where she stood. Up near the microphone, she and Marian and a smaller woman Will was almost certain was Emily Goodnight bent their heads together over a sheet of paper Marian held, Nora pointing down at it and nodding. When Emily leaned in and pointed at something else, Nora stood straighter and tipped her head back to laugh, one hand coming up to hold on to the flowers in her hair, and suddenly, Will remembered his own sporadic, Nora-specific chest pains. In that dress, with the smooth, somewhat-freckled skin of her shoulders showing, her ponytail foregone in favor of a thick, loosely woven braid . . .
Don’t, he told himself, remembering the smug way she’d greeted him, her smiling show about this big crowd and these ridiculous flower crowns. Maybe these people did hold a monthly poetry reading, but if it was this involved every time he’d eat this laurel wreath that kept tugging irritatingly on his hair. If Nora thought he was spooked, scared off his plans—well, she had another think coming. They were out here tonight in an I’m Enjoying Myself smile-off, and he was determined to win.
Right then, she looked his way. There was no point in pretending he hadn’t been watching her, so he simply raised his cup toward her, tipping it in what he thought was a toast to this not-so-friendly competition. She didn’t have a drink, so she couldn’t return the gesture, but he thought she might’ve raised her chin in acknowledgment.
Everyone was going the way of gum-guy, finding seats in the rows of folding chairs lined up in front of the microphone or standing around the perimeter, so Will did the same, taking a spot behind the back line of chairs near a group of younger guests he figured had been Marian Goodnight’s students in more recent years. Up toward the front, Nora and her neighbors sat together, all except for Marian herself, who stood behind the microphone in a bright yellow dress, a matching patterned scarf woven high on her head.
“Welcome,” she said, her voice oddly less teacher-y when projected through a microphone. She spoke without notes, a brief introduction to the night’s schedule: first up, readings—chosen randomly—from anyone who picked a poem from the box (“Picked”? he thought, remembering the way Nora had handed one to him like it was a ticket for admission), followed by anyone who wanted to read an original composition. Marian had rules, too—you could get more food or drink, but not in the middle of anyone’s reading. You could clap, but she preferred snaps. You could use the restroom, but only the one in Marian and Emily’s apartment, and only if you had the good sense to wash your hands after.
When Marian finished speaking, Nora joined her at the mic, holding another basket. Will could tell by the anticipatory energy in the crowd that whatever was coming next was something familiar to most everyone here, or at least they’d been given a better primer upon arrival. He saw people taking out their small scrolls of paper, so he did the same.
“Now remember,” Marian said, “you’ll find your number right at the top edge of your paper. You can say pass, but I sure don’t know why you’d want to.”
Will looked down, then held up his scroll to get it closer to one of the lantern lights. Number sixteen, fine. He tucked it back into his pocket and took a sip of his beer, hoping they’d decide to move on to the original compositions before his number got called. But when he looked up back toward the mic, his gaze tangled with Nora’s again, right as Marian reached into the basket, and he could tell by the look on her face; he knew she must’ve checked his—
“Number sixteen!” Marian called, and Nora Clarke’s face fairly broke open with the force of her smile.
Fuck, Will thought, but he didn’t show it, because he wasn’t going to let poetry sabotage him, for Christ’s sake. He raised a hand, though he didn’t so much know why it was even necessary, since he had a feeling every single piece of paper in that basket had been, since shortly after his arrival, marked with the number sixteen.
“Well!” said Marian, as Will made his way up. “Wouldn’t you know, it’s a brand-new guest who’ll be starting us off?” There was a ripple of snapping, a smattering of applause, and he waved a hand in casual, embarrassed greeting.