The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“Yes, Mom,” I murmur, and she motions me onward, offering me my freedom.

I don’t wait for her to change her mind. I launch myself toward the door and exit to the porch, where I find Kevin at the bottom of the steps, stuffing his face with a chocolate-covered glazed doughnut. Intending to take half of that beauty for myself, I dash down the steps and vault to a finish in front of him. He laughs and shoves the last bite into his mouth.

Grimacing in disappointment, I watch him lick his fingers. “Dad made breakfast,” he announces, “which means he brought home doughnuts. I love when Mom goes to work early.”

“Jerk,” I say.

He hands me a bag. “One for you.”

“Not a jerk,” I correct, hiking my bag on my shoulder and accepting my prize, while sirens scream in the distance. “Thank you.”

We start walking and the sirens grow louder. “Wonder what that’s all about,” Kevin asks, looking over his shoulder and then back at me. “Maybe Old Man Michaels who owns that corner store is beating his wife again.”

“Or the dog,” I suggest. “I heard he beats his dog, too.”

“No way,” Kevin gasps. “The dog?”

I nod and assure him it’s true. “That’s what I heard.”

“Man,” he says. “That’s bad.”

I pull my doughnut from the bag. “That stuff after school yesterday was bad, too, right?”

“I know, right?” Kevin eyes me. “I wanted to help poor Henry, but I didn’t want to get beat up, too.”

“Me too.” I test the chocolate with a lick of my tongue. “That new boy helped and he’s big.” I take a bite. It’s really good. “I love this doughnut.”

“Right?” Kevin says. “Those are the best. So is the new girl,” he adds. “She’s pretty.”

I shrug and take another bite. “I guess.”

“Hey! Hey! Heyyyy!”

We stop walking and turn to find our next best friend, Connor, running toward us, arms flying around wildly.

“What’s his deal?” Kevin murmurs.

“Probably mad because we didn’t ask him to walk to school with us,” I suggest.

“I had only one extra doughnut,” Kevin whispers. “What do I say to him?”

Connor screeches to a halt in front of us and leans forward, hands on his thighs, panting hard. “Class is cancelled.”

I finish my doughnut. “Sister Marion sick or something?” Now I lick my fingers.

“No,” Connor says, straightening, hands on his hips. “I heard my mom talking on the phone. One of the kids from class is dead. As in never coming to class again.”

Kevin and I both drop our backpacks and together ask, “Who?”

“Don’t know,” Connor says. “But they found him down by the creek.”

Chapter 1

Present Day

I sit in the back row of the theater-style Austin, Texas speakeasy, the air conditioner cranked on high, soothing the heat of a hot August night. A stage sits in the center of the room, and there is whiskey in my hand—an expensive pour of a high-end Macallan—my preferred drink. I’m loyal to what I believe to be quality in all things. There are other, more affordable whiskey choices, of course, but when I’m alone, without my family, I am no longer forced to play the frugal husband and father. A role that is cumbersome, but necessary to protect a higher purpose I must serve.

I glance at the attendees of tonight’s poetry reading, counting twenty heads, the ages varied; one young woman can’t be more than sixteen, while one man’s shriveled skin ages to sixty-plus.

This is a cozy little spot indeed, and I sip my Macallan, oaky with a hot lick on the tongue, as Michael Summer steps to the microphone. He has thick dark hair, much like the look I’ve created for myself in this persona. He’s tall, six-foot-two, I imagine, a good four inches above my five-foot-ten, with glasses and a bow tie accentuating his button-down. I appreciate the attention to detail, and considering his role as tonight’s poetry guide, I’ve now raised my expectations. Perhaps he’ll be good enough to continue in his role.

His gaze scans the crowd and finds me, “the professor,” as he knows me from a prior event, one that led me to an invitation to this one.

He clears his throat and then says, “Good evening. I’m Michael Summer. Welcome to our poetry night, a night of literary delight. Now, to get started, I’ve placed a book of poems under your seat.” I hear nothing else. Poetry is the bible of words, not meant to lie on the ground, not meant to be dirtied and disrespected. Poetry is history to be protected, lessons to be learned, a path to change our society or prevent its demise.

And I am the chosen master—not the original, of course, but the chosen one nevertheless.

I sit back, sipping the luxurious whiskey that I now know to be a mismatch to a night where I watch one person after another step to the microphone to butcher the great works: Frost, Shakespeare, Poe. The list goes on, but I don’t blame the students. I blame the teacher, and the teacher must pay. He will not continue in his role, but he will serve a purpose.