The Trouble with Emily Dickinson Read online

  “I’m sorry,” Kendal said quickly. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  “It’s okay,” JJ extended her hand. “I was just joking. I’m JJ.” Kendal reached across the table and shook her hand cautiously.

  “I’ve seen you around school. You’re Kendal, right?”

  Kendal nodded, a little shamefully. “I bet you’re not surprised to be tutoring a cheerleader. You must get us and the soccer team all of the time.”

  JJ smiled. “The soccer team and I go way back.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Seriously though, I tutor a lot of different people. Some are soccer players and others are just regular students who are having trouble grasping a subject. Everyone needs help now and then.”

  “I’ve always had trouble in school,” Kendal confessed. “It’s something I have had to work harder at. I have friends who can wake up after a late night out, go to class and pass a test without even studying. I’d give anything to be able to do that.”

  “My friend, Queenie, is like that,” said JJ. She ran her hand through her hair again, something she often did when she was stuck on what to say next. “But I always tell her that college isn’t as easy as high school, and that she should start getting in the habit of studying now. It’s a completely different kind of reality. So, it’s good you are learning how to study and put the work in. You’ll be much more prepared next year in college.”

  “I guess I never looked at it that way,” said Kendal.

  JJ suddenly imagined Queenie’s image appearing over Kendal’s left shoulder. Queenie would be rolling her eyes so far to the side of her head that they’d practically pop out of her ear. JJ realized she’d started to sound like a motivational speaker. “So—what seems to be the problem with Women’s Literature?”

  Kendal emitted a dramatic groan. “I feel like I don’t understand what any of these authors are saying. When we discuss a poem in class, or when Ms. Chin explains what a poem means, I don’t understand where everybody’s coming from. I’m completely lost. I might as well be reading a foreign language.”

  JJ understood Kendal’s frustration, though she couldn’t relate to it. Literature and poetry always had been easy for her, and since she was a writer herself, she had little trouble comprehending abstract ideas or appreciating originality.

  “Well, let’s take a look at the poem you have to write about for tomorrow’s class. Ms. Chin has her students write a one-page response to readings, right?”

  “Unfortunately, my responses don’t even make up half a page.”

  JJ turned the book around to face her and noticed that Kendal wouldn’t be able to look at it upside down. “Maybe it’s better if you sit next to me,” she said. “Just so we can read it together.”

  Kendal switched chairs and accidentally brushed her leg against JJ’s in the process. It distracted her, stealing her attention away from the book momentarily.

  JJ looked up from the page, fully aware that Kendal was staring at her. As soon as their eyes met she looked away, yet something sweet lingered in the air around them.

  “You smell nice,” JJ heard herself say, wincing when she realized what she’d said. “I mean—your shampoo—it smells nice, like fruity or something.”

  “Um—thanks,” Kendal said.

  “I mean, you know,” JJ rambled on, to break the ensuing awkward silence. “It smells like strawberries or something like that.”

  “Thanks.” Kendal repositioned her body in the chair and cleared her throat. She was nervous for some reason and for a second she forgot why she was even in the library until she saw the book of poetry open in front of them. “So, I read this twice and I still don’t get it,” she said, pointing at the page.

  JJ followed the lines of the poem with her index finger. “Okay. First off—the trouble with Emily Dickinson is that she writes ambiguously, meaning a lot of the words that she uses aren’t meant to be taken literally.”

  “You mean what she’s saying in the poem isn’t really what people think she’s saying?”

  “Sort of. See, Dickinson wrote ambiguously because that’s just the way she wrote. She knew what the poems meant and that was all that mattered to her. She never intended them to be published because she was afraid that readers would interpret them in ways she didn’t want them to. Some scholars tend to refer to her as a ‘private poet,’ because it wasn’t until after her death that her talent for poetic expression was discovered and ultimately became respected by others.”

  “That’s kind of depressing that she wasn’t discovered until after her death. Was she afraid to share her work or something?”

  “I don’t know.” JJ picked at the page with her fingers. “I don’t think that matters. There are plenty of talented writers out there who prefer to keep their poetry to themselves.”

  “It seems like a waste of time, though. Why even write if you aren’t going to share your work with other people?”

  “Some people don’t need approval from others in order to call themselves writers,” said JJ, looking up from the book. “It isn’t as important as you might think.”

  “All that I’m saying is—”

  “Can we get back to the poem?”

  Kendal bit back her words and proceeded to read the next few lines out loud. “A long, long sleep, a famous sleep. That makes no show for dawn. By stretch of limb or stir of lid. An independent one.” She paused and looked up from the page. “Is that about a nap?”

  “Well, more like the kind of nap you don’t wake up from,” said JJ. “Read the last two lines.”

  “To bask centuries away, not once look up for noon . . . bask centuries away . . . she’s talking about death, right? A long, long sleep.”

  “Good. Now you’re reading between the lines. And that’s one of the keys to reading poetry.”

  They discussed the poem at length, along with a few others for over an hour. Kendal struggled to make sense of most of them, but found comfort in JJ’s encouragement.

