Darker Than Any Shadow - By Tina Whittle Page 0,29

antique apartment, where he turned a box fan on full blast. And then he made tea. Unlike Trey’s tea, however, which came in pale white bags as pristine as linen pillows, Padre dumped spoonfuls of loose leaves from a Mason jar into a silver tea ball, then dunked it into hot water.

His apartment overlooked the street, a single shotgun room, dusty and filled with books. Photographs dominated the space—framed on the walls, propped against the floorboards, lying in stacks. Displayed sideways on the kitchen counter was a candid shot of a young Padre, his long hair ebony and wildly curled, a large mustache creeping across his upper lip.

I tilted my head to examine it. “How old were you then?”

“Barely out of diapers.”

A sewing table had been set up as a make-shift video editing station. Dozens of DVDs lay half-stacked next to a computer, surrounded by scribbled notes, lists, wires tangled like rats’ nests.

“What’s all this?”

“My latest project.” He pulled out the tea ball, added honey, then poured the whole concoction over ice. “It’s a video compilation of the team over the past few years, from their first pieces to their current work.”

He handed me my glass. It smelled like licorice and lawn clippings. A tentative sip revealed that it tasted the same way, only sweeter.

“That sounds fascinating.”

“It is. You can really see them come into their own.” He sat in an ancient cane rocker, sipping his tea. “Except for Lex. The only material I can find on him is from the last four months.”

“That’s because Lex was a phantom.”

“I’m inclined to agree. But the rest of them are all real.”

He leaned over and pressed a button on the player, and the screen flared to life. It was Rico. He looked impossibly nervous, sweating under the harsh light. “You begin in the softest of ways,” he said, and I knew I was hearing the very first time an audience had heard those words.

“Have you talked to him at all?” Padre said.

“A little.”

“Does he have family here?”

I shook my head. Ever since Rico had decided to live as an openly gay man, he and his parents had been on icy terms. Not that they’d officially disapproved, both of them being good liberals. But he was their only son, and they’d had different ideas about what his life, and theirs, would be like. I couldn’t imagine what would propel him back into their frigid enclosure, but I knew it wouldn’t be this particular trouble.

Padre returned his attention to the video. “I’m trying to show their range, but it’s been challenging. Vigil’s pretty good, but his poems are about money or sex or power. Good rhythms, but no heart. And Frankie doesn’t do sentimental worth beans. She’s only got one sweet poem that I know of, and it sets her teeth on edge every time she has to trot it out.” He fast-forwarded the video. “See? She looks like she’s chewing grit.”

I laughed. Frankie’s expression was strained, unlike her usual thunder and brimstone performances.

But I understood why she was trying. Rico had explained to me that being a performance poet requires a varied repertoire—something smart, something sexy, something political, something intensely personal. Winning a slam was more than delivering the poem perfectly. You had to deliver the right poem at the right time.

“Rico says choosing the poem to deliver is as much an art as the poem itself.”

“Ah, Rico.” Padre beamed. “A true servant of the word. Boy’s got heart and backbone. And he works hard.”

I’d noticed. Rico read, studied other poets, practiced for hours in front of the mirror. He always had a pen stuck somewhere, and usually an index card or two for scribbling. But if he didn’t have paper, he’d scrawl on his skin, the backs of his hand, his forearm, the dark ink almost illegible against his ebony skin.

“What about Cricket?”

Padre smiled and fast-forwarded yet again. There was Cricket, her eyes wide, her prettiness set on fire by the spotlight.

“That girl’s gonna go places once she gets some experience. She conceals too much on stage right now, like the real Cricket is tucked up safe inside. It all feels like an act.”

“And what about you, Padre? What kind of poet are you?”

His mouth twisted ruefully. “Me? I’m a relic. Haven’t you heard?”

He turned off the video, then bent and picked up the camera beside his chair, a clunky, multi-strapped contraption. He examined it, clicking through f-stops and film speeds, then he put one eye to the viewfinder and pointed it