little, little birdie

May 8th - The Contest

May 8th

I sit in English class, three desks behind Birdie. I can only see the back of her head and the way her shoulders stoop as she leans forward over her notebook. There are only three minutes left of class before the bell rings for lunch.

“Now, just before we leave,” the teacher says, snapping shut the book she’s been reading aloud. Shakespearean sonnets. “There is a city wide youth poetry contest coming up. I have pamphlets with more information. Anyone interested can come see me at lunch today.” She smiles at us, eager for some of us youth to want to join. I don’t figure on many takers.

I’ve never written poetry in my life.

The bell rings and everyone jumps up. Everyone except Birdie who slowly gathers her things and approaches the teacher. I hang back, sitting in my desk, pretending I dropped my pencil, doing all those juvenile things you do to buy time.

“May I please have a pamphlet?” Birdie asks.

The teacher beams, scooping a piece of folded purple paper from her desk. “I didn't know you were interested in poetry, Birdie,” she says, handing it to her.

Birdie shrugs. “I figure I’ll take a chance.”

She walks out and I hurry up to the teacher.

“Can I have one too?”

“Ren?” she says with raised eyebrows. “You like poetry?”

“Never written a piece in my life,” I say and grin. “But I might as well take a shot.”

Her eyes narrow and she glances at the door before smiling. “It wouldn’t be right for me to stop you then.” She hands me the same purple pamphlet and I leave.

I’ve never written poetry. I’ll probably be lousy, but watching Birdie go up gave me sudden inspiration.