seat, fiddling with my skirt and my top, I’m fascinated by how these people talk about their ideals.
I want to be like Hemingway. Direct. Precise.
I love Shakespeare. If I manage to write a single poem like him, I’ll die happy.
I’m fascinated by the passion in their voices, the goals they have set for themselves—to be something, to be someone. It makes me jealous of their brand of love, a love that doesn’t make you selfish or lonely, a love that gives you purpose.
Milton, Robert Browning, James Joyce, Byron, Edgar Allen Poe, Stephen Dunn, Joyce Carol Oates, Gillian Flynn, Jennifer Egan, Neil Gaiman, Sylvia Plath.