I turned to Hannah and saw how uncomfortable she looked. ‘Why don’t we go in and get some drinks, Hannah? That seems to be the thing to do.’

Ward agreed enthusiastically and started leading the way.

A hard jostle to the bar and some Lemon Drops later, Ward and I were pleasantly buzzed, looking around with interest rather than terror, taking fascinated anthropological stock. A group of boys were sipping beers by me at the bar and, somewhat scared, I edged away.

Nicole had abstained from drinking and was dancing eyeto-eye, hip-to-hip with some guy, smiling over to where I stood with Ward every now and then. Hannah was watching her and drinking, downing, sloshing full glasses at a rate that told me we’d have to leave soon or risk a very public fit on unfamiliar territory.

I just knew that Hannah would spend the next couple of days in an angry huff, and wondered, again, why it bothered her so much.

Nicole’s beauty gave me a perverse sort of pleasure. Demystified something that was very unpleasant as a mystery; not being part of the club didn’t feel too bad as long as I had someone on the inside ridiculing everything that went on behind its closed doors.

Unicorn she was, yes, but she was my unicorn.

Boom Forest

March 2009

Hatch was a hard-assed old motherfucker. He stalked into Creative Writing 201 (Introduction to Poetry Writing) five minutes early on the first day and asked us all to take out a sheet of paper and a pen.

‘Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all’

He paused. And looked around the room with amused eyes and a bald head that disguised his age. It was a clearly calculated beat—but that didn’t matter, because it worked. ‘Write down the name of the poet who composed those lines. Do not guess.’ He played another beat. ‘Write it only if you know it.’

I scribbled ‘Tennyson’ and hoped it would be enough, because I couldn’t remember whether his first name was Alfred or Albert.

He waited till there was no more scratching, no more rustling. No more pen-to-paper sounds.

‘Those of you that did not put down Tennyson’s name (yes!), please leave the room.’

No one moved till he went around to the table in the front and set down his worn brown leather briefcase. He took off his suede-patched tweed coat, folded it and hung it over the back of a chair in the empty first row, then took a seat. Comfortably settled in, he looked around the room, mild inquisition written on his face and fingers, which were tapping the table top.

He wasn’t joking. Three people got the message and left.

‘The rest of you, arrange your chairs in a circle. Sitting scattered like this is no way to learn about writing.’

Seated in a circle, we waited.