Lawn Boy

When I didn’t answer, he slowly opened the door — as if he was unsure if he should come in. I didn’t really mind it, so I let him come in.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. I’m-I’m just gonna go. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”
“Wait, I promised that I would help you. I’m gonna do it.” I sat up on my bed, crossing my legs. “Come sit.”
He sat down on the bed next to me and our knees touched. I looked at him. “Poetry is one of the most powerful tools of the mind. When you write poetry, it’s got to come from here.” I put my hand on his chest. He looked down at my hand and then back at me. I took my hand away and kept going. “Poetry has the power to move people to tears, to give people the greatest joy. Everyone who reads it will know if it’s not from the heart as soon as they read it. Make sure you write about something that moves you. If it moves you, then it will move others. That’s all I have to say. You can go now.”
Asher smiled. “Thanks Max. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Go and write. Good luck.”
He left and I was ready for tomorrow to come so I can see what he wrote. But as the day slipped away and night got closer, I knew that it was getting closer to Rebecca’s date with Jamie. She got more giddy and joyous as the time grew closer to seven, when he was going to pick her up.
I heard the doorbell ring and wanted to crawl into my room and never come out — or at least until Jamie doesn’t have to come over anymore. And believe me, it was the worst waiting game of my life, waiting for Rebecca to come home for her date. I also made sure that I was “asleep” when she got home so she wouldn’t want to sit and divulge all of the details of the date to me.

• • •

The next day at school when I saw Asher, he seemed embarrassed to say hi to me. I say this because when I waved to him, he didn’t wave back. He just curled up with Brenda and ignored me. I was kind of put off, but tried to ignore it. I just told myself that it didn’t mean anything.
But I knew that it did mean something, because the entire day I couldn’t get him out of my head. How could we get along so well yesterday and not at all this morning? When English class finally came around, I was sort of excited and terrified of seeing him at the same time. I knew what I had to do, though and now I was terrified of that.
“Okay, who wants to share the poem that they wrote last night?” asked Mr. Perkins. When no one raised their hand, I looked at Asher and then to Mr. Perkins and raised my hand. “Very good. Thank you Mr. Train.”
I stood up and walked to the front of the class. My entire body was shaking almost erratically. “Um…I didn’t write this last night, but…um…a couple days ago when I moved here to Bend from California. It’s called ‘Leaving Home’.” I took out my paper and started to read.
“Upon the plain where ocean meets sky, the sun
dips into the sea as I pass this life by, and none
of the numerous cities in the world can com-
pare to the beauty that simply curled in front
of me every morning that I spent living
in this city by the sea I’ve called my home
since the day that I was given life.

Now, as it disappears into the rearview mirror
of our automobile, it’s abundantly clear
that my life will never be the same. Without
the things that I hold close, and without
the sea and without the salty
air, I’ll feel light years away from all that
is so incredibly dear to my young heart.”

“Wow, that was very excellent, Mr. Train,” said Mr. Perkins.
“Call me Max,” I said.
“Well, very good Max.”
I sat down and Asher seemed to watch my every move. Before Mr. Perkins even finished his sentence asking anyone else if they wanted to share their poems, Asher had his hands in the air.
“Okay Mr. Grant. Nice to see you so eager,” said Mr. Perkins.
Asher got up in front of the class and stumbled on his words as he held his folded poem in his hands. I was immensely curious as to what he’d written about.
“I’d like to thank Max for helping me. I don’t think I would’ve gotten this poem done if it weren’t for him. It’s called ‘The Shy One’.” He unfolded his paper and started to read.
“The shy, nervous one
sinks deep into his bed —
afraid and tapering
away into the past, but
nothing good is awaiting
him there. Nothing good
can come from hiding far
away from what makes
him shine brighter
than all the rest.”

I nearly cried listening to Asher read his poem. I couldn’t help but think that it was about me.
Also, as Asher was reading, his eyes never left me and I could feel the blood rushing to my face. When he sat down, we didn’t take our eyes off each other and I felt a close friendship with him.
A few people went up and read their poems, but we paid no attention to them. And once class was over, Asher was out of the room faster than I could say Walt Whitman. I wanted to go after him, but Mr. Perkins stopped me. It was the last class of the day, so he could keep me for pretty long.
“Max, can I see you for a moment?” he asked.
“Um, sure,” I said, still wanted to catch up to Asher. I walked over to his desk.
“The poem that you wrote was very exceptional. Do you write often?”
“Um…I try to write every day, but it doesn’t always work out that way,” I answered.
“I know how that goes. But…you helped Asher write his poem?”
“I gave him some tips.”
“And what were those tips?” he asked curiously.
“I just said that he needed to write about something that inspired him and it would be great.”
“Well, that sounds like the advice of an old pro. How long have you been writing?”
“I don’t know a few years.”
“Well…keep it up Max. You’re really good.”
“Thanks.”