The only good thing about standing on a raised platform in front of a rambunctious crowd was that the light was in his eyes,so he couldn’t see all the faces staring back at him. Also, it meant he’d made it this far without falling on his face. That was one fear overcome.
“Hello,” Charlie said, wincing when the sound echoed across the crowd. “The title of this poem is… ‘Untitled.’” Because he hadn’t paused long enough to come up with a name—much less any words to go with it.
“Okay, well. Thank you for listening.”
“Is that part of the poem?” someone yelled from the darkness. Charlie suspected it was Smithson.
“No. That was just me. Thanking you.” Except not Smithson. “This is the poem. Right after this.” He took a deep breath.
“I like snakes.
And some people.
Especially the one who… my heart did take.
My feelings for her are more than double.
They’re treeple.”
Charlie gave serious thought to diving off the back of the stage and rolling across the grass until he landed in the creek. Why had he convinced himself he was capable of this? Jean might not even be listening. She could be back in her wagon by now, well out of hearing range. There was nothing for it but to go on. And pray for a power outage.
“When we’re together, I’m like the open prairie.
Wide and rolling and endless. With lots of… plants.
If you think I like being alone, on the contrary!
Until she came along, I didn’t understand the meaning of romance.”
“Nice one,” Sergeant Cowboy called. “Steady on.” Charlie nodded his thanks for the support.
“If there’s a tree in the garden with only one piece of fruit,
I’d give it to her—and that’s the truth.”
Bending, Charlie slapped his thighs a few times, because he thought he’d seen that in a movie once. Then he pretended to crack a whip before saying, “Rawhide!”
Hopefully that was cowboy enough.
As he walked off stage on wobbly legs, people clapped. It was better than booing, though most likely their guests felt obligated to applaud because of who he was. They would have done the same if Charlie had been the type of seven-year-old who wanted to put on a show for his parents’ guests after dinner, as opposed to fleeing to his room.
His mother was the first to reach him. She folded him into a hug, then leaned back to search his face, still holding on to his shoulders. “Oh honey, I had no idea. Is it Mugsy? I thought you knew she preferred women.”
“Of course I know that. It’s Mugsy.”
Mrs. Pike looked confused.
“I mean Mugsy is Mugsy. My best friend. It would be strange if I didn’t know something that important about her.”
“Yes, Charlie, but you’re not always tuned in to that kind of thing.”
He added that to the stockpile of unflattering beliefs his parents held about him. “Well, I wasn’t talking about Mugsy, so you don’t have to worry. If you’ll excuse me, there’s someone I need to find.”
Charlie detoured around another group of aging businessmen in pristine cowboy boots. Where was she?
“Somebody’s whipped,” Smithson called after him. Charlie ignored him, doubling back to see if he’d missed Jean in the crowd.
A couple decked out from head to toe in rhinestone-encrusted leather veered toward the refreshment table, and Charlie found himself face-to-face with Philip Koenig.
