"You are such an asshat!" Caleb whacked Reid on the arm. "What part of stealth is so incomprehensible to you?? We need you back on the team if we're gonna beat West Lake."
"Come on, dude. It was irresistible. I don't know how I lasted that long. Golightly…. Come on."
"I think it's kind of cool." Sarah shrugged. "Don't know why she would get mad about it."
"I think it was more the fact that Reid so delightfully announced to the class that we snooped through her file," Caleb responded tightly. "She doesn't strike me as someone who would really have appreciated us invading her privacy."
"Alright. Time for Plan B." Reid's tone was sure, more sure of himself than he felt.
"And that would be?" Sarah's tone was skeptical.
"Get her to fall madly in love with me."
"HAH!" Sarah snorted with laughter, water dribbling from her nose. "You're going to get Holly- this Holly-" she floated a magazine in front of his face "-to like you. Right. She's not your type."
"She has two legs, two arms, two boobs and a vagina. How could she not be my type?" Sarah plopped the magazine into his lap. "Ink?" Reid questioned. A red nail tapped a small picture, just inside the front cover.
Up and Comers! A photo of Holly was studying him, glossy in print with her ink-stained fingers and her freckled eyes. Page 72: Holly Donnelly, seventeen-year-old native of Ipswich, Massachusetts. He flipped through the pages, licking his index finger and using it to turn them one at a time.
The daughter of high school art teachers, Holly Golightly Donnelly was left with little choice but to inherit the creativity and unique perspective-as well as the affinity for classic cinema- of both her parents and her iconic namesake… Blah… Blah… Blah… Sets herself apart from her fellow poets with ambiguous themes and tongue in cheek titles… Blah diddy blah blah blah…
Flipping to the page 72, Reid skimmed the page with quick eyes until he found what he was looking for. The first poem.
----
lullaby for the taken (big veins, dollface, they make it all better):
-maybe it was because no one ever called her
beautiful (james brown Blue eyes did- he was just oh so
e.n.t.r.a.n.c.e.d. by the curves of her mouth and the contradictions they splashed like her gin on his new carpet) but when he
says We'll be quiet she doesn't pull back
when his coldskinny
fingertips lift the skirt she bought with her
mother she doesn't pull back from the leather seams
on the leather couch in the anonymous basement that bite her back like
baby's teeth.
she can't help but wonder, really, whether it would have had teeth by now
(April 27th, 2006)-
When she whispers Call me murderer, i WANT it-
--
--
--
he doesn't shiver.
----
When asked if this poem is at all rooted in personal experience, Holly avoids the question and quickly launches into a speech about her desire to examine guilt in writing. However indefinite the exact meaning of her words may be, the feeling is clear.
----
what I like to call singular:
She wears her scars to cocktail parties like purple hearts for
Mr.
george
W.
it's really in the way that when he looks at her she wants to lie.
You've seen some unbelievable things, he says,
not giving a fuck, But I just like your eyes.
I'm Bette Davis (it's almost a whisper) can I call you Errol Flynn?
Bette, Bette, Bette, he says,
You should know better by now. I only have one name and it's much more fun
(i'll give you a hint, Bette: it's Asphyxiation)
they dance pretty as beauty and the beast in their ballroom, the hanged man and his
brand/new/fool.
----
Reid thought of the Fool, pictured the round card held between two of Holly's slim, battered fingertips.
Her final poem is a different style than the others, and when asked why, Holly laughs quietly. "It's a love poem."
----
american graffiti:
Fuck you and your Vegas legs, he tells her (his fingernails scrape them. he only wishes he could mean it.)
Fuck you and your raggedy ann fingertips- her voice is savage (they are just. like. mine.) fuck the ribbons on your wrists and those flutes you call fingers (they play hummingbird songs and from the back her ribs could be wings. she doesn't like the music they make with her, and she debates the consequence of forever from her rooftop.)
Your eyes are only open when your gums bleed. (he tells her it can't be denied)
You only own your convictions when they're shower steam fingerprints on the mirror. you only like things (me) when you can kiss them clean and say it never was.
You think you're Mary Tyler Moore in those pumps. You're little girl lost smoking cigarettes for a.d.d.i.c.t.i.o.n.
I know I'm not human but aren't I fun?
-and baby can't bring herself to just
say no.
----
"What crawled up her ass and died?" Reid crooked one eyebrow at Caleb, who only rolled his eyes.
"Hmm. Maybe it's called creativity, or talent. Whichever you prefer." Sarah sounded surprisingly annoyed.
"Is this that girl you kept talking about over summer?" Understanding dawned behind Reid's blue eyes. "Jesus. I can't escape her."
"Just ask her," Caleb put in. "Ask her for a favor, or offer to do something for her in return. If you tell her why you have this creepy desire to teach her to swim, she might actually do it for you." Reid grumbled incoherently under his breath, flopping sideways onto the carpet, propped up by his elbow.
"I think I know where she is." Reid cocked an eyebrow at Sarah, disbelieving.
"Oh yeah?" Reid's voice was flat. Sarah nodded.
"Yeah."
--
Fuck. Reid was wheezing up the fourth flight of stairs, onto the wing of the building that held the music rooms. Must quit smoking. Must start exercising. He paused at the top of the stairs, leaning against a wall as he caught his breath. He listened for music, but heard nothing from where he was. Swearing under his breath- if he'd come all the way up here for nothing- he walked silently down the hallway. Halfway down the corridor, Reid froze. He heard faintly-from behind the blue door to his left- hesitant, lilting chords being plucked on an acoustic guitar. They grew more firm, and he heard a voice he recognized as Holly's rise above the music.
She went over to his apartment, clutching her decision,
And he said, did you come here to tell me goodbye?
So she built a skyscraper of procrastination, and then she leaned out the 25th floor
Window of her reply
And she felt like an actress just reading her lines, when she
Finally said Yes, it's really goodbye this time
& far below was the blacktop & the tiny toy cars
& it all fell so fast
& it all fell so far
And she said:
You are a miracle but that is not all, you are also a stiff drink and I am on call.
You are a party and I am a school night, and I'm looking
For my door key
But you are my porch light.
And you'll never know, dear
Just how much I loved you
You'll probably think this was
Just my big excuse
But I stand committed
To a love that came before you
And the fact that I adore you
Is but one of my truths-
"What are the rest of them, then?" Holly nearly levitated out of her chair, catching the guitar just in time to save it from a harsh fall. She'd yelped, and her eyes were narrowed in fear-and fright- as they took in the blond boy who'd spoken after soundlessly entering the room.
"What?"
"You said it was just one of your truths. I want to know the rest."
"You'll have to ask the woman who wrote the song, then."
"You."
"No. Ani Difranco. And she's gay- so you might as well not bother." Reid stepped over a music stand and picked his way down the stairs to sit at the piano bench.
"What makes you think everything's about sex?" Reid managed, somehow, to say this with a straight face.
"Sorry Tyler, I thought I was talking to Reid."
"Hah. Hah." Reid picked the beginnings of "Heart and Soul" out on the piano using only one finger. Holly rose, and joined him at the grand piano. She placed one hand on the keys, and began the low, melodic second part of the duet. After several minutes, she stopped, and surveyed him instead.
"You know, I like you much better when you don't talk."
"Aw, Baby, that's sweet and all, but I have to ask you something." Holly raised an eyebrow. She wasn't going to make this easy for him. "Well, you see, I sort of need a favor…"