Wonderwall

Chapter 13

I sit in second period creative writing, unable to print a proper sentence on the lined paper before me.

My mind is clouded with regret and frustration. How could he say such harsh things to me. How could I have said such harsh things to him? I let my anger get the best of me. It took control of what I said and it all came out like word vomit. It's like I didn't think before I spoken.

"Audrey dear, you haven't touched the paper..." Mr Cooper says to me, wrinkles forming on his forehead. "Someone with such talent should be able to write with no problem. What's troubling you?" The old man asks me. I try not to look so disappointed but whenever I do, my facial expression just bounces back to the frown and worry lines.

"Nothing, just drama." I laugh like nothing's happening. Mr Coopers face light up in glee and he waddles back down to his desk to fetch something, returning moments later.

"I forgot to give you this!" He smiles. I flip the paper over examining the front.

"Poetry Gallery?" I laugh while reading the title. It carries on to talk about how a poetry off is going to be hosted in my schools auditorium next week.

"I really think you should take it into consideration." Mr Cooper grins.

"What? Being in the poetry off?" I gape. I don't think I could show off my poetry to my peers. No matter how good it is. My poems are for my personal enjoyment, not others.

"I think you have a good chance of winning." He pushes the poster closer to me, as if encouraging me. "At least think about it. Your talent deserves to be recognized!" He pounds his index against the blank paper. "It's like an art gallery, but your poetry is framed instead." He tells me.

I can't help the smile creeping up. Am I actually considering this? I decide to look through my poems to see if there is one suitable for the poetry off. I reach into my bag rummaging through.

My hand grabs onto the spine of the book, pulling it out. "The Great Gatsby." The title reads. Wrong book. I stuff my hand back in, feeling around for it but it's no use. All I'm feeling is my binder and a pack of gum.

I lift the bag onto my lap. Nervousness growing in my stomach. I empty my bag out onto the desk.

Binder
Novel
Phone
Pencil case
Gum

Nothing else is left in the bag. Where is my poetry book. I check to see if I've already taken it out but I haven't.

I attempt to calm myself down by retracing my steps. I've been at Harry's house so it wouldn't be at my house. It should be in my bag. What if it is at Harry's . Maybe Anne has read all my poems, including some of the ones written about her difficult son.

"Shit." I can't help but squeak out. No one bothers looking, everyone's head is down scribbling away on their papers.

My palms begin to sweat as I think about the worst scenarios. I'll have to start all over. There are plenty of poems in there. I can't just start over.

Finally the hell rings. I pull the out my phone to text Michelle or madison to see what they think I should do, when I notice the many calls and texts from Harry. My heart warms at the amount of voicemails he left. But in reality they all probably conclude him cursing me out.

I glance over the texts, saying:

You need to get over it.

C'mon Audrey you can't stay mad forever.

Text me back.

Why aren't you answering?

Pick up the damn phone.