Losing Is Not an Option by Rich Wallace

Author:Rich Wallace [Rich Wallace]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-55757-5
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2011-11-16T05:00:00+00:00

Dawn

For two days I have been surrounded by lithely writhing dancers, intensely brilliant cellists and singers, and lyrical expressers of inner-city/rural/suburban angst and desire.

You may have heard of the Griffito Conference, a weeklong summer workshop for teenage poets, musicians, and dancers. It’s sponsored by some giant corporation like Microsoft or the Republican Party.

I’m being cynical. It’s sponsored by the Griffon Foundation, which is apparently a big deal in its own right.

They run contests and auditions in late winter to attract several dozen of us for a week of (this is from the brochure) “sharing, learning, experimentation, and growth in the idyllic setting of the lakeside Athenaeum Institution in western New York State.”

I like words. But no way in hell do I belong here.

My English teacher (and track coach) badgered me to apply. He tells me I have a point of view, and I suppose I agree with him. When I write lyrics, which isn’t often, I just write about what I’m going through after making a jerk out of myself with a girl or feeling powerless and stupid after an argument with my father. And I don’t go comparing myself to a wilted dandelion or using metaphors or that other shit; I just lay out the emotions and try to let you know what I’m saying instead of expecting you to interpret.

But I am way outclassed here. By everybody.

My mother dropped me off in Scranton early Sunday and I boarded a bus for Erie, six hours away. After a two-hour wait I took a second bus to Jamestown, New York, where I was picked up in a van and driven another half hour to the gates of the Institution, arriving dehydrated and nervous at dusk.

“We’re so glad you’re here, Ronny,” said Mrs. Henderson, the gray-haired conference director, when I showed up at the dorm. “You missed dinner. You’re in one of the singles—the rooms are tiny, but we hope there’ll be as much interaction as possible.” She brought her hands together in a sharp little clap, touching her fingertips to her chin. “You must be exhausted. Are you?”

I let my gym bag slip down off my shoulder and grabbed the handles. “I guess I’m okay. Thirsty, maybe.”

She smiled. “We have bottles of water, lots of them, in that little room over there. In the fridge. Today we just get to know each other. At dinner, for example.”

I started to say something about getting a bottle of water, but she was only taking a microsecond to breathe. She clapped her hands again and said, “Now, you-ou … are in room 2-H. It’s a little musty. You don’t have asthma or anything?”

“No. Not, uh … no.”

“Then you’ll be fine. So glad you’re here. The other poets … it’s a diverse group. Such sweet girls. And Ramon—he’s from the Bahamas. Just four boys in the poetry group. Ten girls. You’re not a smoker?”

“No. I run.”

“We ask that you smoke outside.… So. You’ve arrived.”

I nodded and pointed toward the stairs. “Up here?”

“Yes.” She smiled tightly.

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