Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
She delivers this second statement with a hint of embarrassment, as though admitting to some juvenile indiscretion rather than an achievement.
“I hosted a podcast where I translated Shakespeare into modern slang.”
The final option is offered with a theatrical flourish of her hand, her eyes meeting mine briefly before returning to the road ahead.
I consider each option, analyzing not just the content but how she delivered them. The spelling bee statement—too specific, too rehearsed. The podcast—plausible given her obvious comfort with language, but she overplayed it. The poem feels like the truth, hidden between two more flamboyant claims.
“Shakespeare,” I decide, changing lanes again to overtake a minivan moving below the speed limit. “The podcast.”
She laughs—a genuine sound that transforms her face entirely. Her eyes crinkle at the corners, her cheeks flush with color. For a moment, she looks unburdened, younger.
“No! I can’t believe you think I’d do that.” She shakes her head, still smiling. “Though I’m flattered you have such faith in my wordsmithing abilities.”
I raise an eyebrow, reassessing. “The poem, then.”
“Yes!” She nods, seeming pleased that I didn’t immediately guess correctly.
Which, of course, I did.
But it’s a game, after all.
And I’m playing to win.
“I did win a scholarship from this hipster coffee chain that was trying to position itself as the thinking person’s Starbucks. Five thousand dollars for a poem about ‘the intersection of love and consciousness’ or something equally pretentious.”
I keep my expression neutral, but I’m mildly impressed. “And the money?”
“Got me through two semesters at community college.” Her smile fades slightly. “Then I dropped out.”
There’s a story there—something heavy that shifts the atmosphere in the car. I file this information away for later examination. Every revelation is a potential pressure point.
“Recite it,” I say.
“What?”
“The poem. Recite it.”
She laughs again, but it’s different now—nervous, deflective. “God, no. It was years ago. And it was terrible, trust me. All that flowery undergraduate angst about existence and”—she waves a hand vaguely “—true love.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t terrible if it won five thousand dollars.”
“You’d be surprised what passes for profound when you’re seventeen and can string metaphors together.” She shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable with the request.
I see an opportunity. “I’ll erase five more demerits if you recite it.”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing as she calculates this new proposition. The mental math is evident on her face—weighing embarrassment against advantage.
“No.” She shakes her head firmly. “It’s too personal.”
“Seven demerits,” I counter, watching her closely. “That would bring your total down to eight.”
She bites her lip, her resistance visibly crumbling at the revised offer. I can practically see her imagining the victory—fist pumping the air at having negotiated me up from five to seven.
“Fine,” she says after a moment, straightening her spine and clearing her throat. “But you can’t laugh. And you can’t use it against me later.”
I say nothing, which she correctly interprets as neither agreement nor refusal.
She sighs, closes her eyes briefly, and begins to recite from memory:
“I hoard my words like treasures in a chest,
Each syllable a gem of rare design.
Among all riches, language serves me best.
The taste of ‘eloquence’ is sweet as wine,
While ‘melancholy’ settles dark and deep.
These sounds and meanings intertwine
With memories I’ve gathered, mine to keep.
I learned that ‘ephemeral’ feels like snow—
So beautiful, yet never meant to sleep
Upon the earth for long. I’ve come to know
That ‘solitude’ has weight, while ‘joy’ has wings.
Some words cut sharp, while others softly glow
Like ‘luminous’ or ‘hope’—the one that brings
A future into focus, clear and bright.
They mocked me for the comfort language brings,
As if my books were shields against the night.
They never saw how words became my sword,
My armor, and my beacon burning light
In darkness where I couldn’t see the shore.
Each poem a map to guide my trembling hand,
Each stanza teaching me to ask for more
Than silence in a world I didn’t understand.
So let me build cathedrals with my speech,
Construct new worlds from nothing but the grand
And humble letters that our teachers teach.
For in this life of chaos, noise, and strife,
The perfect word is always within reach—
A bridge between your heart and mine, a knife
That cuts away pretense to find what’s true.
With language as my compass through this life,
I’ll find the words that finally lead to you.”
It takes her seventy-six seconds to recite each word with practiced clarity, and I don’t even breathe.
The syllables hang in the air between us, delicate and dangerous as glass figurines. I’m aware of everything—the slight tremor in her voice when she reaches the lines about armor, the way her fingers curl against her thigh on “trembling hand,” the perfect pause before “cathedral.”
Her voice transforms the Aventador’s interior into something sacred.
Hell, no wonder she won. Little Miss Take isn’t just hiding behind words—she’s wielding them like weapons.
Emmaleen shifts, looking very vulnerable. A flush creeps up her neck. Then she sighs. “I told you it was nothing but an onion of existentialism.”