Skylark by Sara Cassidy Page B

shout. It was somewhere between song lyrics, a poem, a rap, a presidential speech and a televangelist’s sermon—it was all of that and none of that. It was mesmerizing.
    You put on shades, big-ass shades.
    Â Â Â Â  The windows go black.
    You think you’re looking out, and
    Â Â Â Â  no one’s looking back,
    that no one’s looking in, at your
    Â Â Â Â  murk and mess and sin.
    You try so hard to look so hard, but
    Â Â Â Â  you’re soft inside,
    like yolk in an egg, you’re yellow
    Â Â Â Â  and afraid
    that someone’s gonna crack you,
    Â Â Â Â  crack you like a safe.
    You swagger down the street in your
    Â Â Â Â  combat wear, danger and dare.
    Dogs snap and growl as you
    Â Â Â Â  draw near.
    They’ve got your number, fear’s an
    Â Â Â Â  easy cipher.
    And you’re glad those dogs are
    Â Â Â Â  leashed.
    You’re glad those dogs aren’t free.
    That isn’t courage.
    Look at me. Look into my eyes.
    I was brave. I opened my heart.
    Â Â Â Â  I looked in the mirror until its
    Â Â Â Â  silver poured from the frame.
    Â Â Â Â  I stood there, unashamed.
    The toughest people have the
    Â Â Â Â  clearest eyes.
    The toughest people have the
    Â Â Â Â  clearest eyes.
    The toughest people? You see right
    Â Â Â Â  inside.
    The bottoms of my feet tingled. My scalp buzzed. I was electrified. At the end of his piece, the guy went silent, adding to the quiet, but it was too much silence for the air to hold—it burst into applause and whoops. People even stomped their feet.
    I turned to Mom and Clem, eyes wide. “Wasn’t that the most awesome thing?” But they just smiled weakly and went back to their conversation.
    The guy shrugged under the spotlight, then sauntered off the stage. A woman about nineteen years old, twig-thin with bouffed-up black hair and red lipstick, leapt to the mic. “Thank you, Aaron, our reigning slam champion. Aaron’s won five weeks in a row. Who’s going to knock him out of the ring?” The woman checked a list in her hand. “Violet. It’s your chance. You get five minutes to show your stuff.”
    Violet looked about fifteen. She was dressed simply, in jeans and a sea-green blouse. She had straight brown hair and no makeup. Her poem thing was nothing like Aaron’s. She spoke quietly, all in one tone, but her voice beckoned. Everyone leaned forward in their seats, turning their heads slightly to make a straight path between her mouth and their ears. The girl talked about grasshoppers and loneliness and a field “where mercy grows.”
    the rain is mauve
    the sun is sweet
    the dirt is dark and live
    the air is a prayer
    that you breathe deep
    and hold
    long
    inside
    so you don’t forget
    but you do forget
    the field behind the old fire hall
    a mile from the 7-Eleven store
    where we hang these days
    getting hurt and mean and tall
    that field behind the old fire hall
    where we used to go
    where we used to play
    Â Â Â Â  in the weeds where mercy grows
    When Violet finished, it was like everyone breathed out at once. The air relaxed. The applause was gentle. I felt dreamy. Violet’s poem had opened little rooms in my mind, some that were dark and smelled of dirt, and others that were brightly lit, surgical as a 7-Eleven store.
    â€œAwesome, Violet,” Twig Girl said, taking the stage. “And that brings this week’s slam to an end. The judges will confer and announce the winner in a jiffy. So, chill for a bit. Get another coffee, talk with your friends. Or start composing your entry for next week’s slam. Same time, same place. Sign-up starts at six thirty.”
    I looked at Mom and Clem. They were in another world. Clem was talking about a BMX competition coming up. Mom nodded along, her eyes a little glazed. It was like she wanted to encourage him but at the same time