Poemsia Read online

  Jess went to grab the latest issue of Who from a pile of magazines Jonesy kept by the counter. We loved our ritual of flipping through and discussing the lives of the rich and famous.

  “Karla Swann’s on the cover again—I just adore her!” Jess gushed, pushing the magazine across the table toward me.

  Karla Swann was the undisputed voice of our generation. Years back, she shot to fame when her hilarious body-positive videos went viral. Since then, she’s ruled Twitter with her fresh, witty commentary on everything from current affairs to feminism and climate change. She was dating K-pop sensation Henrietta Blue, and not a week went by that the two weren’t photographed at glamorous events like the Met Gala or doing regular everyday things like picking up their morning coffees. I flipped through the magazine to pictures of the couple shopping at the exclusive LA boutique Money for Jam.

  “Oh my God! How cute are they?” I said, holding up the magazine to Jess.

  She sighed. “Tell me about it. Look at the expression on the shop assistant’s face.”

  “You can tell she’s a fangirl,” I said, scanning the article. “According to her, they were just pulling clothes off the rack and taking them straight to the counter.”

  “They didn’t even try them on?” Jess said, incredulous.

  “Jess, they didn’t even look at the price tags!”

  “Wow, I heard a single T-shirt in Money for Jam can cost, like, hundreds. Imagine being that rich.”

  “I wish,” I sighed. I thought about my wardrobe, which consisted mainly of hand-me-downs from Jess and things I picked up from eBay or op shops. With the mounting cost of Pop’s heart medication and other bills, there was hardly money to spare for luxuries like designer clothing.

  “Karla really does have it all, doesn’t she?” said Jess.

  “Imagine being flown around the world to speak on issues you’re passionate about.”

  “Or walking into a store with the knowledge you can buy literally anything you want. That’s like having a superpower.”

  “And on top of all that, being in a cute relationship that the entire Internet obsesses over.”

  “Speaking of cute relationships, have you heard from that guy Sash?” Jess asked.

  “He texted to let me know he dropped by, but he saw Pop manning the store and was too afraid to go in.”

  “Ha ha, who could blame him?”

  “But says he’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “Any other developments?”

  “Jess, I’d practically forgotten he existed until you brought him up.”

  “Please, Vare—yesterday, you spent over ten minutes describing his eyes.”

  “He does have nice eyes, though. Sparkly.”

  “How sparkly?”

  “Sparkly like a wine glass in a dishwashing liquid commercial, like teeth in a toothpaste advertisement, like a pair of cubic zirconia earrings in an infomercial, sparkly like—” I stopped and narrowed my eyes at her. “Just because I think his eyes are sparkly doesn’t mean I’m hot for him.”

  “What do you think of Jonesy’s eyes?”

  “Puppyish.”

  “What color are they?”

  For the life of me, I couldn’t remember. Luckily, Jonesy chose that moment to appear with our coffees. I sneaked a quick look at him, then smirked at Jess. “Brown.”

  She gave my ankle a swift kick under the table.

  “Girls,” he said, setting down our coffees, “still playing footsie at your age?”

  “Is it turning you on, Jonesy?” Jess said in a low, sultry voice, and he blushed a deep red.

  “This is for you, birthday girl,” he said, ignoring Jess. He put down a plate of his famous macarons.

  “Aw, that’s sweet of you,” I cooed, fluttering my lashes at him.

  “No—no worries,” he stumbled and disappeared before we could give him any more grief.

  We bit into our macarons, sighing with pleasure. Jess did a little shimmy and pointed at me. “Birthday gal, birthday gal,” she sang tunelessly, and I joined in. “Birthday gal . . . birthday gal . . .”

  The yuppie guy sitting at the next table cast a disapproving glance at us, and we clamped our hands over our mouths, laughter bubbling up behind them.

  I made a grab for the last macaron, but Jess whipped it away, popping it straight into her mouth.

  “But it’s my birthday!” I protested.

  “Vare, I love you to death, and I would give you my kidney if I had to. But please keep your hands away from my food.”

  I rolled my eyes. Jess was the most generous person I knew, except when it came to food. There were times she’d almost knocked me over in her hurry to snatch the last slice of pizza.

  “Your present!” she announced, ruffling around in her bag and pulling out a book-shaped package. “Open it!”

  I tore off the wrapping. When the book was in my hands, I did a double take. “What the hell . . . ?” I said slowly. I looked up at Jess. “That’s my name on the cover.”

  “It’s a book of your poetry!”

  I frowned. “But how did you do this?”

  “Well, I designed the cover, and my professor helped me put it together using InDesign.”

  I traced my fingers over the bold sans serif font. It looked so slick and professional, and I was simply in awe of my best friend’s talent. “This is amazing, Jess! Like, seriously, you could enter this into a design competition.”

  “My professor said as much,” Jess smiled proudly. “Oh, by the way, I’ve uploaded it onto Amazon CreateSpace, too!”

  “Oh my God,” I breathed. “That’s how—”

  “Mena got started—I know.”

