Outside the Koffie Klub it’s muggy. I’m still not used to this humid Ontario summer weather. On the west coast it cools off at night. Not here in Camden.
Mom and Dad both called while I was at the poetry slam. Their numbers glow from my cell phone.
I know why they called. It’s the first anniversary, and I should have checked in. But it will be awful to talk to them. We will have to remember what we don’t want to remember. What we can’t forget. It’s not like we haven’t been warned. The counselor also told us that it’s normal to imagine the worst when we don’t hear from a surviving family member. Surviving. Barely.
I flip through the list of missed calls again. David’s number isn’t there. He’s probably thinking about the same thing I am—that day at the waterslides. Like me, he’s probably replaying that moment in the day when I could have stopped her—and didn’t. He was there. He knows. The knowledge binds us together even though he’s in Vancouver and I’m here.
People shuffle in and out of the Koffie Klub. Sweat leaks from my pits. My bra strap has glued itself to my back. I can’t go too far, but I need to move.
This month is a big one for poetry slams. Four cafés are hosting a series of competitions. They’ll add up points to see who will be on the team going to Nationals. The team is organized by the Camden Slammers, a group of local poets who make the local slams happen. The slams are so popular they make almost enough at the door to pay for an all-expenses-paid trip to Corinthian for the winners. Corinthian is a small city that’s being swallowed by Toronto. It may not be that far away, and putting us up might mean hostels and cheap food, but there are plenty of us who would love to go.
On good days I imagine inviting David to meet me in Corinthian. Who am I kidding? David won’t be in the front row, clapping.
Anyway, I’m not good enough to make the team.
“Don’t go too far! You have another round!” Amy, one of the slam organizers yells after me. She waves when I turn to look back. “You and Ebony do the next one together, right?”
“I know!” I shout. Even if I want to walk forever, I can’t let Ebony down. We’ve worked too hard. Returning phone calls is going to have to wait.
Poetry has taken over everything. My friendships. My spare time. My dreams. I get in trouble at the bookstore when I scribble in my notebook instead of doing my job.
Maybe I don’t get paid to write poetry, but if I don’t write down my ideas, they are gone. I bet half the people who work in bookstores are writers. I don’t say this to my supervisor. Sometimes it’s better to keep your head down and your mouth shut.
Back in the café, Ebony and I wait in the shadows at the side of the stage. Round two is about to start.
“Don’t think about who’s watching,” Ebony says. “The judges like whatever they like.”
She’s right. The judges flip their plastic number cards as they listen to the poets. They hold up the scores just like in figure skating. We are here to share poetry, yes. But we are also here to win.
“Ready?” Amy says. “You guys are up next.”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I like the way Ebony and I have worked this poem out. Ebony only has one word to say. She repeats it over and over. That creates a kind of rhythm, the beat for my story. We step onto the stage.
My mouth is so dry my tongue sticks to my teeth. We have up to three minutes. Three minutes can feel like forever, especially when things aren’t going well.
And if you go overtime? Well, the audience lets loose with a chant of:
You rat bastard—you’re ruining it
for everyone…
But it was weeeelll worth it.
I push my palms into the folds of my skirt and step up to the microphone. Ebony does the same thing a few feet away.
Ebony starts.
Ring. Ring.
Her voice is clear, beautiful. I speak next.
Sister, where were you when you called?
The words take over. I move in ways I do not move unless I am in the grip of a poem.
Right on time, Ebony’s voice comes in again.
Ring. Ring.
Sister, where were you when you
called?
What would you have said if...
Ring.
If I had answered the phone
turned away from the easy heat of
summer
the splash of water against
the how-much-fun-is-this slide?
Ring. Ring. Ring.
If I had answered
would you have told me
your current location?
Coffee shop?
Street corner?
Parking lot outside the liquor
store
where you smiled—actually
smiled—
at that young man whose name
you probably never knew
though I know
and can never forget
Kenyon.
Ring. Ring.
Kenyon who had no idea
the fragile glass
the Smirnoff in the brown paper bag
would somehow survive the impact.
Kenyon. An innocent guilty young
man
saw a thirsty girl
balanced on crutches
alone, a little sad. Nothing a drink
couldn’t help. Nothing a favor for
a stranger
or a kind word
couldn’t fix.
Here, we begin to speak together. Ebony’s Ring Ring overlaps with my own.
The phone rings and rings.
Ring. Ring…
Her ringing gets louder and louder until, at the end of the next section, we are speaking together. Our voices are loud and harsh and ugly.
If you had told me where you were
would I have left behind
my beach bag, sunshine, hot dog
loud music, playground of
The Now and come to you?
Rings and rings and rings and
rings.
And if I had found you,
would you have told me what you
were about to do?
Ring. Ring.
If you had spoken
would I have believed you?
Ring.
If I had believed you
could I have stopped you?
Ring.
Even now, three hundred and
sixty-five
days later
and counting
that phone rings
Ring.
and rings
day and night
Ring.
rings through my dreams
Ring.
rings in my morning
Ring ring ring
ringsringsringsrings
Will it ever stop, sister?
The applause is loud when we step back from the microphones. Ebony wraps me in a tight hug.
“Good job!” she says in my ear. “Perfect.”