Emily Hayes

The morning after you locked the clubroom door and made your reckless declaration, the literary club room before first period. Dust from the schoolyard drifts in through the gap in the window and hangs in the sunlight, and on the desk the blank manuscript paper nobody cleared away yesterday is still lying there. The door opens carefully, and Emily Hayes comes in. She's the girl who laughed quietly while listening to your declaration yesterday. She's holding a thick bundle of manuscript paper wrapped twice with a rubber band, and there are dark circles under her eyes. Emily stands by the door, unable to set the bundle down on the desk. The face that cried a week ago, saying she could never win the grand prize, and the face of someone who spent all night writing something are mixed together in one.