  When Mena wrote her first book, there wasn’t a publisher who would even look at an emerging poet. Growing more and more frustrated, she decided to go the self-publishing route, and it was only when her book started making best-seller lists that she was picked up.

  I flipped through the pages in wonder, seeing my words reflected back at me. “It looks just like a real book!”

  “That’s because it is a real book. I got you an ISBN, too, which means it’s official. And it’s even listed on Amazon. You can buy it and everything. I have a box of them in my car.”

  “Seriously? You can buy the actual book?”

  Jess grinned. “Go to Amazon and search for your name.”

  I did it, and my jaw dropped. My book was there, on Amazon, with a brief and somewhat inflated description of me. I shook my head. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Why not, Vare? I’ve always believed in you.”

  Tears filled my eyes. “Jess—”

  “C’mon, I want to show you something.” Jess put a ten on the table and stood up.

  She grabbed my arm. “Follow me.”

  She led me across the street to Berkelouw Books and took me straight to the new arrivals.

  “Give me your book,” she demanded, and I handed it to her. She walked right up to a shelf and placed it next to Mena’s book. Then she stood back and grinned at me. “Imagine, Vare, your book on the shelf next to Mena’s.”

  “Oh my God,” I whispered, my voice heavy with emotion. “I had never realized how badly I want this.”

  “And you know what? You’re going to make it happen.”

  I shook my head. I was so touched by what she had done for me—seeing my most cherished dream in front of my very eyes. “I don’t know what to say . . . you’re the best friend a girl could have.”

  “Oh, don’t get all sentimental. Just promise me you’ll do it, OK?” She gestured at the shelf.

  “I promise,” I said. Seeing my book next to Mena’s gave me a burst of determination unlike anything I’d ever felt. That powerful vision before me was a reminder of what was possible if only I believed in myself.

  “You swear you�
�ll get your book on that shelf someday—that you will do whatever it takes?” Jess pressed.

  I reached out and curled my little finger around hers. “Pinky swear.”

  The next day, I was reorganizing the poetry section when the bell clanged. I poked my head around to see Sash walk through the door.

  “How did it go?” I asked, as he handed back the book I’d loaned him.

  “Awesome. Pen was over the moon. She loved the collage best, which was possible only because of you. I owe you one.”

  I went behind the counter and put Seamus Heaney back in his rightful place.

  “Do you think you managed to top the donkey?”

  “No doubt in my mind. Want to see pictures?” He took his phone out and handed it to me.

  “Whoa,” I said, as I scrolled through the photos. It looked like a scene from a home makeover show. A studio apartment was transformed into a gothic wonderland. I focused on a close-up of the collage, and my eyes widened. Poems by Seamus Heaney marched like ants across a monochromatic landscape. Layers of paper were cut like waves between the lines of words to form an intricate collage.

  “Are you or your friends interior designers?” I asked.

  “Not exactly. I studied architecture, but I’m not doing much with my degree.”

  “The collage is awesome. I was expecting a few pages from the book comped together, but what you’ve done is a work of art.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Are you taking orders? I want one!”

  “No, but I can make you one, if you’d like.”

  “Are you serious?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Like I said, I owe you one.”

  “Well, in that case, I’ll take you up on your offer.”

  “Do you have a favorite book or color?”

  I thought for a minute. “I like green. As for the book, why don’t you surprise me?”

  “OK, sounds like a plan. After this we’re even steven —deal?”

  I stuck my hand out. “Let’s shake on it.”

  Later that week, Jess helped me set up a little display for my books using an old pamphlet holder. We put it on the front counter by the cash register. Every time the bell sounded, I looked up hopefully, thinking it could be my first sale. But by the end of the week, I still hadn’t sold a single copy. On the flip side, my newly opened Instagram account had close to twenty followers, mainly because Mallory had shared my work with her friends.

  I just had the idea to put up a link to my Amazon page when I was interrupted by the bell. I looked up to see Jess walking in with a board tucked under her arm. “Guess what I made in print class today?” I gave her a questioning look.

  “Ta-da!” she declared, holding it up for me. Printed on the board in a bold cursive font were the words “Poetry in the Park.” “Remember that day we were in the park and I bet you five bucks that anyone there would love your poetry?”

  I knew exactly where she was going with this, and I wanted to put a stop to it then and there. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “I thought we could set up a table and put your books out, and you could maybe read some of your poetry—”

  “Are you crazy? I’d rather die.”

  “Mum even agreed to lend us her gold microphone.”

  I stopped. “Are you serious?” I asked in a hushed voice.

  Mei Lyn was, to put it mildly, a karaoke enthusiast. When Jess and I were kids, we’d watch her croon away into the night while we jumped up and down, angling for our turn. Mei Lyn would clutch the microphone tighter in one hand, batting us away with the other, never once missing a beat.

  “Yes. I had to swap her a whole week’s dish duty to get her to agree.”

  “That’s sweet of you, Jess, and I am so, so grateful for your sacrifice. Too bad it was all for nothing because the answer is still no.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “But you’ve got to start somewhere!”

