Getting Over Garrett Delaney(63)
Author: Abby McDonald

I open my mouth to speak, but he turns his chair to face the front. The lights get even dimmer, and the Russian army coat guy takes to the small stage.

“Hey, everyone. Welcome to our open mic night. We’ve got some great artists lined up, so let’s get things started with Malachi and his poem in sixteen parts: ‘The Decay of Being.’”

I blink. He can’t be serious?

But he is. There’s applause, and then one of the goateed guys walks slowly onstage. He’s dressed all in black, except for a square of red handkerchief in his shirt pocket. “Thanks, Logan.” He nods solemnly, unfolds a thick wedge of pages, and reaches for the mic. “I wrote this poem about my breakup with my girlfriend.” He pauses and squints out into the audience. “Luna, I hope you feel my pain.”

And thus begins my torture.

After sixteen verses, five haiku, and three more epic odes to love unfulfilled, the last reader finally lopes offstage, and I let out a long sigh of relief. Have my prayers to the Gods of Terrible Amateur Poetry finally been answered?

“Don’t worry — we’re not finished!” Logan bounds back, dashing my hopes beneath his battered army boots. “We’ll be right back after a short break. Feel free to discuss the work and chat with the writers!”

The lights go back up.

Garrett turns to me. “Wasn’t that first one provocative?”

“You mean, the one where he imagines his ex-girlfriend’s bloody death?” I venture, blinking.

“Right, the imagery was so powerful.”

The rest of the group murmurs in assent, besides Charlotte, of course. “Typical,” she spits. “Another example of shock-machismo torture, literally silencing women through death.”

Garrett ignores her. “You know, you should read here sometime,” he tells me. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve been working on this summer.”

“Um, actually I haven’t done much writing,” I admit. “Any, really.”

“Sadie! You have to be disciplined,” Garrett scolds. “I got up at dawn every morning and worked for an hour, just freewriting. My professor told me about it, you really get the creative muscles working.”

Another guy with ratty dreadlocks nods. “If you don’t take it seriously, you can’t call yourself a real writer.”

“True artists have to live, breathe, bleed for their art,” Charlotte agrees solemnly.

I let out a snort of laughter. I try and cover it with a cough, but clearly, my drama skills are about as good as Malachi’s self-editing skills, because when I look up, they’re all staring at me.

“You find that funny?” Charlotte asks archly.

“Well, I —” I start to speak, but Garrett interrupts me.

“Sadie’s starting out,” he says to them apologetically. He pats me on the knee again. “She’s just a sophomore.”

I stop.

“Her work shows a lot of promise,” he adds. “She didn’t get in to the program this time, but maybe next year. Right, Sadie?” He gives me a smile — full of encouragement — but I just stare at him, confused. Garrett’s support always meant the world to me, but now I can’t help wonder if he was always so . . . patronizing.

Dreadlock guy laughs. “Man, I wish I could be young and naive again.”

“Right,” Garrett agrees. “Trust me, Sadie. You’ll learn soon enough that you have to suffer for your art.” He looks past me to the stage area. “Oh, great, they’re starting again.”

The rest of them all turn eagerly to hear the next round of poets, but something in Garrett’s expression makes me stop.

He looked past me. The whole time he was talking about me — talking to me — he never once really looked at me.

How many times has that happened? I find myself wondering. How many times have I sat, waiting, while he catches up with somebody else, somebody more important?

I feel a shiver, cold on my spine.

“Garrett,” I murmur. He doesn’t turn. “Garrett.” My voice is louder this time, and he tears his focus from the stage. “I think I’m going to get out of here,” I whisper, reaching for my purse.

Garrett frowns. “What? But Sadie —”

“Stay if you want,” I tell him softly. “I can call my mom for a ride.”

I slip away, hurrying up the stairs and emerging back onto the street, lit with the neon glow of streetlights in old-fashioned lamps. I don’t know why I need to leave so fast, but something in me is itching, uncomfortable, and I can’t stay in that place — with those people — a moment longer.

“Sadie, wait!”

I turn. Garrett jogs down the street and comes to a stop a few steps from me. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling OK?”

“Sure, I’m fine,” I tell him, confused. He’s staring at me with such concern, I wonder if I’ve got it all wrong. As if reading my mind, Garrett moves closer and reaches out to touch my arm.

“I’m sorry I got distracted with those guys,” he says, giving me an apologetic smile. “I promise, the rest of the night, it’s just you and me.”

I pause. “Oh. You don’t have to . . .”

“Sure, I do! What do you want? Name anything.” Garrett makes a sweeping gesture, full of theatrics. He backs down the sidewalk, calling out, “The world is ours! Well, western Massachusetts, anyway.” He beckons me after him, but I don’t follow.

He stops. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

“I —”

“Because I’ll make it up to you — I promise. Tonight, and tomorrow too, the whole day, we can do whatever you want.” Garrett smiles at me again, as charming as he’s always been. “I’ll even let you take me to another one of those alien invasion movies. And I won’t complain, not once!”

I stare at him, lost. This is what I wanted, isn’t it: for Garrett to choose me over his other friends? But just as quickly as that thought comes, it’s replaced with another, louder question.

Why am I doing this all over again?

Waiting for him to choose me. Getting swayed by all his charm and focus. This is exactly why I wanted to get over him, to feel like we were partners, instead of just Garrett and his desperate, pining friend. I spent my summer carefully cutting out my feelings for him, tracing around the outline of my heart because I was so desperate to keep our friendship together, the same as before.