YAFF MUSE: The Trouble with Poetry

YAFF Muse is a weekly blog series featuring some YA Fiction Fanatics members. In this series, we'll post original short stories created from an image meant to inspire our Muse. Hope you enjoy! And don't forget to check out the other YAFFers participating in this series (links below).

Photo credit: earl35 from Morguefile.com

Sitting at my desk, I grip my head. The kickback of a stolen bottle of liquid courage pounds around like an angry upstairs neighbor as I remember last night. The beat of my heart quickens and I open my laptop. Please say I didn’t do what I think I did. Please.

Stasha groans, her perfect manicured toes poking out from beneath the covers. Too bad she’s got vomit in her hair.

“Stash. Hey. Wake up.”

She rubs her eyes then opens one. “It’s too early. Back to sleep.”

The lazy laptop flickers. “It’s after… Oh my God.”

She bounds out of bed and runs up, her grip on the chair shaking me. “Holy shit, Jayne.”

In the blinding light of the screen is the proof. I, Jayne Arbor, posted a poem on Rhys – Prince of Stampfer High – Adler’s Facebook page. And it’s not even good poetry.

Stasha giggles. “Jay, you are such a turbo-nerd.”

“I’m deleting it. Besides, no one saw it, right?”

“There’s like two-hundred comments already.”

The arrow hovers over the “x” in the corner.

***

I let the music drown Mom’s voice out. It’s only five, dinner can wait. But soon, her heavy footfalls stop outside my door. “Jayne. I’ve been calling you. There’s a Mr. Adler on the phone for you.”

I knew I should’ve deleted it. Wasn’t it bad enough that for the past week the entire school chanted, ‘In a hot air balloon, I’ll have you undressed soon’? Now, Mr. Adler, Rhys’ dad wants to talk to me.

Mom’s brows rise into near perfect arrows above her eyes. “Dinner soon, Jayne. Don’t be too long.”

I grab the phone from her. “Thanks Mom.”

She lingers, but I shut the door.

“Hello?”

The line is dead.

“Hello?”

Still nothing.

“I’m hanging up.”

“Wait.”

My heart jumps into my throat. It’s not Rhys’ dad. “If you’re calling to harass me, don’t waist your breath.”

“I’m not, I swear.”

“Then what?” Acid creeps into my tone.

“I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch with me on Saturday.”

No freakin’ way.

“Come off it. I’ve seen the movies. This is a trick.”

“It’s not.”

***

He’s late.

I sit at my desk, forced into a skirt and make-up by Stasha. With a sigh I flick on my laptop. If he’s going to stand me up, I’m gonna post something real nasty on his page. We’ll see who laughs then.

I go right to Facebook and to my surprise, there is a post from Rhys.

I’ve had a crush on you
Since we’ve been in grade schoo’
I know I’m late
For our important date
But grab your keys
And I’ll show you something no one else sees
Drive out to Millers’ Field
Because your interest is what I hope to yield

And I thought my poetry was bad.

“Dad? Can I have the car keys?” I ask, out of breath, as I bolt downstairs.

“Sure sugar-pie. I thought you had a date?”

“I did, er, I do. I’m going to meet him instead.” Please don’t be a hoax.

I grab the keys from the basket and head outside and into the car. The Subaru purrs, beneath the calming sounds of The Decemberists, as I head out to Millers’ Field.

A brightly colored hot air balloon sits at the center of a sea of green. Rhys stands by the basket, waiting.

I rush to his side. “I thought you were tricking me.”

He laughs, his blue eyes sparkle in the afternoon light. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“I almost didn’t.”

The wind kicks up his black hair whipping it around his face. He grabs my hand as the pilot opens the basket. We step on and he turns to me, “Thanks for the poem.”

“If you think I’m undressing you here or anywhere, you’re mistaken.”

His lips curve into a wicked smile. “Enjoy the view, Jayne.” He wraps his arms around me and I turn, pressing my back against his chest as we watch the town slip away beneath us.
(c) 2011, MB
Don't forget to check out my fellow YAFFer's stories based on the same photo:
Joey Nichols
Traci Kenworth