Sometimes Never, Sometimes Always Read Online Free Page B

know the requirements, I can manage to keep straight A’s.
    “Instead of the usual analytical essays, I thought it would be exciting for us to write some poetry this semester,” Mr. Dawkins says, turning from the board to face us. He claps his hands again for emphasis. “You will each write your own ‘Song of Myself’—celebrating yourselves and singing yourselves.”
    He goes on to explain the requirements and things, but my brain screeches to a halt. Not this. I can’t write poetry. This is American Literature, not Creative Writing. We’re supposed to read things and write essays on them and take tests. Things I can manage. Things I can control. Around me, people are opening their notebooks, chewing on pens, scribbling away. I can’t catch my breath. I don’t touch my pen.
    “Cassandra?” Mr. D taps my notebook, where I’ve dutifully written all the notes, up to the point where he gave us the assignment.
    “I can’t write poetry,” I say.
    “Of course you can,” he says.
    No. I can’t. “Well, I can’t write poetry about myself.”
    “Of course you can.”
    I sigh. This is so stupid. I push my open notebook away from me. Not much, a couple of millimeters or so, but it’s enough to make my point.
    “Well, what are you interested in? Do you have any hobbies? Goals? Special abilities or talents?”
    I shake my head. What, am I supposed to collect butterflies or something? The pigs—that’s Eric. The music I listen to—that’s Kayla. The clothes I like—that’s Kayla. Goals for the future—Mom and Dad. Church? That’s … not something I can write about.
    “Sports?” Mr. D sounds so hopeful.
    I laugh. “I played softball one summer in eighth grade.”
    “Well! Write about that!”
    “So I should celebrate how my own teammates chanted ‘easy out’ every time I got up to bat?” It’s a true story, but even then I was careful not to let it be important to me. I’m not good at sports . I checked the box and moved on.
    Mr. Dawkins can’t help chuckling. “Cass. What do you like to do in your spare time? How would you describe yourself? What are you proud of? What makes you different from everyone else in this room?”
    “I—” I don’t know. I don’t know . I look around the room, and it’s like … it’s like the stupid survey all over again. Desperation crawls up out of some hole deep inside me, and this awful hiccupy thing happens inside my lungs that makes me gulp for air like a guppy. I can’t breathe. In my spare time? I go to the mall and pretend to shop. I go to church and pretend to listen. I go to football games and pretend I know the score. I asphyxiate in the middle of English class. Mr. D takes a step back.
    “Cassandra?” He does that weird crouching thing next to my desk that teachers do when they want to ask you a personal question or correct your spelling. “Are you okay?”
    Oh yeah, totally. I cover my gasping mouth with one hand and nod to say I’m okay. Of course I’m okay.
    “I don’t understand, Cass. You must have something to write about. Something about you that’s special.” It’s like he can’t get past that question, like he can’t believe a person could possibly exist who doesn’t have a hobby or a talent or a passion or whatever.
    “I’m not special,” I whisper. I can breathe again, in shallow little puffs, but I can’t look at him or anyone else. I’m not sure if he hears me. He continues to survey me, searching for substance.
    “Do you like to read, maybe? Write? Draw? Go fishing? Ski? Play Monopoly?” I shake my head no. “Start fires? Mutilate kittens?”
    I can’t stop myself from smiling. The desperation passes. Around me, most people are bent over their papers, laboring over their songs. They talk and laugh as they work, and a few of them are reading each other’s poems out loud. Teasing. Arguing. Asking for help. Mr. D nods to a group in the corner by the computers. “Be right there,” he says.
    “I’ll be okay.”