"Poetry is when an emotion has found a thought and when the thought has found words." -Robert Frost

Memory Lane: Chapter Seven

Despite showing up late every day last week, I still cannot pull my body out of bed early enough to make it to class on time. Not with the rate I've been walking, anyway. If I was to accept Kendall's offer of a ride, I would make it with plenty of time to spare. But each time she offers, panic bubbles deep in my chest and then drops to my stomach as a ball of anxiety. I wish I could accept her offer and think nothing of it, but I can't.

Blinking awake, I push myself into a sitting position on my bed and rest my feet on the plush, pink rug that my bed rests atop of. I stare down as the fluffy fibers of the rug shift between my toes as I sigh. Sitting next to my bedside, my mom's poetry journal rests opened to the page I left off on last night.

I eye it with a frown. My mom always knew the right things to say and the proper way to express all of her feelings on the page. If it weren't for her adding the names of every poet in her journal, it would be hard to distinguish her poetry from the most famous poets in the world.

On the bookshelf that Uncle Tim built rests the journal my mom bought me when I turned twelve and showed her one of the first poems I wrote. I wrote it on printer paper I had stolen from my dad's office, so each line was written with an awkward slant. She said that didn't take away from the pure beauty of my writing, but the next morning I came downstairs to a brand new poetry journal sitting at the kitchen table. It had faint lines for me to follow on the inside.

Even now, only half of the pages are filled. Most pages are home to original poems, a few from poets I discovered a love for, and some are singular lines that I said I would come back to. I have always been too critical of my writing to share any of my poems with people other than my mom and dad. As my parents, I knew that they weren't allowed to criticize my passion even if I was no good. Because of my own judgment, no one really knew that my love for poetry went beyond reading what others had written. I only had one original poem that I was truly confident in. So much so that I entered the local poetry contest to win the chance to share it with the entire town: the one I presented just hours before my entire life got turned upside down.

I was buzzing with elation when they called my name as the first place winner. Now, my body feels numb when I think of it. I won an entire contest by writing about my love for riding in the passenger seat. Yet that night, I lost everything because of it. Now, just being offered a ride and thinking of giving up the wheel sends me spiraling into anxiety. The irony almost makes me laugh.

My poem was published in the newspaper just like the contest promised, but the Wallingford Times was published weekly. Not much happened in our town, so the paper wrote about every event they could find. I'm sure the editors were leaping with joy that they had two major events occur in the same night. I wonder if they felt guilty for being relieved that they wouldn't have to publish another paper talking about the progress of the trees planted in the park and instead could cover one of the worst crashes anyone in town had seen.

Only one page away from my poem, complete with a photo of me beaming with my first place ribbon, is the article of the horrible accident on Memory Lane.

I've never been able to bring myself to read it. One look at the photo of our car, mutilated beyond recognition and lit up in fierce flames, had me balling up the newspaper and throwing it clear across the hospital room. Who wants to read about the story of their own parents' death? I witnessed it. That should give me enough trauma to last a lifetime.

I haven't written anything since. It would feel wrong.

I shut my mom's poetry journal and quickly stand from the bed, wincing at the burning pain on the skin of my leg, and get ready for school.

By the time I make it to the front porch and begin placing my shoes on, everyone else has already left. Allen jogged to Kendall's car this morning before she could get out and offer me a ride, which I greatly appreciated. My heart stings every time her hopeful eyes get dimmed by me declining riding to school with her.

I hear the familiar pop of an engine from the driveway next to the Stallard's and continue my daily routine of refusing to look up as Jesse drives past. After our outburst yesterday, I am more than happy to continue as if he doesn't exist. I understand that Quinn and Kendall say he changed after his dad passed away, and I sympathize with the lonely feeling he must have in his heart. But grief is no excuse for being rude to those around you.

After both of my Converse are tied, I stand and pull my backpack onto my shoulder only to nearly stumble back when I see the old red truck stopped right in front of the Stallard's house.

I furrow my brow and hesitantly walk down the few porch steps as a warm breeze blows past. Jesse casually gets out of the truck, walking around the front and leaning his lower back against the passenger side. He's looking at his phone, and when I start walking towards the sidewalk he locks it and slips it into his back pocket. I refuse to look at him. But, since the sidewalk is merely inches away from the road where his car is parked, he stands nearly blocking my path.

I grit my teeth as I realize I have no other choice but to approach him in order to walk down the path. I stop before reaching him, keeping my chin up. The only logical reason for him to be standing here, blocking my path, would be to offer me a ride just to challenge me even further. He seems to like bringing up the one thing that has been an issue for me since moving here.

"Before you offer, no thanks. I prefer to walk to school."

Jesse shrugs, "I wasn't going to offer."

I finally look at him, meeting his gray eyes with a scowl. "Then why are you standing there?"

