Poemsia Read online

  His eyes twinkled when he saw me.

  “There’s the birthday girl! What do you think?”

  We stood back to admire his handiwork.

  I snorted.

  “I had it specially made up.”

  “Must have cost a fortune!” I felt guilty. Wolf Books had been going through some tough times, and even though Pop kept a brave face, I knew how much strain he must be under.

  “I have a fund for purchases like this.”

  “You know my birthday’s not until next week.”

  He looked at me warmly, shaking his head. “Can’t believe my girl’s nineteen. Time sure does fly.”

  He was right. My mind drifted back to a birthday years ago when I stood in this exact spot. I remembered it like yesterday. Jess was holding a cardboard box out to me, with Pop and Nan grinning behind her. Inside, I found a tiny Snowshoe kitten mewing up at me, a dark patch stretched across his eyes like a mask. “You should name him Zorro,” Jess had suggested, and the name stuck. For as long as I could remember, I had begged for a kitten, and it was one of the happiest moments of my life. Just as I was reminiscing about Zorro, I felt a soft pressure at the base of my ankle, and I looked down to see him rubbing his head against me. I bent down and picked him up.

  “Nan would have loved the banner, Pop.”

  A sad look fell across his face. It was my first birthday without her, and I knew it must be on his mind, too. Pop and Nan met and fell in love when they were teenagers. Up until her passing, they had barely spent a day apart. For him, the loss was huge, and it took a toll on his health. Pop was such a strong, capable person— it frightened me to see him age almost overnight. It took a lot of convincing, but finally he agreed to a checkup, and tests showed that his heart wasn’t exactly up to scratch. The doctor warned him to slow down, but if you knew what Pop was like, that was easier said than done. Today, he looked almost frail, and I was worried about him climbing up stepladders. “Jess would have helped you put up the sign, Pop.”

  He waved me off. “I’m not an invalid. Besides,” he shot me a mysterious smile, “Jess is busy working on something else.”

  “So now, why don’t you go upstairs and finish that book you’re reading? I’ll bring up a cup of tea for you.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I know what you’re doing.”

  “Doctor’s orders,” I grinned.

  “Well, a new box of books came in today, and I was just about to—”

  “Deny your one and only granddaughter the joy of sorting through old books?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “OK, you win. It came via FedEx this morning, and it’s over by the counter. It was a blind bid, but there could be something valuable there—you never know. So this is a white-glove operation.”

  “Noted,” I said with a firm nod. “Leave it to me, Pop.”

  After I left Pop settled into his favorite armchair with a mug of Earl Grey, I raced downstairs. The box was sitting on the floor, and I dived straight in. This was my favorite thing about working in a bookstore. Every time we got a new shipment, it was like Christmas. My eyes lit up when finally I got it open. It was filled with old leather-bound books, with intricate gold lettering on the covers, authored by obscure poets. What a treasure trove! I sat cross-legged on the floor and eagerly flicked through them while Zorro jumped into the box and curled up into a ball. “Don’t get too comfortable, buddy,” I warned.

  I’d had a long-standing love affair with poetry. When Pop had wanted to replace the poetry nook with travel books, I made an impassioned plea to keep it. After days of my cajoling and foot stamping and a short-lived hunger strike, he finally agreed to keep the poetry section, but only so long as I promised to look after it. Since then, it’s been my own little corner of the world. I liked to imagine the poets themselves when I arranged their books on the shelf. I pictured Óndra Lysohorsky in long, rambling conversations with Rumi about sundials and flowers. Dorothy Parker would talk to Emily Dickinson about rhyming meters and cats. We became the last bookshop in Sydney with a poetry section. It seemed inevitable that this most beautiful form of our language was dying, but then Mena Rhodes wrote her book and turned it all around. Soon, other aspiring poets followed her lead, and poetry grew into a trend no one saw coming. At first, the establishment ignored it, chalking it up to a fad. But as book sales broke into seven figures, they dubbed the group the pop poets, legitimizing the movement. After Mena Rhodes, there came Rita Singh, Samira Ahmadi, K.C. Gray, and Sara Woo. Each had amassed a global social media following, and their signing events were like rock concerts, with crowds that would put some pop idols to shame. Soon, the poets were mixing with musicians, models, and movie stars. Their Instagram feeds became a constant parade of flashy hotels, rooftop parties, paparazzi, and exotic island holidays.

