I’M IN lunch, which, as it turned out, Emmett has at the same time as me, so he sits with Harper and me at our corner table. Darcy’s in the library doing homework she forgot about. I’m listening to Harper and Emmett discuss how sexy villains are in superhero movies and whether or not a British accent makes or breaks it. They seem to be agreeing on makes it, but I’m not sure because they keep referencing movies I haven’t seen yet and switching into awkward sign language and losing me. I’m trying to learn it, but it’s really easier if you have two hands.
When Emmett joined us today, Harper was surprised, but tactfully avoided asking where he’d been, and then they launched into the accents conversation. I think both of them are happy to be discussing it because Darcy seems to be better acquainted with the fairy-tale genre, and I am a bit more like Darcy in that strain of movie appreciation, but nobody in my newly established friend group loves classic horror movies like I do. Everything I know of superheroes comes from what Emmett has taught me. Emmett’s tried to have this accent conversation with me, but I was terrible at it. He seems to need to discuss it several times over with someone who can actually contribute to the conversation before he can move on.
I pick at my lunch, finding I’m not hungry enough to finish it, when my phone goes off somewhere inside the deep recesses of my backpack. I pull it out only to find my mom has taken a picture of herself holding something and sent it to me. Her face looks scarily like my “I just told a bad joke” face. I grimace at the fact that my mom’s caught the selfie bug, but I’m trying to figure out what she’s holding. I text her, asking her to send me a close up of whatever it is she wants me to see. I’m not prepared for what I see.
It’s my face. That in itself is not shocking, because after all these years I’m fairly well acquainted with my face, but the surprise is that it’s underneath some bright lettering that advertises Modern Poetry Magazine. I think it looks a little ridiculous, the way I’m lying on a desk in the picture, and my head’s on a typewriter, just like it was when I modeled for the photo, but it’s strange because who in their right mind cuddles with and uses a typewriter as a pillow? Well, at least who does that willingly? And there are papers floating down around me in a perfect flurry of words. The cover is, in short, overall beautifully done. I love it. I’m putting it on the corkboard. And framing it. And hanging it up. Shit, I need more copies and a ton of frames.
I ask my mom to buy some frames for me in my sudden fit of narcissism, and she replies that she will. I also want copies of the magazine to give out, but not until I’ve read through the interview. I’m curious to see what the interview says about me, and I hope that it has an accurate portrayal of me as a person. I wonder if there is an accurate way to portray me as a person. If someone wrote a book about my life, maybe.
School takes forever to end, but good things always take forever to happen when they’re being anticipated. The day finally does end, and I get on the bus and go home to where there is a magazine with my name on the cover.
When I read the interview, I see that Summer was really kind. She wrote good things and used the answers I gave. Not all of the questions she asked have made it in to the final cut, but she used what she had to, and what she used makes me seem like a decent person with a strong love of poetry, and I think that’s all that really matters because the point of the magazine is all about loving poetry. I am relieved beyond words. I seem like a good person. But I definitely said the word fuck way more times than they put in (the word does not appear) so the quotes must be edited. I’m cool with it. They probably aren’t allowed to print the word, even though it might be my favorite word.
I flip through the rest of the pages and read through the coverage of the Accolades, and there is a picture of me at the large podium on the small stage, but I am not the only one pictured. There is also Dottie the bird lady looking exuberant and there are other pictures sprinkled throughout the article, not just of the large podium on the small stage. There is also a picture of the room before the event, full of perfectly set tables and chairs pushed into their appropriate spots. I’m still shocked they wanted me on the cover.
I celebrate by doing my homework and tell Emmett, because I’m boring like that, and then I watch the news while tossing a tennis ball to the dog as she prances around and occasionally brings it back to me whenever it suits her fancy.