I waited for her to say, Tell us something about yourself. I would have bet a million bucks she’d do that next. But she just picked up a book and started the lesson.
Perfect. I relaxed and sat back. Maybe we’d get along just fine. Everyone groaned when she pulled out a book of poetry, but I sort of liked the first part of the poem she read to us.
Because I could not stop for death
He kindly stopped for me.
I actually felt a chill when she read that. I didn’t completely understand it, and I sure didn’t understand the rest of the poem, but those two lines sounded pretty cool.
“I told you she was nice,” Torchie whispered.
“Yeah.” Maybe this class would be okay.
Unlike math, English class went well for almost ten minutes. At that point, we were talking about writing. “Writing is such a wonderful way to express yourself,” Miss Nomad said. “And the best part is that anyone can write.” She had a habit of walking all around the room as she talked, as if she were weaving herself among our desks. It made me feel like I was part of one of those pot holders kids make in craft classes. I was getting a sore neck from watching her. At the moment, she was passing right by me. As she said the word anyone she gave me this look that seemed to say, yes, Martin, even poor little you can scrawl meaningful words. She almost seemed to expect a poem to burst from my forehead.
Move on, lady, I thought.
She stayed where she was, her smile burning a hole through my face. All that talk about only sharing when I felt like it—that was obviously a pile of crap. She wasn’t going to budge until I spilled some warmth.
I raised my hand.
“Martin, you have something to contribute?” Miss Nomad asked. “That’s wonderful. I’m so glad you’ve chosen to participate.”
“Yeah. Maybe anyone can write, but won’t some people stink at it? I mean, anyone can paint, but most people really stink at that. I know I do. The last painting I tried looked like dog puke. And the same for playing the violin or making a chair. Have you ever heard someone who’s really bad on the violin? It’s not very pleasant. And I sure wouldn’t trust my butt sitting in any chair I’d made with these two hands.”
She sort of gulped. In my mind, I saw this human goldfish that suddenly found herself stranded on dry land. Then the smile returned. “But that’s the wonderful thing about writing. Nobody else can judge your work. As long as you think it’s good, that’s all that matters.” She leaned over and stared at me with those big eyes, giving me that I-may-be-a-teacher-but-I-understand-you look. “Can’t you see how wonderful a thing that is?” she asked.
Can’t I see that you’re a fruitcake?
I almost let it go, but I couldn’t. She was wrong. I had an uncle who was always trying to write books. He’d send them out and they’d come back three or four months later with a printed slip that said, No thanks. Not even Nice try, or Good effort. Just No thanks. Which I think really meant: your book truly sucks. Please leave us alone.
I tried to read some of his stuff once. It really stunk big-time. Talk about dog puke. Nothing ever happened. People just sat around and discussed life. Everyone drank coffee and felt bad about things they’d done in the past. I had a feeling Uncle Stan could write books for the next thousand years and he’d still stink. I looked up at Miss Nomad. She seemed so happy and eager for us to share the joys of writing.
“It matters,” I said. “People might say they just write for themselves. That’s a lie. Everyone wants to show off. And if you stink, you can’t show off, can you? Because nobody will buy what you write. So you’re just lying to yourself.” I stopped talking. Damn. I didn’t care either way. Why was I even bothering to say anything?
Miss Nomad gulped again, a bit louder, then said, “Well, thank you for sharing your thoughts, Martin.”
I had the funny feeling she didn’t like me.
“Bad move,” Cheater whispered to me a minute later. “She’s always trying to sell her poems. She keeps sending them to magazines.”
“She’s got hundreds of ‘em,” Torchie said. “Boxes full.”
“And?” I asked.
“Hasn’t sold a single one,” Cheater told me. He shook his head. “Sometimes she reads them to us.” He made a face and pinched his nose.
Yipes. I should have figured that out before I opened my big mouth. I could just imagine Miss Nomad, fountain pen in hand, sitting at a desk jammed in the corner of some small room, filling page after page with bad poetry. I didn’t think she’d hold it against me the way Parsons did, but I’d certainly made sure I wouldn’t be the teacher’s pet in this class.