Page 20 of Bone to Pick
The programhadhelped me, but it had helped many others way more than that. I opened my mouth and began telling Theo story after story of kids and parents I’d met through the program. One story became two, until I was telling him stories of people we’d changed for the better and far sadder stories of families we hadn’t been able to help. Success stories and stories of heartbreaking failure where lack of resources had become a true impediment to getting kids onto a healthy path toward a thriving future.
We—or mostlyI—talked for more than two hours, with Theo only interjecting here and there to point out how my stories could be adapted or crafted into clearer, more powerful expressions of the truth I wanted to convey—that a program like the Hub could do so much good if given enough funding for capable, consistent leadership.
He took off his glasses and made us a snack of coffee and cookies. I twisted in my chair, bringing one foot up on my seat and wrapping my arm around my knee. We were Theo and Porter. Equals. Almost, sort of, friends.
Those hours with him were eye-opening. Life-changing.
Years ago, Theo had been the one to show me that words were powerful—that was why I’d become an English major in the first place. Figured that now, he was the one to show me how andwhythey were powerful, by reminding me that the key was tying facts to emotions, even (or maybe especially) in creative non-fiction.
As the light began to fade outside, our discussion changed from grant proposals to true crime podcasts, biased journalism, and the fine lines involved in using non-fiction as entertainment.
After deciding to set my ego aside, I asked him a million questions about how he’d learned so much about creative non-fiction when his specialty was Renaissance poetry.
“Milton wrote a sonnet about the Duke of Savoy slaughtering the Waldensians in 1655.” He gave me a wry smile. “I know… Poetry nerd much, Theo?”
I grinned. I’d been thinking more likesexypoetry nerd, but he wasn’t wrong. “Go on.”
“The poem is written like a prayer for vengeance, but it also serves as a historical record of the massacre. It’s emotional, heart-wrenching. In it, he describes the Piedmontese throwing mothers with babies down the mountainside to their deaths, but it’s done with this…” He searched for the right word. “This anger and impotent rage at the injustice. You can’t help but feel very differently than if you’d simply heard a list of the historical facts in a bullet-point sidebar of a history book.”
He met my eyes. “If I tell you there was a battle at Piedmont with two fatalities, you will shrug and move on. It happened so long ago, who really cares? But what if I tell you, ‘Forget not: in thy book record their groans / Who were thy sheep and in their ancient fold / Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll’d / Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans / The vales redoubl’d to the hills, and they / To Heav’n. Their martyr’d blood and ashes sow / O’er all th’ Italian fields where still doth sway / The triple tyrant; that from these may grow / A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way /Early may fly the Babylonian woe.’? And now what if I add that the triple tyrant refers to the pope?”
Hearing him recite poetry always fired me up, but this… when he was making such a strong point… reached into my gut and squeezed it tight.
“Yeah,” I breathed. Better words failed me.
“William Hazlitt called it ‘prophetic fury.’ Prophetic fury in iambic pentameter. It’s… seductive. And it has the power to reach deep into the heart and soul of humanity and change the course of events. Do you see what I mean?”
I did. And now I could see so clearly why he’d been frustrated with me last semester. I’d tried so hard to make my assignments “perfect” that I’d completely missed the point of making themimpactful.
“Yeah,” I said again. “I really do. That’s… that’s amazing. Thank you, Theo. I, uh… It’s possible that I might have gone into last semester with a bit of a chip on my shoulder.”
Theo nodded and stretched his arms up high so that his shirt rode up over his abs, and the sight made my mouth dry. “Yeah? Well. Happens to the best of us. But let that be a lesson.”
“I kinda wish I could take the class with you again instead of Professor Burton.” I grinned. “Not enough to stick around for another semester, mind you…”
“Eh.” He shrugged and reached for his half-empty coffee mug. His long fingers wrapped firmly around the ceramic, and the muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed. “Now that you know, you’ll do better. And Burton wouldn’t fail you right now if you turned in ten pages of lorum ipsum, so it’ll all work out fine.”
“I’m not really happy with fine,” I admitted. “I want to be the best.”
“Is that so?” He leaned forward again, resting his chin on his hand. The entire force of his attention was centered on me, and it was heady as fuck. “Then pick a topic I might disagree with you on. Spin me a passionate tale using only facts. Win me over with the heat of your argument, Porter. Make it personal.”
I frowned, trying to think of a topic we disagreed about… and just like that, his earlier disgust at the idea of kissing me came roaring back to life in my mind.
I couldn’t help but grin as I looked at Theo across the table. What better way to prove my words had power than to convince Professor Hot-Cock to kiss me against his better judgment?
Game. On.
ChapterSix
THEO
I had to admit to feeling just a little smug. After months of disappointment and frustration, I’d finally been able to prove my point to Porter by teaching him the power of a well-crafted piece of non-fiction. Now it was just a matter of providing constructive criticism to help him through his first attempt.
“I’m going to make some phone calls about tree removal while you get your thoughts together,” I said before standing up and stretching again. I pulled out my laptop to look up the numbers I needed.
The second company I called said they’d be able to come out Monday morning if I was lucky, whereas the first company didn’t even answer their phones due to the demand. I booked in for Monday and called one of my neighbors to ask about how the mountain roads were. According to him, our section of the mountain was blocked in on all sides by other downed trees. Thankfully, there was no evidence of car accidents or personal injuries in the area. After I hung up, I told Porter what I’d learned.
“Neighbor said we’d be lucky to get the road cleared tomorrow. Earliest they can do my driveway is Monday. You’re stuck here for at least three more nights.” We were stucktogetherthat long. And my bed hadn’t gotten any bigger. In fact, I was pretty sure it shrank every time I glanced at it.