  I took out the newly arrived books one by one, trying my best not to disturb Zorro, who was now glaring at me, tail twitching in the air. I gave his head a scratch, and he flipped onto his back, stretching his paws out. Then a book caught my eye, and I reached for it.

  The book looked ancient, like it had been made by hand. The cover edges were worn, the pages yellow and brittle. It was thick and heavy, bound in black cloth, with a single word embossed onto the cover. I ran my fingers over it, and a shiver went down my spine.

  “Poemsia,” I whispered.

  I turned its pages carefully, reading verse after verse, each one lovelier than the next. I stopped on a page and sucked in a breath. Before me was a poem so arresting I couldn’t help but read it over and over.

  The poem was a love letter to a literary character. And it made me think of my first fictional crush and how sad I’d felt at the close of the final chapter when the time came to say goodbye. Nostalgic and bittersweet—it was possibly the most beautiful poem I had ever read. I snapped a picture and sent it to Jess.

  She called me right away. “That’s gorgeous, Vare! Your best one yet.”

  “I didn’t write it, silly.”

  “Oh, it looks like something you would write.”

  “I wish! I found it in a really old poetry book.”

  “What’s the name of the book?”

  “Poemsia,” I said.

  “Weird. I got goose bumps when you said that.”

  “Poemsia?”

  “The word sounds so familiar. Like I heard it in a dream.”

  I felt a tiny fluttering in my chest like anticipation—although for what I wasn’t sure.

  The bell clanged loudly, and I snapped to my feet. “Jess, I’ve got to go. A guy just walked in.”

  “Is he cute?”

  I gave him a glance. Probably in his early twenties, jeans, gray sweater, tall, and clean-shaven. Not bad.

  “Maybe. I’ll call you back.” I hung up.

  He sauntered to the counter and said, “Hey.” Up close, he not only was pleasant to look at but smelled great, too. Like soap and sandalwood. His dark, rumpled hair fell against his forehead in waves. And I couldn’t help but notice his eyes. Green—and not a light green, or a gray-green, or a green bordering on blue. Definitively green, like the color of envy.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “I’m looking for an ultra-rare book. Chances are you won’t have it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Door into the Dark, by Seamus Heaney.”

  “Poetry!” I could hardly contain my delight.

  His eyes widened. “So you do have the book?”

  I sighed. “Yes and no.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Hold on a second.” I turned and walked over to the cabinet where Pop kept his treasured books. Among them was a first edition of Door into the Dark signed by the author. I went back to the counter and handed it to him. He looked radiant, like he couldn’t believe his luck. He turned the page and whistled.

  “It’s autogra
phed and—holy shit, there’s even an inscription.”

  “My granddad found it at a flea market in Brussels. Can you believe it?”

  He shook his head. Then his expression changed from one of utter delight to disappointment.

  “It’s a first edition,” he said flatly. “No way can I afford this.”

  “Well, that’s the thing—it’s not for sale.”

  “Fantastic,” he sighed. “I’ve gone to every store in town, and I can’t find a copy.”

  “I’m sure you can get one online.”

  “Yeah, but shipping takes forever, and I’m in a hurry. My friends and I have this tradition where we try to make a big deal out of each other’s birthdays. I don’t know how it started, and to be honest, it is getting out of control. For my last birthday, they organized a party at my parents’ house. They took me out into the yard, and there was a donkey standing there.”

  “What the hell?”

