"This," he said, and held it out. I glanced at him, asking with my eyes what it was. He didn't answer. So I reached for 98

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it. I started to tug it away from him but he had a tight grip on it.

"You swear to me, right?"

"Yes! Geez," I said, and jerked harder. He let go then and I went sprawling backward. I glared at him when I regained my balance. "What is it?"

When he refused to answer, I opened the first page. It was filled with poems. I skimmed a few and then turned the page. There were more. I flipped through another couple of pages. All poems. I glanced at Luke. He'd fallen onto my bed and was sitting on the edge with his feet firmly placed on the carpet. He rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. His head was lowered and he was staring at the floor between his feet.

I went back to the beginning and read the first poem more carefully.

It was good. I reread it and it was even better the second time. It wasn't just good, it was really good. It wasn't that sappy junk, either, that teenagers sometimes write and then imagine they're tortured poets. This was real poetry. Being a writer, I considered myself somewhat of an expert. I wasn't good at poetry myself, but at least I could recognize a good poem when I read one.

"Who wrote these?" I said, turning the page. Luke glanced up. "I did."

I stopped reading. "You wrote this?" He nodded.

I shook my head. "I don't get it. Your secret is poems?" 99

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He jerked to his feet then. "Never mind," he said, reaching for his notebook. But I held it away from him. He gave me a warning look. I, of course, ignored it.

"No, I guess you don't get it," he said, letting me win the notebook war. He took a huge step back, as if he needed space before he exploded. "I'm a football player. A tough guy. I'm not supposed to write sissy poetry. Everyone would think I'm gay."

"Not every male poet is gay," I said. "What about Shakespeare? Robert Frost? E. E. Cummings? Lord Byron?

Now he was a real ladies' man."

"He didn't grow up in Stillburrow, either," Luke said. I shrugged, because he was right. That would be the first assumption folks around these parts would make if they knew he leaned toward artistic pursuits.

"But it's not just that," he said. "My father expects me to go into business. To be a banker, like him."

"So be a banker," I said. "You can still write poetry on the side. That way if your work never sells, at least you have banking to fall back on."

Luke ran a hand through his hair, turned in a circle and came back to face me. "And I'm scared," he said. My eyebrows shot up when I heard this quiet admission.

"This is important to me. I mean I really, really like doing it. And I didn't want to show it to someone and find out I'm bad. That's why I've been bugging you so much." He sat down on the bed again. When he looked up at me, his eyes were pleading and my heart fell directly at his feet. 100

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"I didn't dare take it to a teacher. It had to be someone my age. And you're the best writer in the whole school, Carrie. You'd know if it was any good or not. Plus I've learned you're extremely honest. You wouldn't lie to me." He looked at the notebook in my hands. "So what do you think?" Suddenly, it felt like I was holding the Holy Grail in my grasp. This was Luke Carter's heart and soul. If I told him it was bad, it would break his spirit. But could I be completely honest? I mean, I had a crush on the guy. I'd tell him I loved any piece of rubbish he wrote to make him feel better. All right, all right, I wouldn't. I can't deny the truth. To be honest, I was suddenly jealous.

It wasn't fair. Luke Carter had the money. He had the popularity. He was already the football star. And what did I have? Writing was my only claim to fame and now he wanted that too? If anyone read these poems, they'd stop calling me

"The Stillburrow Writer" and suddenly Luke would be Mr. Shakespeare himself. I couldn't tell him how good he was. But I couldn't tell him he was bad, either. Talk about being stuck in a bad situation, huh?

And then an idea hit me. "Why don't we let the students of Stillburrow decide?"

His eyebrows crinkled in distrust. "What do you mean?" I flipped open the notebook and scanned more poems.

"Why don't we put a few sample pieces in the paper?" When his mouth opened in an instant refusal, I quickly added,

"Anonymously, of course. I'll make it a survey on the editor's page. I can say that an unnamed poet would like the public's 101

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opinion on his or her work. 'Please reply with your thoughts on these poems.'"

Luke seemed to deliberate. I decided to put on a little more pressure. "I could tell you what I think about them. But that's just one person's point of view. What you really need, Luke, is a lot of opinions."

Luke had his hands clasped together and was holding them close to his mouth. His blue gaze was riveted toward me.

"And you won't tell anyone who wrote them?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die." He stood up, licked his lips, and then held out his hand.

"We've got a deal, then."

For the second time in my life, I shook hands with Luke Carter. "I don't think you'll be disappointed," I said. "And just in case you're a big hit, we shouldn't put in your best poem first. Remember, an audience always expects a better performance the next time."

[Back to Table of Contents]

102

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Chapter Eight

I loved the smell of newspapers hot off the press. OK, OK, by the time we got the paper back from the printing press at Paulbrook, it was cooled down. But I still loved the smell of the ink and the texture of paper under my fingers. I loved holding the first copy in my hand, and I loved the anticipation.

There was nothing like opening the cover and taking the first look at something I helped create. It was usually the bright spot of my whole week.

I also liked standing in the front hall on Friday mornings to pass out copies to students walking by. And every Friday right after school, I hand delivered the newest issue to a few old folks in town who were avid readers. My last stop on this delivery route was usually my Aunt Kay's house. My great aunt, Kay Burke, lived in the nice section of town. Actually she lived with her nephew, my mom's brother, Uncle Stan. But when I went there, it was usually to visit Aunt Kay so I called it her house. Aunt Kay was my surrogate grandmother. She'd been the town's spinster librarian up until a few years ago when she'd fallen shelving books one evening and broken her hip. Now she was retired. But back in the day, she'd devoted her life to researching information for Stillburrow.

She had one brother and that had been Mom's dad. And since she'd never married or had kids of her own, she spoiled her brother's children. First Uncle Stan had been born. Aunt 103

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Kay had given him a $1,000 savings bond on his first birthday. And then came Andrea, my mother. But Grandma Burke died giving birth to Mom. So Aunt Kay moved in and helped her brother, Grandpa Burke, raise his two kids. She stayed with Grandpa even after Mom and Uncle Stan moved out, staying with him until he died. After Grandpa's death, she bought a little brown dachshund dog, which she named Chigger, to keep her company.