Free Every Last Word by Tamara Ireland Stone

haven’t.”
    “Good,” he says. Another long pause. “Don’t.”
    “I won’t.”
    He steps out of my personal space and I have a chance to look at him. Really look at him. His dark blond hair is poking out from under the cap, and his eyes are this interesting brownish-green
that’s almost the same color as the T-shirt he’s wearing. He’s not clean-cut, like most of my guy friends. He’s scruffier, but in a sexy way. I try to read the expression on
his face, but I can’t, and it bothers me because there’s something about the way he’s looking at me right now that makes me feel sorry for him. He looks sweet, maybe even shy, and
nothing like the confident guy I watched perform on that stage last week.
    The questions are spinning in my head, and I want to spit them out and get it over with. How do I know you? How did I hurt you? How do I tell you I’m sorry if I have no idea what I did?
But I push the words down, searching for new, safer ones.
    “I really loved your song. It’s kind of been stuck in my head.”
    He takes another step back. “Thanks,” he says.
    “I’ve been trying to remember all the lyrics, but…”
    Invite me back. Please.
    I look around again to be sure there’s no one within earshot. “That day downstairs, I guess it kind of inspired me. My poems aren’t very good or anything.” I pause for a
moment, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t, so I keep blabbering.
    “I barely slept last weekend.” Now he looks at me sideways like he’s trying to figure out why this is his problem. “I haven’t been…” I stop short,
realizing I was about to admit that I haven’t been taking the prescription sleep meds I’ve popped every night for the last five years. I keep forgetting. Or maybe I don’t forget.
Maybe I make a choice to keep writing despite how exhausted I’ll be the next day. “I haven’t been sleeping. Once I start writing, I kind of
need
to keep going.” I let
a nervous laugh escape.
    The corners of his mouth turn up slightly. Not much, but enough to expose that dimple and catch me off guard.
    “You’re writing?”
    I nod.
    “You?” AJ crosses his arms like he doesn’t believe me, but at least now I can read the look on his face. He’s surprised. Maybe even intrigued. “You’re writing
poetry, and not because you have to for a class?”
    I shrug. I think he expects me to be offended, but I’m not. I get it. The whole poetry thing shocks me, too.
    “Of course, it’s total crap,” I say, hoping more self-criticism will elicit some kind of reaction, like an invitation to come downstairs and say those words on stage so they
can pelt me with paper and, later, glue sticks.
    AJ uncrosses his arms and transfers his backpack from one shoulder to the other. “I bet your poems are better than you think they are.”
    It’s not true, but it’s a nice thing to say and he looks like he means it. I start to reply, but then I look past him, over his right shoulder, and see Kaitlyn walking in our
direction, taking measured steps, hanging back like she’s timing her arrival so she doesn’t interrupt the two of us.
    Invite me back. I want to hear more poetry, more of your songs.
    “I’ve got to get to class,” he says. “I’ll see ya later, okay?”
    And with that, he takes off, leaving Kaitlyn the opening she was waiting for. She lengthens her stride and as soon as she’s close enough, she grabs me by the arm with both hands.
“Holy shit, was that Andrew Olsen?” she asks.
    “Who?”
    She lets go of me so she can point at him, and together, we watch AJ open a classroom door and disappear from sight. “That
was
him! God, we were so brutal to that kid, weren’t
we?” She shakes her head as I turn his name over in my mind.
Andrew Olsen. Andrew Olsen
.
    “Who?” I ask again, and she slaps my arm with the back of her hand.
    “Andrew Olsen. Remember? Fourth grade. Mrs. Collins’s class?” Kaitlyn must be able to tell by the look on my