Love, Olivia

Wallpaper Poetry

The air was hot, summer weather coming in full force, having everybody wishing for more time in the water instead of behind school desks. 

Riverside High was a pool of sweaty and irritable teenagers, teachers who couldn't care less about their jobs, and a singular overly excited counselor. The natural flow of things went like this: Olivia, the mean girl of the school, ruled the halls with her crew of girls who giggled too much and "accidentally" shoved people into lockers. The jocks were as a obnoxious as they are in the movies, the cheerleaders spread their legs a little too much outside of practice, and the quiet kids sunk to the bottom of the floors to fend for themselves. Often grouped together in yearbook class, the bottom feeders were close but knew each other well enough to know who was social suicide to hang out with and who wasn't.

Ophelia, the only lesbian who was out in the school, was often tormented for her sexuality and did her best to stay quiet and blend in. A part of the poetry club, the one place she felt somewhat comfortable to be herself, Ophelia would write every gay little feeling she felt, and if you knew her, you would know that every available piece of paper with poetry on it was glued to her bedroom walls. 

Her single father used to tell her to tape it, but eventually gave up and learned to admire her heartfelt wallpaper. He let her dye her hair when she was sad and trimmed it when the ends were dying and did his best to be supportive of Ophelia and secretly found it adorable that she called her poetry her "wallpaper poetry."

It's on one particularly hot day that we find Olivia, golden hair flowing, strutting down the hallway in a checkered two piece that definitely broke the dress code, surrounded by her perfectionist friends. William, one of the boys on the football team, whistled as she walked by.
Olivia flicked her hair over her shoulder and turned to walk backwards.

 She called out, "Dead men can't catcall," and winked at him. The boys hollered and she and her friends giggled. Ophelia, coming down the hall on her way to poetry club, kept close to the lockers and clutched her notebook to her chest.

 "Aw, look who it is," snickered one of Olivia's friends. 

"Whatcha reading, Lesbo?" Another asked.

"It's for poetry class," Ophelia said quietly.

"Let me see!" Olivia laughed and snatched the book from Ophelia's hands.

"Hey!" Ophelia lunged forward but Olivia's platform clad feet stepped out of her reach. Olivia flipped a couple pages and landed on the most recent entry.

"Is this what you were going to read for your little poetry club?" She smiled widely and it almost seemed genuine, except for the spark of chaos in her eyes.

"Don't read that!" Ophelia panicked, faced reddened and eyes wide.

 But Olivia was already on the first line, reading it aloud in a sing-song voice. "I love, I love, I love, I love, I love Olivia."

 "No way," the girls snickered.

 Olivia put a finger to her chest. "Me?"

 "Please," Ophelia pleaded but Olivia's eyes were already back on the page.

 "I live for you, I long for you, Olivia."

Ophelia bit her lip, humiliated as the girls tittered and motioned for Olivia to follow.

"C'mon, queen. Leave the girl crush behind."

 Olivia closed the book and held it out to Ophelia. "I'm sorry," she said quickly and with her head down, she rushed to her group and out of Ophelia's sight. Had Olivia just apologized? And did she blush? Ophelia shook the embarrassment from her shoulders as best she could and made her way to poetry club, sliding into her seat.

 Ms. Heather, the bubbly counselor, led the class as an elective and she came in behind Ophelia.

"Hello, all! I hope you are having a wonderfully warm and joyous day and if you aren't then I hope you find something to be joyful about! Now, shall we begin where we left off last week sharing poems? Ophelia, darling, I believe you were next up."

 "Um," she stuttered and brushed her hair behind her ears gently.

"C'mon, just sit on your desk. Get comfy and let's hear it," urged Ms. Heather.

 Ophelia cleared her throat and slid out of her seat and onto her desk, one foot in her seat and the other dangling. She flipped through a couple pages, ignoring the one about Olivia. Clearing her throat she said, "This one is called Margo. I wrote it last week. There's some light language, Ms. Heather."

"As long as it's nothing serious," Ms. Heather said and gestured for Ophelia to begin. She took a breath, and began to read.

"I will give you the sun

I will hold the whole universe in my
tiny white hands and gift it to you
In hopes that it is enough if I am not

I will roll the windows down and feel the wind

I will talk about sunsets and collarbones

I will steal you champagne and pour you a glass
Just in case being drunk off me isn't enough

I will change my hair color without your permission and expect you to like it

I will cry over sad books and pretty things
And that should explain why I cry over you when you've done nothing to hurt me

I'm a backseat bitch with suicidal tendencies

Like a mystery novel
I will confuse the shit out of you
But in the end

I'm worth it."

"Ophelia, love," gasped Ms. Heather. "That was truly beautiful. I really love that one. Snap, everybody!" 

The other eight students snapped their fingers and a girl named Veila leaned over to Ophelia and whispered, "I'm not snapping because she said to but because I really like it."

Ophelia smiled and slipped back into her seat. "Thank you," she whispered back.

The teacher then clapped her hands together. "Alright! Thank you for that lovely reading. Owen! I believe you're next."

 The class continued on, poems that flowed and ones that paused were shared and fingers were snapped, but nobody noticed the head of golden hair that disappeared from the doorway once Ophelia was finished with her poem.