Wild Swans - Jessica Spotswood Page 0,74
Connor finishes, Granddad claps longest and loudest. “Such mature themes for his age,” he says to me. “I told you, didn’t I, Ivy? He’s very promising.”
I nod, jealousy a thorn in my throat. Connor’s my boyfriend. I should feel proud. But I would give anything to have that kind of talent.
There’s a break while Katrina encourages people to sign up for the next set. Music plays over the speakers. Connor starts toward us, but he and Jay are mobbed by the college girls. All three of the girls are pretty hipsters. The petite brunette with blue streaks in her hair puts a hand on Connor’s forearm, smiling up at him, and I sort of want to break her arm off.
If I’d told Granddad that Connor and I were dating, Connor would be holding my hand right now and these girls would not be flirting with him. This is my own stupid fault. I wait for Connor to excuse himself and make his way across the room to us, but he’s talking, his hands waving animatedly, that big, goofy grin on his face, while the girls ply him and Jay with compliments.
Well-deserved compliments.
A wave of self-loathing breaks over me. I will never be the one up there with people clapping and whispering about how good I am because I’m a liar and a cheat and a nobody. Connor wrote me into a poem. Any other girl would be dazed with happiness. What is wrong with me?
Professor Paquin makes her way to our table. She’s tall with brown skin and curly hair and a ton of energy despite having a toddler at home. “George!” she says. “Ivy! How are you? I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. Maya refused to go to sleep.”
“We’re doing very well. Ivy, tell Eleanor your news!” Granddad doesn’t waste any time.
“Oh, it’s really not a big deal.” I shift awkwardly in my chair.
“She’s being modest. She had a poem accepted for publication in an online magazine!” Granddad brags. “The first of many, I’m sure.”
He means well. But it doesn’t feel like pride; it feels like pressure.
“Oh, that’s fantastic! Congratulations, Ivy,” Eleanor says.
“Thank you,” I reply through gritted teeth, trying to muster a smile.
“We’ll see if next week we can’t get her up there reading some of her work.” Granddad sips his coffee. “Do you think you’d have time to look at some of her poems? Sit down with her and give her some constructive criticism?”
Eleanor smiles. “Of course. I’d be happy to. I love working with young poets to hone their voices.”
“I’m not a poet.” My voice is a little too loud, but I told him no. I specifically said I didn’t have anything else to share. That I didn’t want to share it. When will he hear me?
“Everyone starts somewhere, Ivy,” Granddad assures me.
“It’s really no trouble,” Eleanor adds.
I know I should wait until we get home. But the words spill out.
“The poem’s not mine. Not the best part, the line the editor really liked. I plagiarized it.” I stare down at the pretty tiled table, at my half-empty iced tea, anything not to see the disappointment on their faces. “I didn’t mean to, but I’d been reading Dorothea’s journals and that last phrase—I didn’t realize it wasn’t mine until today. I’m pulling the poem.”
Granddad lays a hand on my arm. “Ivy, sweetheart, it’s okay. It was an accident. There will be other poems.”
“No. There won’t.” My voice is quiet but firm. “I’m not a poet like Connor or Jay or Dorothea. I don’t know what my calling is, or if I even have one. I’m sorry. I know that’s what you want for me. I’m sorry that I can’t be what you want me to be.” I stand, still avoiding Granddad’s eyes. I catch a glimpse of Eleanor’s face, the pity written all over it. “Excuse me. I don’t feel very well. I’m going to go home.”
“Sweetheart, wait,” Granddad says. “I’ll walk with you. Let’s talk about this.”
“No. Please. I don’t want to talk about it anymore tonight. Stay. I know it means a lot to Connor that you’re here.” I’m already moving toward the door.
Connor breaks away from his fans to intercept me. “Hey, where are you going?”
“Home.” My voice is sharp. “I’m sorry. You were amazing. I just—I can’t do this right now.”
Connor steps in front of me. “Can’t do what? Did you tell the Professor about the poem? If you wait a minute, I’ll walk you home.”
I point to the sunshine outside.