“So let’s brainstorm options,” I tell Kylee as I’m lying on her bed clutching her very pink stuffed elephant to my very flat chest. I texted Kylee that I needed to come over and told my mom I was going to her house, but I didn’t tell Mom what had happened. It’s too humiliating to tell anyone in the world except for Kylee.
“Option number one,” I say. “I transfer to another school. Immediately.”
Kylee shakes her head so hard her dark bangs fall over her eyes. “You’d have to start all new classes, and you’d be behind already in everything, and your best friend would miss you every minute of the day, and your parents would never let you.”
“Right now we’re brainstorming,” I remind her. “Brainstorming means you think of everything, every single option, good and bad, without passing judgment on any of them. Like we did in Mr. Harris’s language arts class last year.”
Besides, option number one sounds pretty good to me, at least compared to the option of going into journalism on Monday and facing Cameron after his brother heard my love poem. Even though David was the nicest to me of any of them, I can’t imagine that he won’t tell Cameron about it.
“So what’s option number two?” Kylee’s eyes stay fastened on me, her fingers effortlessly clicking her knitting needles down the next row of the pink-and-green-and-yellow scarf she’s knitting. She’s such a good knitter she doesn’t have to pay attention while she knits.
“Option number two is I drop journalism.” I’d still have to see Cameron in the halls, but that’s totally different from sitting right next to him in class every single day.
“No!” Kylee moans. “That’s your favorite subject! And then we’d only have two classes together!”
She obviously didn’t listen to my reminder about brainstorming.
“Option number three,” I continue, but I can’t think of a third way to avoid having to see Cameron ever again for the rest of my life. “Run away?”
“That isn’t funny.” Now Kylee’s distressed enough that she puts down her knitting. “Option number three is that you forget about it. I’d bet you anything that David won’t even tell Cameron. Girls talk about boys a lot more than boys talk about girls.”
Kylee herself never talks about boys. She doesn’t have a crush on anyone, though there’s this very short, mega-awkward boy named Henry Dubin who has a crush on her; he’s in science with Kylee, and art. You can tell he likes her because he always seems to be bumping her with his backpack in the hall and snorting in this high-pitched horsey kind of way.
Now I have to hope that Cameron’s brother doesn’t joke with him about me the way I joke with Kylee about Henry Dubin.
I can so see the scene playing itself out in my mind. Cameron’s brother sits down to dinner with Cameron and their parents in the ultra-modern-looking house where they live, a few blocks from us, the house I walk by every chance I get, always pretending I’m on the way to somewhere else.
“Hey, lil bro, is there a girl in your class named Summer or something?”
“Autumn. There’s a girl in my journalism class named Autumn.”
“That’s right. Autumn. Well, she has a big-time crush on you, man.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I was at her brother’s house today with the band. And her brother, Hunter, read us one of her poems. And guess what it was called? ‘Ode to Cameron.’”
Gagging noises from Cameron.
“She’s really nuts about you. Listen to this. Are you ready?”
Sickening silence from Cameron, who is not at all ready.
“‘If thou wouldst croak, the snow would puke up yet another grave for me.’ Or something like that.”
Awkward laughter from Cameron. “Man. Oh, man. It’s bad enough that she’s always staring at me in journalism class. Oh, man, this sucks.”
This scene is a lot more believable than my dumb Emily Dickinson fantasy. Its dialogue sounds completely real, while the other one sounded fake.
But maybe, maybe David will tell Cameron the real opening lines from my poem and Cameron will think they’re good? Maybe he’s secretly liked me all along and will be glad to know I secretly like him?
Kylee has gone back to her knitting, but I know she’s still thinking.
“Okay,” she says when she gets to the end of another row. “Option number four—well, maybe this is just the same as my option number three—is that you act normal around him tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, and the day after that. I really don’t think Cameron’s brother is going to talk to Cameron about you, and if he does, he can’t say your poems are bad, because they aren’t bad—they’re wonderful.”
Did I mention that I love Kylee more than anyone in the world? I do have other friends. Sometimes I go over to Isabelle Abshire’s house to watch old black-and-white movies, because Kylee won’t watch anything that isn’t in color. Sometimes Brianna Clark hangs out with Kylee and me; she once said we’re “soothing” to be around, but I know she really meant Kylee. But I love Kylee a thousand times more than I love either of them.
So Kylee just said my poems are wonderful. Despite the horribleness of everything that happened, down deep—well, not even down all that deep—I still think they’re wonderful, too.
“What if…” I begin, and then trail off. “Kylee, tell me honestly. I know best friends are supposed to believe in each other, but they’re supposed to be honest with each other, too. Do you really, truly, cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die think my poems are good—and not just my poems generally, but my Cameron poems?”
Without a moment of hesitation, Kylee nods.
“What if—maybe this is ridiculous…” I say, even though I don’t think it’s ridiculous because it’s what I’ve been planning to do ever since I made my big announcement to Hunter and the band this afternoon, just sooner than I thought.
“In brainstorming, nothing is ridiculous,” Kylee reminds me.
“What if I published my poems somewhere? Somewhere really impressive? And then it won’t matter what Hunter said, or what Cameron might say, because a famous poetry magazine will be on record saying that they’re fabulous. And Hunter will be like, Wow, I guess Autumn really can write, and I shouldn’t have made fun of her. And Cameron will be like, Wow, I guess this majorly published poet is a girl I’d like to get to know.”
Just this morning I wanted to be like Emily Dickinson and not publish my poems until after I die. A lot can change in a few hideous hours.
“Now you’re talking!” Kylee said, though maybe she’s just so relieved that I’m not going to change schools or drop journalism or run away that she’s acting more enthusiastic than she really feels. But Kylee is a terrible liar, so I know she means whatever she says.
I let myself play out a new script in my head.
“Hey, lil bro, is there a girl in your class named Summer or something?”
“Autumn. There’s a girl in my journalism class named Autumn.”
“That’s right. Autumn. Well, she has a big-time crush on you, man.”
Silence from Cameron, who is blushing with secret pleasure.
“She wrote a poem about you.”
“She did?”
“Her brother made fun of it, but I thought it was really good. I bet she’ll be a famous published poet someday.”
Cameron gives a slow smile. “I think so, too.”