The Search

Chapter 13

A poem. A poem should help get back in Eli's favor. At least, I hope.

I write furiously as if these words are my life. As if these words are what keep me living. When I look at my poem, it's the worst poem ever written. I have never seen a poem this terrible before.

I rip the poem to shreds and throw it in the air like confetti. When I look in the mirror, it looks ridiculous. I'm scowling and little pieces of white paper are stuck in my hair. I cannot help but laugh. Then, inspiration hits me like lightning.

I quickly get another piece of  paper and write like a mad man. I put it neatly on the coffee table before wrapping myself in a blanket and collapse on the couch.

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My mother is standing over me when I wake up, poem in her hand. "Meet me in the study in twenty minutes," is all she says before walking out.

I rush to get ready and put my hair in the style my mother always liked. I'm going to need as many brownie points as possible.

When I get to the door of the study, I knock hesitantly.

My mother answers almost instantaneously. "Come in and lock the door behind you."

I do as told.

"Aira Marie Gibson! I cannot believe you found love and did not tell me!" she scolds.

What?! I cannot believe that's all she has to say after she found out I really liked the son of my father's worst enemy and that he is engaged.

"First," I state. "That's all you have to say about this? Second, who said I am in love?"

My mother draws in  a deep breath and says, "As long as my daughter is happy I could not care less who she is in love with, no matter what the circumstances maybe. Secondly, it is quite obvious that you are in love. You can see it in your poem and in your eyes."

"Thank you Mom, and I am not in love," I say.

My mother laughs a little and rolls her eyes. "I just have to ask you one thing, Aira."

"What is it?" I ask.

"What did you do?" she questions. "One does not just randomly write a poem for their lover and since you are my scheming daughter, what did you do?"

I hesitate. "Well, I might of told him that it was best if we didn't talk anymore." I explain feebly. I cannot even convince myself.

"That," my mother tells me. "Was quite a knuckle headed move. And I'm guessing that this poem is a way to try and make it better."

"Yes," I say. "It's my last hope."

"Well then," she pushes the poem toward. "Go make it all better. Don't delay!"

I enthusiastically take the piece of paper. "Thanks, and Eli and I are not lovers," I say.

My mother giggles while saying, "Keep telling yourself that."