ANYTHING BUT ENEMIES

15. handouts from the circus

WE'RE OUTSIDE FOR the second half of class today (courtesy of Frances claiming we needed a change of environment to 'get our creative juices flowing,') and, lucky for me, I've almost been shit on by the same bird three times.

Maybe it's karma or maybe it's because I'm generally not so fond of the outdoors, and the little heathen can pick up on it, but my creative juices are not flowing. In fact, they're doing the opposite of flowing. I'm about to have heat stroke.

"Dude, it's like a hundred degrees out here. Is she out of her mind?" The complaint comes from Reece, who's busy fanning himself with a baseball cap.

"I heard that Mr. Kent," Frances tuts while walking up behind us, handful of papers in a stack. "It's nice. I don't know what all of you are grumbling about."

I meet eyes with Ruby from a couple feet away, and we both shake our heads in unison.

"Is there at least a point to this?" Reece sighs.

"Uh huh, getting your creative juices flowing, I thought I already said that."

"My juices were flowing well enough in the AC," he mumbles under his breath before leaning back into the shade of my tree.

Across the way, I notice Dane under a different tree, long-sleeved shirt over cashmere undone a couple extra buttons to reveal the gold chain he'd made a point to hide away from me. He looks bothered by the heat in a way that's picturesque, slight downwards tug of his lips, hair pushed back out of his face, jacket slung over his shoulder.

It brings me some solace to know that he's probably burning under all those layers.

As if he can hear my thoughts, his eyes suddenly cut to mine, narrow suspiciously. When he looks away, his frown becomes even more severe, and I pull my knees up to my chest, biting my thumbnail.

"Today I have a little project planned for you all," Frances starts, pacing beneath the canopy of trees. "And I'll make it quick since some of you don't know the meaning of patience."

"Thank god," Anaya murmurs from my left. "I might get my first sunburn if I stay out here any longer."

"We're doing prompt poetry."

Marty raises his hand after thwacking his visor down over his eyes and tossing Anaya an amused expression. "What's that?"

Frances brings a tote bag from behind her back up, dipping her fingers inside until she finds what she's looking for—a small slip of paper. "In here I have words—prompts, if you will. They're additions to a list we used in a different workshop where I got to read some of the most interesting poetry I've read in years.

The idea is to take whatever's on the paper and run with it in whatever direction it takes you. For example," she holds the sheet up to her face, reading the word, "Tea. Now the poem doesn't even have to contain the word, it can flow like tea, make you feel the way you feel when you drink tea. Maybe you hate tea and want to write something that sparks that bitterness. I want to see works out of the conventional sense of reasoning as long as you can explain what you're going for. Okay?"

We all nod back, Julia jumping as Frances tosses the bag at her.

"Pick, and pass it around. Once you're done, you can leave."

When the bag eventually makes its way to me, I reach inside, hand returning with a slip that I unfold with raised eyebrows.

Envy.

My body seems to reject the word automatically, eyes blinking, blank, before Ruby can take the bag from me to pick her own word.

"What did you get?"