  “Exactly. Then they blindfolded me, spun me around, and shoved a paper tail into my hand. There were bits of Velcro attached to it, and I literally had to pin the tail on the donkey.”

  “How did that go?”

  “Terrible! It’s a lot harder than you’d imagine. I almost ended up in the pool. But I have to admit it was fun. The only thing is . . . how do you top that? How do you top a donkey in your backyard?”

  “No idea,” I said, wondering what all this had to do with Seamus Heaney’s book.

  “Anyway, our friend Penelope’s birthday is coming up, and we had the idea to redecorate her studio apartment as a surprise. She’s turning twenty-two, and she’s a huge fan of black. So we’re going to find twenty-two items that are black. So far, we have a lamp, a bedspread, a rug, umm . . . a notepad, a photo frame . . .” He counted each item off on his fingers.

  “OK, dude, I get the picture. But what does this have to do with Door into the Dark?”

  “It just happens to be Pen’s favorite book, and I wanted to scan in some pages and make a collage to hang on her wall.”

  “That’s a nice idea, and personally, I’d rather have my place redecorated than get a donkey in my backyard.”

  He sighed. “The donkey was great, but between you and me, I would have preferred something modest, like an iTunes gift card and my friends singing around a cake. At this point, we’re just in competition to outdo each other.”

  I laughed. It was the opposite with me and Jess. We downplayed our birthdays. Usually, we did the same old thing, and I’d treat myself to something special like two shots of espresso in my mocha instead of one.

  “You know, it just so happens my birthday is next week.” I pointed at the banner Pop had strung up earlier.

  “Cute! I’m guessing you’re Verity?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Any plans for the big day?”

  “Not really, and anyhow, I don’t think anything could top the year I got my cat, Zorro.” On cue, he jumped up onto the counter and regarded the guy with a suspicious glare.

  “Is this him?” The guy held his hand out in a loose fist, and Zorro rubbed his head against it. That was weird because my cat usually has trust issues.

  I nodded.

  “Hey, little guy,” he said to my cat. “My name’s Sebastian, but you can call me Sash.”

  Zorro let out a half meow and rolled onto his side, purring.

  And just like that, this guy Sash had won me over.

  “Look, I can see you’re under a lot of stress, so I’ll tell you what. I’ll lend you the book, but you have to bring it back before Pop—my granddad—notices it’s missing. So I’ll need your phone number and some ID so I can hunt you down if you don’t show up.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “And I will hunt you down.”

  “Deal!” he said, enthusiastically. “I’ll guard it with my life.”

  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He put his driver’s license on the counter, and I took a snap of it.

  “OK, now pass me your phone, and I’ll pop my number in,” he said when I was done.

  I handed my phone to him, and he punched in his number. I smiled when I saw he had put it under “Sash book guy.”

  I told him, “This is a one-off, OK? We’re not running a library here.”

  “Gotcha! Thanks, Verity, and happy birthday for next week.”

  “Good luck with your decorating.”

  As soon as he left, I remembered the promise I had made to the girl at the park. It had been ages since I’d logged on to Instagram, and the only two people I followed were Mena Rhodes and Jess.

  On my feed appeared a picture of Mena posing with her French bulldog named French Fry, captioned with #loveofmylife #furbabyforever and a string of heart emojis. I smiled at French Fry’s goofy expression. With an Instagram page boasting thousands of adoring fans, the cute puppy was a celebrity himself.

  I checked my notifications and found a new follower named Mallory. I recognized her as the schoolgirl from the park and followed her back. Then I posted half a dozen of my best poems. It looked kind of bare, so I put up a snap of Zorro and that poem I found in Poemsia, tagging it with #poemsia, #inspo, and #notmine.

  I remembered to call Jess. “I’ve put some stuff on Instagram,” I said when she answered.

  “Oh, cool, let me check it out.” There was a pause. “Wow, you’ve been busy!”

  “And guess what? The schoolgirl from the park just liked a bunch of my poems!”

