Chapter 21 recap: We skipped five months ahead to spring. Gram is in assisted living, Charlie’s staying with Liz until college at NYU in the fall. High school is almost officially over. Charlie just has to get through her final presentation of her independent study, which she somehow salvaged.

I'd never told anyone that I was afraid to fly, so the first time I boarded an airplane no one had thought to warn me how terrifying the whole experience would be. I was 14 and Jackie was allowed to take a friend with her to her uncle's timeshare in Kissimmee. She'd let me have the window seat since it was my first time flying and I'd given her no reason to think that I didn't want a bird's eye view of us and our fellow travelers plummeting from the sky to our certain deaths. 

The fact that something is most likely to go wrong during take-off or landing hadn't escaped me—I'd done my research. As the plane's engines revved and we took off down the runway, I made the mistake of peering out my tiny window. Our plane tilted backward and I fought the urge to shout “We can still turn back! It's not too late!” But, the further behind we left the tarmac, the further past the point of no return we drifted. And, within seconds, we were too far gone to change our minds. 

Each step toward the podium reminded me of my first and only flight. I could have turned back after the first step and maybe only a few people in the front row would have seen. After the second step, more of the audience would have noticed, but they may not have thought much of it. By the time I took my third step, I was practically halfway there and the chatter from the audience had settled in anticipation of what I had to say. I was past the point of no return—beyond my radius of action—when I tasted blood. Old habits die hard.

I adjusted the microphone and cleared my throat. The sound bounced off the walls of the auditorium.

A slightly nasal voice began to recite the presentation I'd spent the last week committing to memory. A full 15 seconds passed before I realized it was my own. In some act of self-preservation, my body had taken over, leaving my brain to its own devices. 

I heard myself saying things about my poems. I was talking about myself the way we talked about real writers in lit class, using words like tone, syntax, rhythm, structure. I talked about arranging my poems and putting the book together. I clicked through the website I’d built with Andy’s help and talked about the “user experience.” I heard myself use the word “approach.” And then my body said its final words and handed things over to my brain. 

“In conclusion, I'll read a poem from the final chapter of Girl Can’t Cook. It's called ‘Yield.’”

And that's where my body left me. Apparently, it had decided it could only take me so far. I paused and waited. Nothing.

“It's the name of both the chapter and the poem,” I managed to say on my own. 

I flipped to the last of my note cards and wondered if it was possible that, in the last five minutes, I'd forgotten how to read. The words seemed to scramble and pulsate across the card. I blinked hard and refocused my eyes. Miraculously, the letters rearranged themselves into actual words. 

“This poem is called ‘Yield,’ which is...well, it's also the name of the, uh...last chapter.”

I’d already said that. 

“So, here we go,” I said out loud, though I'd meant to only think it. 

If the fumes don’t get you

the noise will

horns 

and brakes on tires

and that knowing voice who sounds polite but tells you every turn you take is wrong.

She doesn’t know when to stop.

Or go

or yield.

Yielding is the hardest

Or at least the most complicated

to know when to fall in line

or let a person go.

There were rules 

so arbitrary

we wrote them

in fading purple pen 

on the backs of unfinished canvases

and on the soft skin

of the inside of my arm.

They lasted, surprisingly 

I forget they’re there 

except sometimes they peek from beneath my sleeve

when I reach to adjust the mirror

not to see my reflection 

or yours 

but to gauge the closeness

of those who are speeding

or reckless

or otherwise threaten our safety. 

I’ve learned. 

I didn’t always know.

When to yield,

to let them pass. 

I carefully closed my book before looking up at the audience. I'd prepared for the worst: laughter and ridicule. But it was essentially the same mix of mild interest and blank stares. A guy in the second row napped against a balled-up sweatshirt. Someone coughed. 

“Thanks, Charlie, that was great,” Mr. Clark boomed over the PA system as he walked toward me and the podium. “Oh, hot mic,” he muttered and glanced towards the control booth. 

I stepped backward and walked towards the backstage area. As we crossed paths, Mr. Clark tilted his head toward me and winked, which I probably would have found creepy and annoying a few months ago. But I could tell he just wanted to let me know that he thought I'd done a good job. 

The adrenaline quickly drained from my body, leaving me feeling exhausted and sweaty. I walked past a cluster of kids nervously clutching their notecards or laptops loaded with slide presentations. Andy had used his theater department pull to get to the backstage area and wait for me. 

“Wow,” he said, looking stunned. 

“What?”

“Just...wow. That was fucking amazing,” he said a bit too loudly and quickly slapped a hand over his mouth. 

“You seriously don’t have to say that,” I said. I leaned against a stack of risers for support. 

“I know I don’t have to. I’m serious,” he said, grabbing my elbow. “I mean, it’s one thing to go out there and read a bunch of lines or sing a song…”

“I think my singing would have been the only thing more horrifying than what just transpired.” 

“Stop it. Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Act like that was nothing. Like it wasn’t a badass move.”

“Honestly, I'm not sure how many people were actually listening.”

“They were. They just didn’t know how to react. They’re not used to honesty. Here, have my Vitamin Water.” 

I took a few swigs from Andy’s drink and started to feel better. Maybe people had liked it. Maybe they thought it was weird or lame or pathetic. Either way, I was done. And that was good enough for that moment. I leaned back against the risers again and closed my eyes. 

“Charlie.” The voice was familiar, but distant sounding. I opened my eyes and saw Jackie standing in front of us. She wore a tailored blazer with her jeans. She looked at least twenty-five years old.

“I’ll be back,” Andy said and darted off before I could tell him to stay. 

“Hi,” I said standing up straighter. 

“I’m up after this guy,” Jackie said, gesturing toward the stage. 

“Oh, good luck.”

“Thanks,” she said, adjusting the rubber band that held together her stack of notecards. “I just wanted to tell you I liked your presentation.”

“Thanks,” I said. I was still too exhausted to register surprise. 

“I didn’t know you wrote poetry.”

“I never really told anyone.”

Jackie nodded. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. I thought you were great. And, you know, NYU has poetry readings all the time on campus. You should totally go and read something.”

There was something very surprising, but also really sad about Jackie knowing that I was going to NYU in the fall. It meant she’d thought about me enough to find out my plans, but not enough to talk to me.  Our friendship was officially in the past. It was part of our history and nothing more. 

“Thanks, I’ll look that up,” I said.

A smattering of tolerant applause came from the audience. 

“I guess that’s my cue,” she said. 

“Break a leg.” 

***

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