“Cutlass?” Garrett wheezes. “Like the sword?”
“The car,” I mutter. “I was comparing her lips to this cherry-red Cutlass I fixed up when I was a kid. Drawing on my own experience, that kind of thing.”
Tucker shakes his head in exasperation. “You should have compared them to cherries, dumbass.”
He’s right. I should have. I’m a terrible poet and I do know it.
“Hey,” I say as inspiration strikes. “What if I steal the words to “Amazing Grace”？ I can change it to…um…Terrific Grace.”
“Yup,” Garrett cracks. “Pure gold right there. Terrific Grace.”
I ponder the next line. “How sweet…”
“Your ass,” Tucker supplies.
Garrett snorts. “Brilliant minds at work. Terrific Grace, how sweet your ass.” He types on his phone again.
“Jesus Christ, will you quit dictating this conversation to Hannah?” I grumble. “Bros before hos, dude.”
“Call my girlfriend a ho one more time and you won’t have a bro.”
Tucker chuckles. “Seriously, why are you writing poetry for this chick?”
“Because I’m trying to win her back. This is one of her requirements.”
That gets Garrett’s attention. He perks up, phone poised in hand as he asks, “What are the other ones?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“Golly gee, if you do half as good a job on those as you’re doing with this epic poem, then you’ll get her back in no time!”
I give him the finger. “Sarcasm not appreciated.” Then I swipe the notepad from Tuck’s hand and head for the doorway. “PS? Next time either of you need to score points with your ladies? Don’t ask me for help. Jackasses.”
Their wild laughter follows me all the way upstairs. I duck into my room and kick the door shut, then spend the next hour typing up the sorriest excuse for poetry on my laptop. Jesus. I’m putting more effort into this damn poem than for my actual classes. I still have fifty pages to read for my econ course, and a marketing plan to outline, but am I doing either of those things? Nope.
I reach for my cell and text Grace.
Me: What’s your email address?
She answers almost instantly: [email protected]
Me: Incoming.
This time around, she takes her sweet time messaging back. Forty-five minutes to be exact. I’m thirty pages into my reading assignment when my phone buzzes.
Her: Don’t quit your day job, Emily Dickinson.
Me: Hey, u didn’t say it had to be GOOD.
Her: Touché. D-on the poem. Can’t wait to see your collage.
Me: How do u feel about glitter? And dick pics?
Her: If there’s a pic of your dick on that collage, I’m photocopying it and passing it around in the student center.
Me: Bad idea. You’ll give all the other dudes an inferiority complex.
Her: Or an ego boost.
Smiling, I quickly type another message: I’m getting that date, gorgeous.
There’s a long delay, then: Good luck with #6.
She’s trying to get in my head. Ha. Well, good fucking luck with that. Grace Ivers has underestimated both my tenacity and my resourcefulness.
But she’ll find that out soon enough.
*
Grace
I’m laughing to myself as I sit at my desk rereading the God-awful poem Logan emailed me. His similes crack me up—mostly car or hockey comparisons—and his rhyme scheme is all over the place. Is it ABAB? No, there’s a third rhyme in there. ABACB?
God, this is epic-level bad.
And yet my heart won’t quit doing happy dolphin flips.
“What’s so funny?” Daisy waltzes into our room, back from the one-hour show she hosts at the station. She’s in ripped jeans, a teeny tank top, and her trademark Docs, but her bangs are now purple. She must have dyed them when I was in class today, because they were still pink when I left this morning.
“Love the purple,” I tell her.
“Thanks. Now show me what you’re giggling about.” She comes up behind me and peers at the screen. “Is it that baby koala video Morris forwarded everyone earlier? Because that was so adorab—Ode to Grace?” she squawks in dismay. “Oh God. Do I even want to know?”
I suppose a better person would have minimized the window before she could read Logan’s poem, but I leave it up. It’s too hilarious not to.
Her laughter reverberates through the room as she scans the poem. “Oh wow. This is a disaster. Points for the hockey references, though.” Daisy lifts a strand of my hair and scrutinizes it. “Hey, it kinda is the same shade as those Bruins throwback jerseys from the sixties.”