  “It might help if you learned a little bit about Dickinson’s background. Knowing where authors came from and what they’re about can help you understand their writing better.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, for instance, one of the themes Dickinson often writes about is love. Only she wrote about it as a thing to be felt and not just a thing to be said. Poetry gave her a way to explore the feeling of love to the fullest extent, in a way most people never let themselves experience.” It didn’t take JJ long to notice that Kendal was staring at her again. “What did I say?”

  “Nothing,” said Kendal. She blinked and looked away, as if she were keeping a secret. “It’s easy to see why you’re such a good tutor. I learned more about Emily Dickinson in the last hour than I have my entire life.” She closed the book and tapped at the cover. “You were highly recommended to me by my advisor, you know. He said you were one of the best. Most tutors I’ve had come off sounding condescending. It’s as if they assume I’m an idiot because I’m a cheerleader.”

  “I didn’t think that.”

  “I’m sure you had some preconceived notions though.”

  “Possibly,” JJ admitted. “But no more than what you thought about me when I first got here. You said it yourself, you were expecting someone a bit more studious, remember?”

  “Well, we’re even then.”

  JJ began to pack up her things and pointed to Kendal’s folder. “I think you’ve got a good amount of notes to write your one-page response for your class tomorrow,” she said.

  Kendal looked over the scribbles in her notebook. “Are you kidding? I think I actually have enough to write at least five pages.”

  JJ studied her, admiring the child-like expression on her face. It was then that she realized she’d never really seen Kendal McCarthy up close. She was more than beautiful.

  “What?” Kendal asked.

  “Nothing,” said JJ. It was her turn to look away this time. “I should get back to my dorm. I�
��ve got some reading to do and we have an early practice tomorrow.” She slowly packed the rest of her things into her gym bag, slid her hat on backwards, and then checked around and under the table making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. “I’ll see you next session,” she said finally. “Same place, same time, except I’ll be on time.”

  “Yeah, same time,” Kendal said, laughing. She picked up her cell phone and added the date in her calendar.

  JJ stood still for half a second longer, letting the sound of Kendal’s laughter sweep over her before she turned to leave. She walked back to her dorm room reliving each moment of their interaction in her head, recalling the tidbits of conversation, and the warm sensation she felt whenever Kendal accidentally brushed against her.

  The dorm room was empty when JJ entered, though she could hear the television in the common room. She knew that Queenie probably was watching a movie. She and Queenie roomed together and shared a suite with two other members of the basketball team. Not wanting to be interrogated about what happened during her tutoring session with Kendal, JJ quietly changed into a pair of boxer shorts and a T-shirt, and climbed onto her top bunk without saying goodnight.

  She ran her hand underneath her pillow and pulled out another journal. This one she kept in her bed in case she ever woke up from a dream and needed to write her thoughts down on paper before they vanished from her mind like midnight fog.

  A number two pencil, with its end chewed ragged and sides haphazardly gnawed, fell out from between the pages. Sitting with her legs crossed, JJ closed her eyes and breathed in long and heavy before she exhaled an equally long sigh. She did this for a few minutes to clear the clouds in her head until nothing remained but a clear white space, an empty room in which the thoughts inside could move about freely

  While a sense of quiet draped over her like a quilt, an image of Kendal appeared in JJ’s mind. The picture seemed as real as if they were still together in the library, sitting side by side, discussing the intricacies of Emily Dickinson’s poetry. When JJ opened her eyes, the writer inside of her had taken hold. She scrawled words rapidly across the blank pages of her journal.

  Beyond your eyes, I see it . . . a moment,

  a feeling, a breath

  A second to say the words that never leave your lips

  And then it’s gone

  Leaving behind a sensation

  Tingling in my heart

  Lingering in the air

  Making me wish

  That the moment never ended

  Making me hope

  To feel it again

  But I imagine

  That next time

  The words will flow

  The moment will last

  The breathing will speed

  And emotions will reveal

  What lies patiently

  Beyond your eyes

  When she finished, JJ sat back and admired her work. She whispered the poem out loud to herself in the safe confines of an empty room where she felt secure that no one else could hear her.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Wild nights. Wild nights.”

  “No, no. Read it with more enthusiasm,” said JJ.

  Kendal raised her voice slightly. “Wild nights! Wild nights!”

  JJ looked at her skeptically.

  “What?” Kendal asked.

  “Do you even realize what Dickinson is writing about here?”

  “A wild night?”

  “The way you read it you’d think the poem was about a boring night.” JJ glanced around to make sure that the library was empty. Then she grabbed the poetry book and pushed her chair away from the table. She stood up firm and bellowed, “WILD nights! WILD nights! Were I with thee, WILD nights should be our luxury!”

  Kendal looked on in amazement. “Wow,” she said.

  “See the difference?”

  “Yeah. But I’m more impressed with the way you read it than I am with the poem.”

  JJ forced a smile, even though her stomach was in knots. Had there been a single soul sitting anywhere near them, she would have never dared to do what she had just done. But she had to in order to get her point across about Dickinson’s poetry. “I’m just doing the poem justice,” she said. “I’m giving it the enthusiasm that Dickinson intended.”

