love sonnet à la Shakespeare or perhaps Browning, he wondered, or would that be too old-fashioned, too corny? Or should I go for something a little more abstract, something a little more hip? And what should I say? Should I tell her outright how I really feel? Should I be subtle? Should I be mysterious? Should I be funny?
Flam spent the entire weekend composing his opus, agonizing over every line, and polishing every word. Shortly before midnight on Sunday, Flam had finally finished. He was exhausted but elated, and pronounced himself satisfied with the five stanzas he’d managed to wrestle from his muse. They lay there, neatly printed out, ready to be unveiled—a deadly dart aimed straight for the heart. By now, he had the verses embossed in his memory, and he drifted off to sleep, reciting the poem again and again to the enthusiastic sighs of a dream-world Lucy.
Chapter 7
On Monday morning Lucy failed to show up in the cafeteria to share a coffee before class. This was not unprecedented, but it still torpedoed Flam’s buoyant little fantasy of how the day was meant to unfold. He’d envisioned winning her over with the poem first thing in the morning, paving the way for a day spent at school together sighing over one another, and culminating in an evening of intimate discovery. Instead, he found himself waiting anxiously, and then rushing off to class alone.
Their first subject of the day was Psychology of Grief, normally one of Flam’s favourites, but he found himself growing progressively more apprehensive as the classroom clock’s minute hand reached the 9 o’clock zenith without any sign of Lucy. At two minutes after the hour, as the teacher, Mr. Wales, was outlining the day’s lesson on the board, Lucy slunk into the classroom, looking befuddled and dishevelled. Instead of seeking out her usual seat, which Flam had saved in the front row, she chose to slip quickly into a spot at the back while Mr. Wales wasn’t looking. Flam swivelled around and craned his neck, trying to offer her a sympathetic, inquiring look, but Lucy’s head was hunched over her knapsack while she busied herself in its contents.
When class ended, Flam rocketed out of his seat to chase after Lucy, whose long-legged strides were already carrying her quickly down the hallway.
“Lucy!” Flam called after her, starting to wonder if she was purposely avoiding him. She turned, her azure eyes and luminescent smile instantly melting away any doubts Flam had been harbouring. His heart, which had been beating frantically out of control, slowed down to a more sustainable disco beat.
“Oh, hey, Flam,” she greeted him casually, turning to walk beside him. She gave a little snigger. “I really slept in this morning. I’m like totally lucky Wales didn’t centre me out for coming in late.”
Now that he was beside her and able to talk, Flam didn’t know where to begin. He felt like dropping to his knees and simply blurting out adoration for her, but even a guileless romantic like Flam understood that, in rock-hard reality, such things simply weren’t done.
Their next lecture was only minutes away, and although he deliberately slowed down his pace to preserve their time together, Flam knew the poem needed a more appropriate moment for its debut. Still, he needed to break the silence, to set the stage for what he wanted to tell her.
“I went to that poetry recital on Friday night,” Flam finally offered by way of a lead-in. Lucy turned, looking surprised and delighted, the old intimacy suddenly restored. The questions flooded out of her: “Oh, my gosh, I’d forgotten all about it! How was it? Did you enjoy it? What kinds of poetry did they do? Were there a lot of people? Did you meet anyone?”
They had reached their next class, a double dose of Funerary Law, and Flam, bolstered by Lucy’s apparent gush of curiosity, opted to play it coy. “It was quite the experience . . . you really missed out on something,” he said somewhat evasively, not wanting Lucy to feel she’d made the right decision by not having gone with Flam. They were in their seats now, and the opportunity for intimacy was passing as their classmates filled in around them.
“Tell you what,” Flam offered, pretending to turn his attention to his texts and notebooks, “meet me in the cafeteria, and I’ll give you all the juicy details over lunch.” He held his breath until Lucy finally responded with a reticent “alright.” Flam exhaled, and began to mentally prepare for their noon rendezvous.
The rest of the morning dragged by for Flam, and when the bell finally rang, he had only the fuzziest recollection of what had been taught for the past couple of hours. All he could think about was Lucy, and how the moment had finally arrived when he could win her heart. How would she be able to resist him, once he was revealed to her as a newfound poetical light, and she the apex of his inspiration?
Flam stood up, ready to shepherd Lucy to the cafeteria, but before he could utter a word, she turned and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Go ahead and save us a seat, will you? I have something I need to do.” Flam felt the blood rushing to his face, as much from the warm sensation of her physical touch as from the frustration of having once again been sidetracked in his plans.
He managed a brave smile, and acted like it was no big deal. “Sure . . . I’ll grab a table by the windows. You want anything to eat?”
She shook her head. “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” she told him, and took off in the opposite direction. He paused to watch her sway around the corner, and then dashed to the cafeteria.
Most of the eatery’s seating consisted of aisle upon aisle of long, barracks-style tables, but along one side, where a wall of opaque glass blocks ran floor to ceiling, was a row of tables for two. These choice seats went fast at lunchtime, and Flam wanted to ensure he got one, thereby guaranteeing some intimacy and eliminating the possibility some passing classmates could join them.
He was in luck. There was just one table left, and with relief he dropped his knapsack on the spare chair and plopped himself down. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry, making him briefly contemplate buying a drink—he was too nervous to eat—but the checkout line was already growing long, and he didn’t want to chance wasting any of their precious time together standing in the queue.
Flam realized his back was to the door, and he hurriedly switched seats so he would be able to wave Lucy down the instant she came into the cafeteria. The minutes crept by, each one noted on Flam’s wristwatch, and corroborated by the clock on the cafeteria wall, but there was still no sign of Lucy. By a quarter past, Flam was getting a sick feeling in his stomach, feeling his dreams being slowly crushed to death under the weight of Lucy’s cruel indifference. By twelve thirty, Flam’s despair had begun to morph into anger, directed as much at himself as at the latecomer herself.
He was getting ready to stomp out of the cafeteria, and was debating whether to tear up the poem first, when Lucy materialized in the entrance to the cafeteria. She spotted Flam and hurried across the crowded hall towards him, leaving behind a wake of admiring male heads, which swung around in rapid synchronized succession like cadets on parade.
“Hi, Flam,” she offered, smiling innocently as he stood up to grab his knapsack and allow her to slide into the vacant seat. “So, tell me about Friday night!” she began immediately without any preamble or a word of explanation. She sounded genuinely excited, and although Flam had thought of challenging her for being late, he quickly dismissed the notion and instead launched into his well-rehearsed, somewhat embellished version of the Friday night poetry recital. He finished up by relating how he himself had been mistaken for a poet, although he purposely didn’t mention it had been a woman who’d approached him, not wanting even a hint of possible infidelity to enter Lucy’s mind.
Flam concluded with the coup de grace, a carefully planned segue to the poem he had written for Lucy. “One or two of them weren’t bad, in a raw, shoot-from-the-hip kind of way, but frankly I think my own stuff is better.”
Lucy blinked as she absorbed the statement. Then she took the bait, her eyes widening with unabashed delight, so alluring it caused an instant tingle in Flam’s groin.
“Flam . . . you write poetry?” she squealed. “How come you never told me? All those times we were talking and learning about it, I didn’t realize you did more than just read it!”
Flam acted