  “I got another follower on Instagram today— we’ve moved into double digits now. When will you ever be happy?”

  “Vare, remember that day in Berkelouw when you promised you were going to get your book on the shelf next to Mena’s? That you would do whatever it takes?”

  “Yes, but I don’t understand how reciting my poetry to a bunch of strangers is going to help.”

  “It’s part of putting yourself out there—right? You just never know who could be in the audience. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen?”

  “That’s my point. For me, there’s nothing worse than public speaking.”

  Jess was a natural performer, and loved the stage. I was the exact opposite. On the rare occasion I had to give a speech, I’d break out into a sweat, and my mouth would go dry. The idea of reading my work to a bunch of strangers was enough to send me into a panic.

  Jess put the sign down on the counter and looked me squarely in the eye. “OK. I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve forced my hand. Do you remember the spider?”

  I groaned. “Seriously?”

  “I still have it—the contract. With your signature on it.”

  A few years back, Jess was staying over for the night. We were about to switch the lights out when I turned and saw a large blob out of the corner of my eye. My head snapped toward it. At first, I thought Zorro had brought a bird into the house, and it had escaped his clutches. That had happened occasionally—Pop and I had to chase it with a butterfly net while Zorro watched the ensuing chaos with intense interest. But this wasn’t a bird. My mouth opened in horror. It was a gigantic spider the size of my hand. Meanwhile, Jess had followed my horrified stare, and when her eyes fell on the spider, she gasped and grabbed my arm. “What the hell!” she hissed under her breath.

  It scurried up a beam, and we had to cover our mouths to keep from screaming. We didn’t know what to do. Waking Nan and Pop was out of the question. It was well past lights out, and we’d get into trouble for staying up so late.

  “What the heck are we going to do, Jess?” I whispered desperately.

  She looked at the spider, mesmerized. “We can’t sleep with that thing in the room—it will kill us.”

  “This is a possible life-and-death situation,” I agreed. The thought of the spider crawling across my face while I was fast asleep gave me a jolt of revulsion.

  We kept our eyes glued to the spider while we worked out a plan.

  “What if we did sentry duty—two hours each. You watch my back while I sleep, then I’ll watch yours,” Jess suggested.

  “OK, sounds good.”

  “You go first,” she said as she snuggled down.

  “Hang on a second! It’s two in the morning, and we stayed up only because you wanted to watch Finding Nemo for the hundredth time. Plus, I pulled an all-nighter yesterday to finish my English assignment. So I think I get the first two hours, OK?”

  “Verity, this is your house, which means you solely are responsible for that monstrosity. If it was my house, I would be more gracious.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “Fine.” She sat up. “Only one way to settle this.” She balled her fist at me.

  “Fine.” I balled my fist, and we said in unison, “Rock. Paper. Scissors.”

  Her rock beat my scissors.

  “Best out of three!” I cried.

  She balled her fist again, and I bit my lip in concentration, trying to anticipate her next move. But in the end, Jess still won.

  “Well,” she said, a little smugly, “I guess I’ll be seeing you in two hours. Nighty night!”

  “Jess . . . ” I said, feeling desperate. By now, I was past exhaustion. Every cell in my body was screaming for sleep. “Please, I’ll do anything.”

  “Anything?” Her eyes glittered.

  “Yes, anything.”

  She grabbed her copy of Hating Aliso
n Ashley and a pen. She scratched something into the back of the book and handed it to me.

  This is a binding contract between Jessica Lui and Verity Wolf. Jessica agrees to do sentry duty for the first two hours to guard Verity against the ginormous spider in Verity’s bedroom. In exchange, Verity will grant Jessica one wish-

  I looked up at her. “A wish? What am I—a genie?”

  She took the book from me, crossed out “wish,” and replaced it with “favor.”

  “There. Happy?”

  I continued reading.

  Verity will grant Jessica one wish favor, for as long as she (Verity) shall live.

  “What kind of favor?” I asked, suspiciously.

  She shrugged. “Who knows what the future has in store for us or when I might find you useful?”

  “That’s too vague,” I protested.

  “Vare, I would never ask you to do anything life-threatening.”

  “That’s really comforting.”

  “Well, it’s up to you.” She stretched and yawned.

  I glared at her. “Fine, give me the pen.”

  As she handed it to me, a wicked smile broke across her face. I signed, feeling like I had just sold my soul.

  “Ha, I own you now,” she crowed. “Enjoy your nap, Verity.” I’m sure if Nan and Pop weren’t fast asleep, she would have started cackling.

  “You are your mother’s daughter.”

  Soon, I sank into a deep sleep and only realized what I had done when Jess woke me a few hours later. By then, it was too late.

  Now, years later, Jess had brought out the promise I made, and she was going to play her hand. She watched me, a grin on her face. Her eyes flickered to the Poetry in the Park sign. “So let’s plan it for . . . Saturday?”

  “You are pure evil,” I said and felt dread in the pit of my stomach.