Free Fallout by Nikki Tate Page A

but I need to move.
    This month is a big one for poetry slams. Four cafés are hosting a series of competitions. They’ll add up points to see who will be on the team going to Nationals. The team is organized by the Camden Slammers, a group of local poets who make the local slams happen. The slams are so popular they make almost enough at the door to pay for an all-expenses-paid trip to Corinthian for the winners. Corinthian is a small city that’s being swallowed by Toronto. It may not be that far away, and putting us up might mean hostels and cheap food, but there are plenty of us who would love to go.
    On good days I imagine inviting David to meet me in Corinthian. Who am I kidding? David won’t be in the front row, clapping.
    Anyway, I’m not good enough to make the team.
    â€œDon’t go too far! You have another round!” Amy, one of the slam organizers yells after me. She waves when I turn to look back. “You and Ebony do the next one together, right?”
    â€œI know!” I shout. Even if I want to walk forever, I can’t let Ebony down. We’ve worked too hard. Returning phone calls is going to have to wait.
    Poetry has taken over everything. My friendships. My spare time. My dreams. I get in trouble at the bookstore when I scribble in my notebook instead of doing my job.
    Maybe I don’t get paid to write poetry, but if I don’t write down my ideas, they are gone. I bet half the people who work in bookstores are writers. I don’t say this to my supervisor. Sometimes it’s better to keep your head down and your mouth shut.
    Back in the café, Ebony and I wait in the shadows at the side of the stage. Round two is about to start.
    â€œDon’t think about who’s watching,” Ebony says. “The judges like whatever they like.”
    She’s right. The judges flip their plastic number cards as they listen to the poets. They hold up the scores just like in figure skating. We are here to share poetry, yes. But we are also here to win.
    â€œReady?” Amy says. “You guys are up next.”
    â€œReady as I’ll ever be.” I like the way Ebony and I have worked this poem out. Ebony only has one word to say. She repeats it over and over. That creates a kind of rhythm, the beat for my story. We step onto the stage.
    My mouth is so dry my tongue sticks to my teeth. We have up to three minutes. Three minutes can feel like forever, especially when things aren’t going well.
    And if you go overtime? Well, the audience lets loose with a chant of:
    You rat bastard—you’re ruining it
for everyone…
    But it was weeeelll worth it.
    I push my palms into the folds of my skirt and step up to the microphone. Ebony does the same thing a few feet away.
    Ebony starts.
    Ring. Ring.
    Her voice is clear, beautiful. I speak next.
    Sister, where were you when you called?
    The words take over. I move in ways I do not move unless I am in the grip of a poem.
    Right on time, Ebony’s voice comes in again.
    Ring. Ring.
    Sister, where were you when you
called?
    What would you have said if...
    Ring.
    If I had answered the phone
    turned away from the easy heat of
summer
    the splash of water against
    the how-much-fun-is-this slide?
    Ring. Ring. Ring.
    If I had answered
    would you have told me
    your current location?
    Coffee shop?
    Street corner?
    Parking lot outside the liquor
store
    where you smiled—actually
smiled—
    at that young man whose name
    you probably never knew
    though I know
    and can never forget
    Kenyon.
    Ring. Ring.
    Kenyon who had no idea
    the fragile glass
    the Smirnoff in the brown paper bag
    would somehow survive the impact.
    Kenyon. An innocent guilty young
man
    saw a thirsty girl
    balanced on crutches
    alone, a little sad. Nothing a drink
    couldn’t help. Nothing a favor for
a stranger
    or a kind word
    couldn’t fix.
    Here, we begin to speak together. Ebony’s Ring Ring overlaps with my own.
    The