The Language of Stars by Louise Hawes

Author:Louise Hawes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Margaret K. McElderry Books

Our Poet Asks for Help, and My Prince Makes an Offer

Walking into the real world outside our classroom after talking one-on-one with a legend, a legend who thought I’d written a good poem, was like taking that blindfold off. Before I was ready, there was too much light, too much noise. And too much H. He made a pathetic cartoon on that bench, tapping his foot like a father waiting up late for his daughter. (If any father wore black hoopers with oversize neon tongues.) As soon as he saw me, he stood and raced toward us. “My dad,” he said, waving his cell. “He’s called three times. He needs me home right away.”

High drama, Losada-style. And Baylor played along. “You’d better hurry then,” he told us, heading for his own car. The sky was flirting with sunset, and on the sidewalk I watched the poet’s long shadow pull away from ours. Watched it wave good-bye with its cane. After only a few steps, though, Baylor and his shadow both turned. “Oh, before you leave,” he called after us, “could you tell me where there’s a good music store in town?”

It seems he wanted our class to wax poetic (or as poetic as we could) with all five senses. We’d already looked at ourselves in a mirror, and smelled and tasted candy, but we still had touch and hearing to go. “I know the kind of music I like might not fit the bill for y’all,” he told us. “I thought I’d sort through some tapes, see what I can find.”

“Tapes?!” H couldn’t hide his surprise, his astonishment that the Great One was so far out of touch. “Do you mean CDs, sir?”

Rufus snapped his fingers. “Of course, I do,” he said, then looked lost, like a kindergartner trying to keep up. “At least, I think I do?”

One glance at our faces must have told him he was in way over his head. “I guess I could use some advice. Do you suppose you might come with me to the music store, Sarah?”

“Me?” Me and a legend at J. Z. Fab’s? Me and Rufus Baylor shopping for tunes?

“I’d be glad to give you a ride home afterward,” our poet added, with a smile that brought back the kid in him. How did he do that?

“Well, I . . .” I glanced at H, who was torn between his father and his big chance to score with Baylor. It was painfully clear he didn’t trust me as musical consultant to the stars.

“Sir,” H explained, his voice low and patient. “It might be better to wait until I can go with you, too.” His cell started playing “Cyclone Heartache” from inside his hip pocket, and he winced. “Listen, I gotta go, but you could call me from the store, right?” He looked at me, not Baylor, for confirmation.

“Sure,” I told him as he backed toward the lot. I knew the chances of my calling were about the same as the odds of my making the Olympics.

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