One Last Thing ✅

forty-three things

When the bell rings, I take my time gathering my things. Abbott leaves without saying anything to me, and again I regret being so abrupt with him. The room clears out, and I cautiously approach Mr. White's desk.

"You wanted to speak with me?" I ask.

He nods and ushers me to a desk in the front row, then sits in the one next to me. He jabs a finger at the black and white composition notebook beneath my other books. "So you're a writer?"

My brow wrinkles.

I've never really considered myself a writer. I hate writing things in English class, papers analyzing characters or themes. And I've never really written stories. That's what springs into my head when I think of a writer, not someone who jots down phrases here and there just to get the junk out of her head.

"Uh. Not really."

"Well, then what's this?" Mr. White gently retrieves the notebook. "May I?"

I'm torn.

It feels weird to be showing my poems to a teacher, ones that explore my deepest emotions and insecurities. But there's a tiny part of me that wants him to look, that longs to know what he thinks of them. After all, he is an English teacher. Probably he'll think they're garbage, but there's this tiny little grain of hope that he'll see something promising in them.

"Okay," I say timidly.

He opens up to the first page, reads, nods. Flips to another and repeats the same process. After he's read about five of them, he looks up and smiles at me. "Lil," he says. "You're a poet. That's wonderful."

Embarrassed, I look away. "They're just my thoughts."

"Exactly," Mr. White says. "So why are you so dismissive of them?"

I shrug. "I don't know."

Mr. White clears his throat. "Look, I know you've been through hell this past week, Liliana. I know. But what you have here... this is special. This is what's going to get you through this. What's going to save you." He sets the notebook carefully in front of me. "Do you understand?"

It's the tone of his voice that gets me, I think. Like he actually cares about me and my stupid notebook and lame poems. Like they mean something. Sometimes just the way someone says something can set me off. I try to hold it back, but my eyes well up with tears.

"Everything is just so... messed up right now," I say, sniffling.

"I know," Mr. White says, standing, grabbing a box of tissues. He sets them in front of me, and I take one, blow my nose, crumple it in my fist.

"It's just, like... chaos."

Mr. White cocks his head to the side. "Well, not to get all philosophical on you, but that's what life is, isn't it? Chaos. And we're left to try to decipher the significance of all this stuff that happens to us. That's what art is for, you know. Art is seeking order in chaos, meaning where there seems not to be any." He pauses dreamily. "It's the pursuit of God."

I am staring at him, turning over these words, when a couple of girls walk in. Taking a couple more wads of Kleenex, I clean myself up the best I can and smile and Mr. White. "Thanks for... this."

He returns the box of Kleenex to his desk. "Of course. And if you ever want some feedback on your poems, come by sometime after school. I think you've really got something there."

"Okay," I say, though I don't think I'll ever have the nerve to follow through on his offer. "Have a good one." As I walk out of the room, the girls stare at me. One whispers something to the other.

I ignore them.