  “I’m super proud of you, Vare! I’ve been trying to get you to post your work for ages.”

  “I know, and you were right. But it’s so scary having my poetry out there. What if everyone hates it?”

  “There’s already someone who doesn’t.” Jess was referring to Mallory.

  “I guess. I just feel so . . . exposed. What if someone comes along and steals my work?”

  “And what if they do? You’ll just keep writing better stuff.”

  “Hey, you’re totally right Jess!”

  “Of course, I am,” she chirped. “By the way—what were we talking about earlier?”

  “Poemsia—the book I found. And then the cute guy walked in.”

  “So he was cute, huh?”

  “Well, he wasn’t bad looking.” I thought about his emerald-green eyes. They were ridiculously pretty. Admittedly, so was the rest of him.

  “Did you get his number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Way to go, girlfriend!” She sounded impressed.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking, Jess.” I gave her a brief summary, starting from the elaborate birthday surprises organized with his friends to him leaving with Pop’s prized copy of Door into the Dark.

  “So you have a snap of his photo ID. Hmm.”

  “Forget it, Jess; I’m not sending it to you.”

  “Hey, do you think this could be the start of something?”

  “Please. We only spoke for, like, two minutes.”

  “There’s such a thing as love at first sight, you know. Literally millions of cases recorded. And it’s been ages since you’ve even looked twice at a guy.”

  Jess was such a romantic. Once she organized a blind date for me and her cousin Ed, and he spent the entire time bombarding me with questions about whom she liked, where she went, and what she ate. It felt more like an interrogation than a date. “I think your cousin’s in love with you,” I told her afterward. To her horror, I had added, “And I’m pretty sure he’s reading your diary.”

  “It’s not like your love life is action-packed, either,” I pointed out.

  “Exactly, and if a couple of cuties like us are still single, that proves there’s a shortage of men.”

  “You’ve got a point,” I admitted. “But how do I know he’s single?”

  She countered with, “How do you know he’s not?”

/>   Three

  I woke up on the morning of my birthday to see Pop at my bedside cradling a muffin with a candle stuck in it. “Happy birthday to you,” he sang in his low, gravelly voice.

  “Thanks, Pop,” I smiled, sitting up to blow out the candle.

  That was when I noticed the package wrapped in red paper on my bedside table.

  “For me?”

  “Go ahead and open it.”

  I tore through the wrapping and gasped. It was a hardcover of Cult of Two, the book that had rocketed Mena Rhodes to fame. Her autograph was on the title page, scrawled in black ink. I ran my fingers over her signature and felt a thrill knowing Mena had actually held this book in her hands. “Where did you get this?”

  “I had to pull a few strings.”

  “What kind?”

  “The eBay kind,” he winked.

  I laughed. “This definitely is going into the cabinet.”

  “No. This one’s for you to enjoy.” He tapped the top of my bedside table. “You keep it right here.”

  Later I met Jess at Last Chance, our regular café and the pride and joy of Jonesy, a twenty-something hipster with red retro-styled hair. He was a glass-full kind of guy—eternally optimistic—even though things didn’t go his way much. That included dates from hell, frequent and unexplainable dents in his car, and his shady landlord who kept upping the rent whenever he pleased, which meant Jonesy was always on the brink of going out of business. If that were to happen, we would be just as devastated as Jonesy. And we wouldn’t be alone. Jonesy was a most important part of our community. In the few short years Last Chance had been operating, it truly had become our second home. There were the rainbow macarons, the chaotic furniture with not a single matching table or chair, and the large magnetic wall dubbed the Altar. It was where Jonesy proudly displayed his amazing collection of fridge magnets. Over the years, his loyal customers kept adding magnets they found on their travels. It was no surprise Jonesy inspired such thoughtfulness since he was such a thoughtful guy himself—always making a point to remember someone’s allergies or how they liked their coffee and eggs. He was particularly fond of Jess and me, often keeping our favorite table over by the window free for us.