  “So she’s talking about a crazy, wild night. Was she at a party or something?”

  “Kendal,” said JJ, exasperation filling her voice as she sank back down into her chair.

  “What?”

  “I can’t help you with this if you aren’t willing to at least try and look between the lines.”

  “I know,” Kendal sighed. “I’m still getting used to this whole poetry thing. Emily Dickinson is just the beginning, you know? We’re also studying other authors this semester.”

  “Dickinson is the beginning,” JJ insisted. “It’s from Dickinson that all those other authors stem. You’ll see.”

  “I know I’m lacking enthusiasm. It’s just that I haven’t had any ‘wild nights’ myself since you started tutoring me. It’s been two weeks of studying, studying, studying.”

  JJ shifted in her chair. “But they’ve been an enjoyable two weeks of studying, studying, studying, haven’t they?”

  Kendal smiled as if she were glad that JJ cared enough to ask. “Yes, they’ve been enjoyable. Thanks to you.”

  JJ held back her sigh of relief. The truth was that the past two weeks had been the most enjoyable days she had ever experienced at Sampson Academy. And it was all because of Kendal.

  “So back to those ‘wild nights,’” said Kendal. “Do you mind if I try again?”

  “Go for it,” said JJ. But as soon as Kendal opened her mouth to begin, JJ covered the page with her hands. “Except this time, give it a little more oomph.”

  “Oomph?”

  “Yeah—oomph!”

  Kendal laughed, “Okay.”

  JJ watched closely as Kendal began reciting the poem. She suddenly forgot all about those wild nights in the poem and focused in on Kendal’s eyes, her hair, and the way her nose twitched when she shouted a word. As soon as she finished, JJ stood up and began clapping loudly.

  Kendal blushed with embarrassment and pulled at JJ’s arms to get her to sit back down. JJ playfully grabbed hold of Kendal’s hand and pushed it away. Neither of them let go and their hands stayed locked together.

  “See, that was much better,” JJ said after a moment, slowly releasing Kendal’s hand.

  “Um—can we go over the middle stanza again?” Kendal asked, pretending she hadn’t noticed that they had been holding hands for a full thirty seconds. “Futile the winds to a heart in port, done with the compass, done with the chart.”

  “Sure. What do you think it means?”

  “I think that it means that because she was so deeply in love, the winds were useless to her. So was the compass and the map or chart or whatever. She didn’t need them because her heart knew which way to go. It knew how to get her to her loved one because the connection between them was so strong.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And when she got there, they’d have plenty of ‘wild nights.’”

  JJ laughed. “Not wild as in crazy silly, but wild as in overwhelming.” She pointed to Kendal’s heart. “Remember when I told you that Dickinson believed that love should truly be felt? Well, the ‘wildness’ is describing what she felt.”

  Kendal’s eyes widened. “She must have been head over heels for the guy she was writing about.”

  “How do you know it was a guy?” JJ asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Some people seem to think,” JJ began, but paused for a moment, not sure how to phrase the rest of what she wanted to say. “It’s been said that Dickinson might have been in love with a close friend, another woman.”

  “A woman?”

  JJ continued slowly, “Well, a lot of her love poems are not exclusively heterosexual. And in this one she doesn’t specifically address gender. She’s just expressing
love.”

  “I don’t know. That still doesn’t mean she’s talking about another woman.”

  JJ paused. “You don’t think it’s possible for a woman to feel that intensely about another woman? To feel that much in love?” She looked along the bookshelves as she asked this, slightly afraid of what Kendal might say in return.

  Kendal studied the words on the page, though her mind drifted to thoughts of how she’d been thinking about JJ far too often lately. She read the poem over again.

  “I do think it’s possible,” she said finally. “I think love has a way of crossing all boundaries.”

  They stared at one another, both well aware that they were thinking exactly the same thing. A comfortable silence lingered around them and even though their hour of studying was up, neither mentioned the time or dared to glance at the clock. Instead they continued talking, flipping through the pages of Dickinson’s lyrics as if they were taking a journey through another world, outside the boundaries of reality, and certainly outside the confinement of Sampson Academy.

  CHAPTER 5

  “So, are you going to tell me or just sit there eating your eggs with that ridiculous grin on your face for the rest of breakfast?”

  “What? I’m hungry.”

  “Right,” Queenie snorted. “Look, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t mention your numerous little tutoring dates with the homecoming queen to anyone else on the team. I think that kind of devotion earns me a complete and detailed account of the evenings in question.”

  “Your talent for persuasion astonishes me. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

  Queenie curled her fingers and ran them across her shirt, pretending to buff her nails.

  “Cute,” JJ said, peppering her eggs with hot sauce.

  “Quit trying to stall by flattering me.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so intrigued anyway.”

  Queenie slapped her hands down flat on the table. “Are you kidding me? This isn’t like you’re tutoring the alphabet to some spoiled soccer player. This is THE Kendal McCarthy, the most popular girl at Sampson Academy. And you’ve been tutoring her for a couple of weeks now.”