Page 10 of Fade into You

“I’m so freaking excited, Bird.” She glances over at me in the passenger seat, beaming, and I’m about to thank her for being excited for my big debut, but then she continues, “I can’t wait for you to officially meet Dade. I can’t believe I never noticed him at school before. You’re gonna love him. I swear, you’re just going to love him.”

“Yeah,” I agree, but I can barely force a smile.

When she catches me grinding my teeth, she says, “Breathe. I’ll get you there on time.”

“I know. I’m just n-nervous. Thanks for letting me borrow your jacket, by the way.”

“Keep it. It looks really good on you, and besides, I’m never planning on fitting into that again, so… it’s all yours.”

“Gee thanks, Kay,” I tell her. She has insulted me by proxy while insulting herself more times over the last two days than in our entire decade of friendship.

“No, I mean it’s so much more your style than mine,” she attempts to course correct. Then sighs through the word“anyway” while speeding through a bleeding yellow light.

“It’s f-fine.”

It’s not, but I don’t want to argue. Not after being apart all summer. Not when I don’t really have a handle on what in the actual hell is going on with her. Not when neither Paige nor Brianne—literally my only other friends in the entire world—are returning my calls and I have no idea why. Not right before this huge thing I’m trying to do.

The first day of the workshop, we each had to write down a goal and a fear. My goal was to not be afraid. Of truth. Of myself. Maybe I was afraid of being afraid. Maybe I still am. We did readings in front of each other all summer. But this is the first time I’ll be putting myself out there in front of strangers—or even worse, there could be people there I know. I have to do it, though. It was our last assignment of the summer: Everyone had to make one concrete plan before leaving the workshop. A plan to read, to share, to submit,somethingsomewhere. The only rule was that it had to take you out of your comfort zone.

I could submit anonymous shit to our school’s literary magazine year after year. But to stand up onstage and read my own words in my own voice… That was the fear—the one tangible fear I could dare to admit, anyway—that I wrote on that photocopied sheet of paper on the first day of the workshop. Last week, my favorite professor, Sylvie Chen, sat there next to me in her office while I called Six Roots. It was the only local place I knew that ever did poetry readings of any kind. I asked—as awkwardly as humanly possible, I’m sure—if I could sign up. They told me about this open micnight, and when I hesitated, Sylvie shouted over me, “She’ll be there!”

It seemed far enough away. I thought I’d be prepared. But I’m not. The fear. It’s still here, sitting like a brick inside of me, weighing me down, making me sink deeper into myself.

“Hell-o-o? Earth to Birdie?”

“Wait. Sorry, what?”

“I said, are you gonna read the steamy kissing poem?”

“Are you kidding? Absolutely not. I can’t believe I even shared it withyou.”

“Hey! Why not? You always show me your poems.”

“Well, this one was… different. It was—it was private.”

“All right. Ouch.” There’s this tinge of sarcasm in her voice. I know it well. It’s how she sounds when she’s trying to pretend someone hasn’t hurt her feelings, except I’m not usually the one on the receiving end.

“That’s not what I—”

“Since when is something too private to share with your best friend?”

“No, that is not what I meant. I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m just nervous,” I tell her again. “Can you not be mad at me right now?”

“Chill. I’m just kidding.”

No, she’s not.

TheSIX ROOTSsign looms closer. As we pull up, a parking space right in front of the building has opened, magically waiting for us. The A-frame chalkboard sign outside the door reads, in thick pastel green letters:

OPEN MIC 2NITE! 7PM

SIGN UP W/THE DEADHEAD

IN THE PHONE BOOTH

My heart is in my throat, my pulse racing, my hands trembling as they clutch my bag, its contents bringing me only minimal comfort: notebook, favorite gel pen, my pack of Djarum Blacks I bought on campus, which only has three cigarettes left, and the recovered lip gloss.

“Kayla?” I reach over to touch her wrist, trying to stop her from unbuckling her seat belt. “Wait, I don’t think I can do this. I’m not r-ready. The poem’s not ready. I can’t. I s-seriously can’t do this. Do you hear me? I’m fucking stuttering again!”