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.”
“Sevendemerits,” 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.