Samantha Young - The Fragile Ordinary

I wasn’t a spoken word artist.

And the only other kind of poet I’d come across in Pan were the free verse poets. Maybe rhyming wasn’t cool anymore. I was a lover of Robert Burns, William Blake and John Donne. I loved rhyming. I loved the challenge of it. But I knew that a lot of people thought rhyme felt forced and that poets shouldn’t be constrained by it.

Being in the minority didn’t give me a lot of confidence in my work. Pan was the one place where no one made me feel abnormal. I did not want to put myself in the position of being judged by a crowd of people I admired.

Shoving my worries aside, I lost myself in other people’s thoughts, emotions and imaginations. The poetry café was another escape. The surrealism of the venue, with its murals and tie-dyed fabric billowing across the ceiling like a canopy, made it feel as if I had walked into a dream. Here, I was in a bubble in the same way I was when I cracked open a book. Yet, it was different because I was alone without really being alone. I was surrounded by real live people who liked the bubble just as much as I did.

“Comet?”

The familiar voice made me tense.

No.

This wasn’t happening.

Not here, where I was perfectly anonymous.

My inability to be disrespectful to the owner of the voice made me look over my shoulder and up. Sure enough, Mr. Stone stood behind me with a cup of coffee in hand and the leather satchel he wore that was always bursting with papers slung over his shoulder. His smile was curious as he stepped toward me. “Do you come here a lot, Comet?”

I nodded. And since when did you start coming here?

As if he’d heard my unspoken thought he said, “A friend recommended this place. I usually do my marking at school but I fancied a change of scenery. Do you perform?” He gestured to the stage.

I shook my head.

“Do you have material you could perform?”

My heart rate increased at the inquisition. I knew Mr. Stone didn’t mean it as an inquisition, but the intrusion upon a part of my life I kept private unsettled me. “Maybe.”

He gave me a knowing nod. “You should think about performing. Your poetry assignments are stellar. You’re talented. You intend to go to university, yes?”

I nodded again.

“Well, universities look at your outside interests and passions. Lots of kids have good grades. You’ll need something that stands out. Performing here regularly would be a start.” He smiled at me again, clearly waiting for a response.

I didn’t know how to respond. My palms were sweating and I was feeling cornered. Thankfully, someone else stepped onstage and Mr. Stone leaned over to whisper, “I’ll leave you to it. But think about it, Comet.”

“Thanks, Mr. Stone,” I whispered.

But inside I was yelling at my favorite teacher for pointing out something I’d been doing my best to ignore. That my excellent grades weren’t a guarantee of admission into the University of Virginia, and that a university such as it was would be looking for students who stood out among the crowd. Mr. Stone was right. Being a part of Pan, gathering the courage to tread the stage here, was just an example of what it would take to make it into UVA and flourish there if I got in.

I couldn’t just sit passively by in the audience.

Yet I wanted to.

For the first time, I couldn’t just enjoy myself at Pan. Instead I imagined myself finally being brave enough to get up there and perform. Of being brave enough to remove the anonymity from my blog and use it as part of my application process for university.

Yet, I didn’t make a move to do anything. I was stuck. Courage wasn’t something you found at the bottom of a hot chocolate or in a few words of encouragement from your favorite teacher. Courage was clearly something I needed to find, but how was I supposed to when there was a big part of me that didn’t mind the fact I hadn’t discovered it?

Going to UVA was the biggest goal I had in my life. If I wanted it that badly...surely something would have to give?

THE FRAGILE ORDINARYSAMANTHA YOUNG

6

Shakespeare said it best,

To thine own self be true.

To his wisdom, I attest,

So I’ll be me, you be you.

—CC

How the hell did I end up here?

I had asked myself that question maybe thirty times from the moment we’d arrived at Jordan Hall’s friend’s party. The party was in a flat less than a minute from my house and from what I could tell was rented out by four students. The flat’s windows looked out over the sea and from the noise blaring from the speakers in the sitting room I was surprised it hadn’t been shut down by the neighbors downstairs yet. Everyone here was college age or older, and I felt like a kid as I stood in the corner of the room, nursing a can of soda.

I wasn’t oblivious to the looks being thrown my way, and it was making me nervous.

It was a rare occasion when I was uncertain of my wardrobe choices, but tonight I was. I stood out from this art crowd, who all wore a surprising amount of black for supposedly creative people. Tonight, I was wearing above-the-knee-length bright yellow socks, an oversize blue tartan shirt dress with a large slouchy black belt around my hips, a black boyfriend cardigan with a brooch shaped like a yellow teacup pinned to it and a pair of patent blue-and-white striped Irregular Choice ankle boots. They had an oversize blue bow on the side, but what made them really different, was the fact that the heel wasn’t conventional—it was a mini-sculpture of Alice from Disney’s Alice in Wonderland.

My parents might not pay me a lot of attention but they gave me a generous monthly allowance and, while I did save some of it every month, I spent a lot of it on books and clothes. Nearly every pair of shoes I owned were Irregular Choice. I could probably open my own shop with how many pairs I had in my closet.

Vicki, who had disappeared with Jordan almost the moment we’d arrived, suddenly reappeared. She strode over to me, grinning happily. I gave her a fond smile even though I secretly blamed her for putting me in the position I was in. Loving people was complicated, right? “You look happy.”

She nodded. “Jordan is so cool...and—” she stepped into me, her back to the room, and gave me this look I didn’t understand “—his friends are fascinated by you.”

I blushed. “They think I’m a weirdo, right?”

Vicki laughed. “No. The opposite. They don’t realize you’re shy. They just think you’re mysterious and unusual—but in a good way. These are art students, Comet. They like different.” She gestured to my clothes. “A few of the guys have asked who you are.”

This time I blushed for a whole other reason. “Funny. Steph bolted from me as soon as we got here.” She didn’t have to tell me she was embarrassed by how I was dressed.

“Steph wouldn’t know individuality if it bit her on the backside.” Vicki threaded her arm through mine. “These aren’t high school students, Com. They appreciate someone that knows who they are and isn’t afraid of it. Talk to one of them.”

The thought of talking to one of these strangers made me want to run in the opposite direction. What if I said something stupid? Or couldn’t speak at all and just stood there gaping at them like a guppy? I suddenly found myself irrationally angry with Vicki for trying to push me. It may have been residual irritation from Mr. Stone’s surprise appearance at Pan this week and his unwanted but sensible words of advice. He hadn’t meant to be pushy and neither had Vicki, but I felt pushed all the same.

“Jordan’s friend Ethan told us he thinks you’re gorgeous.” She subtly nodded her head to the opposite side of the living room. “He’s the one in the black Biffy Clyro shirt, standing near the television with the redhead.”