Instead of answering, Jesse narrows his eyes at me. "Do you seriously walk to school every day?"

My interest in his motive for standing in my path quickly diminishes and I roll my eyes.

"First you have an issue with me driving and now you have an issue with me walking. So, which is it?" I mutter as I brush past him.

I have to stop myself from stomping my feet on the ground with a mental reminder that I'm not five years old throwing a temper tantrum. Instead, I keep my chin up and walk confidently down my path with no intention of ever speaking to Jesse again. I hear him let out an almost silent sigh behind me, only faintly heard because the warm breeze blew it past me.

"Look, I'm sorry."

Confused that those words actually came from him, my steps hesitate and I glance over my shoulder. My plan to never speak to or see him again still seems very likely when he keeps quiet for another few moments.

Jesse scratches the back of his neck, looking off to the side as he grimaces as though this apology is physically hurting him. He sighs and his hand drops back down to his side as he locks eyes with me. There's actual sincerity in his expression. His normally emotionless eyes are actually hinting towards an honest apology.

"I didn't mean to be such a jerk about the driving thing. Allen told me to lay off and that you have your reasons to want to walk."

Panic shoots down my spine for a moment, but when Jesse's gaze doesn't waver into further skepticism, I relax. Allen wouldn't have told him about my parents. If he had, Jesse wouldn't look like he does right now. His eyes would be brimming with either sympathy or discomfort while looking at the girl he recently discovered is an orphan.

My anger towards him chips away slowly, but I don't dare give in to something as small as a muttered apology.

"Thanks. That all?" I say.

Jesse scowls, "That's all you're going to say?"

"What did you expect?"

He stares at me, crossing his arms across his broad chest.

"You're not very forgiving, are you?"

I nearly scoff at him. I should forgive him just because my cousin told him to apologize? I maintain his challenging gaze, refusing to acknowledge the way the morning light makes the light blue ring around his iris's even more noticeable.

"When someone earns it, I am."

I keep his gaze for a beat longer, just enough time to see his expression waver slightly. Then, I turn and begin my walk. He's already set me back by five minutes and I can't afford to waste any more time or else Mrs. Hyde might really give me detention.

"You're going the wrong way, you know."

I stop walking. I purse my lips as I stare ahead at the path in front of me, wishing I could have been lucky enough to finally be free of his attention. I slowly turn to face him, catching him casually leaning against his truck again.

"I've walked this way every day since school started and I've made it to class. Clearly, it's not the wrong way."

Jesse shrugs, bored as he pushes off of his truck and walks back towards the driver's side. "It's not the quickest way."

I wait for him to expand on his statement. When he doesn't, I roll my eyes and shift my weight impatiently to one foot.

"Okay, so what is the quickest way?"

"Riding with someone."

My lips form a thin line of annoyance. "The quickest walking way?"

Jesse opens his truck door, having to tug it just hard enough for his muscles to strain underneath his black t-shirt. I quickly look away from his arms and catch his nod towards the trees across the street.

"Through the woods, cut through a couple of backyards."

I follow his line of sight to the woods. Any hope of potentially finding a shorter path instantly deflates in my chest and I frown. Through the woods? I would get lost in an instant. Even if I somehow maneuvered that, with my luck I would end up in the backyard of a violent guard dog that I'd be unable to outrun. My legs are already beyond normalcy, I don't want to risk losing them altogether.

As I imagine what the path may be and try to decipher a way to learn it, I vaguely notice Jesse getting into his truck.

Figures he wouldn't offer to help me.

With a sigh, I shake my head and give up any hope for finding this quicker path Jesse alluded to today. Maybe tomorrow I can ask Allen if he knows which backyards to cut through. I turn on my heel and start walking down my path, glancing at the time on my phone with a deep frown. Jesse set me back nearly ten minutes.

Then I stiffen. I don't recall hearing his truck drive past. I've made it my mission to pretend like he doesn't exist, and I was doing a great job before yesterday and this morning, but every day I have at least known when his truck drives past from the distinct purr of the engine.

I glance back over my shoulder and spot his truck still parked in the same spot. The engine isn't running at all and Jesse is not sitting inside. Confused, I look around and find him walking across the street with his dark gray backpack slung over one shoulder. I blink and shake my head, squinting in his direction to decipher if I'm seeing things correctly. Without even looking to see if I'm following, Jesse continues on his way straight into the line of trees.

I stand there, unmoving. The time on my phone taunts my mind, pushing through my intentions of ignoring Jesse once again and continuing on my own path. I gnaw on my bottom lip as my eyes dart between the woods and the sidewalk. If I go my way, I'll be later than usual. Mrs. Hyde's laziness to actually write me a detention slip can only be pushed so far. So, with a huff of annoyance, I give in to my curiosity and jog across the street to catch up with Jesse.

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