The worst thing about being the laureate has been the attitude of

Host: The school auditorium was empty now — rows of plastic chairs still facing the stage, the air heavy with the aftertaste of applause and gossip. Banners with “Reading for Change” still hung crookedly on the wall. The smell of paper and warm microphones lingered in the air, the ghost of a conversation that had been more fight than festival.

Through the half-open curtains, the evening light slanted across the dusty floorboards, painting long shadows across the space where stories had been read and misunderstood.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, jacket off, sleeves rolled, staring at the floor. His phone buzzed with another notification, another angry comment he didn’t want to read. Jeeny leaned against a nearby pillar, arms crossed, her expression caught between amusement and concern.

Host: It was one of those moments where words — the very things that had built their lives — had turned against them.

Jeeny: [quietly] “You shouldn’t look at the comments.”

Jack: [dryly] “That’s what everyone says right after you’ve read them.”

Jeeny: “You think they’re right?”

Jack: “No. I think they’re loud. That’s different.”

Jeeny: “Malorie Blackman once said, ‘The worst thing about being the laureate has been the attitude of a tiny minority of adults who haven't liked some of the things I'm supposed to have said and who have used it as an opportunity to be verbally abusive and nasty, but I haven't let it rule my world!’”

Jack: [laughs under his breath] “She’s got more backbone than I do.”

Jeeny: “No, she’s just had more practice with fire.”

Host: The lights flickered as the janitor passed by, muttering softly, leaving behind only the sound of the stage creaking under their quiet frustration.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? You try to write something honest — something that matters — and suddenly you’re the villain in someone else’s story.”

Jeeny: “That’s the price of saying anything true. People don’t get angry at lies; they get angry at mirrors.”

Jack: [sighing] “Still. It wears you down. You start editing your thoughts before they even reach your mouth.”

Jeeny: “And that’s when they win.”

Jack: “Who?”

Jeeny: “The loud minority. The ones who use noise to shrink other people’s courage.”

Jack: “You think silence is safer?”

Jeeny: “It’s safer, yes. But it’s also surrender.”

Host: A draft moved through the open doors, rustling the paper banners — the sound like whispers of stories refusing to be silenced.

Jack: “You ever wonder why adults — not kids — are often the cruelest when it comes to words?”

Jeeny: “Because kids read to understand. Adults read to confirm.”

Jack: “So they take it personally.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every story feels like an accusation if you’ve stopped being curious.”

Jack: [nods] “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? Writers try to build bridges, and some people just bring gasoline.”

Jeeny: “Then you learn what Malorie learned — that you don’t let it rule your world. You keep writing, keep standing. You remember that the majority are listening — quietly, gratefully.”

Jack: “But the quiet ones never comment.”

Jeeny: “They’re too busy being moved.”

Host: The microphone on the stage hummed faintly, feedback crackling like a ghost of the words he’d spoken earlier — words that had been both applauded and attacked.

Jack: “It’s strange — I used to think success would protect me. That if people recognized the work, they’d stop questioning the heart behind it.”

Jeeny: “Fame doesn’t protect. It magnifies. Every word you say echoes through someone else’s insecurity.”

Jack: [quietly] “Feels like no good deed goes unpunished.”

Jeeny: “That’s the cynic’s way of saying — truth costs something. You pay it in peace.”

Jack: “So you think the hate’s just the tax for making a difference?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The bigger your reach, the louder the backlash. But if you’re not upsetting anyone, you’re probably not saying anything new.”

Host: The evening light deepened, turning amber to gold, gold to dusk. The stage lights glowed faintly, like tiny suns refusing to die out.

Jack: [looking at her] “You ever feel tired of defending your intentions?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But then I remember — you don’t write to please people. You write to wake them.”

Jack: “And if they wake up angry?”

Jeeny: “At least they woke up.”

Jack: [half-laughing] “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It is noble. Every time someone uses their voice instead of silence, the world shifts a little closer to honesty.”

Jack: “Even when the world doesn’t thank you for it?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: A light breeze carried in the smell of rain, softening the sharp edges of the night. The first drops tapped gently against the windows — nature’s applause, subtle but sincere.

Jack: “I read once that Malorie got hate for writing about racism in kids’ books. People said she was too political. But isn’t it more political to pretend?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Pretending is the most dangerous ideology of all. It feeds comfort at the cost of truth.”

Jack: “She said she didn’t let it rule her world. That’s strength I can’t imagine.”

Jeeny: “You could. If you stop trying to be liked.”

Jack: “That’s the hardest part, isn’t it? You spend years wanting to be understood, and then you realize understanding often looks like disagreement.”

Jeeny: “Or hatred. But hatred means your words landed. Apathy means they never left the ground.”

Host: The sound of rain grew steadier, the roof drumming a low rhythm, like a heartbeat — stubborn, steady, alive.

Jeeny: “You know what I admire most about her?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That she didn’t trade her message for comfort. That she understood leadership isn’t popularity — it’s persistence.”

Jack: “And that’s sainthood in the age of Twitter.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The ability to keep speaking with grace while the world misquotes you.”

Jack: “I don’t know if I could do that.”

Jeeny: “You already are. You’re sitting here, licking your wounds, and still thinking about what to write next. That’s resilience disguised as exhaustion.”

Host: The lights above dimmed, leaving them in that blue-gray half-glow that makes every silence feel cinematic.

Jack: [softly] “Do you ever think the world will outgrow cruelty?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think kindness will keep outpacing it.”

Jack: “That’s… hopeful.”

Jeeny: “It’s factual. History’s written by survivors, not cynics.”

Jack: “Then maybe the trick isn’t avoiding criticism.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s learning to outlive it.”

Jack: “And to keep creating anyway.”

Jeeny: “Always. That’s how you reclaim your world.”

Host: The rain began to ease, replaced by the faint chirp of crickets outside. A kind of quiet victory, the sound of small peace earned after storm.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack?”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “The real laureate isn’t the one everyone praises. It’s the one who keeps writing, even after the praise turns into stones.”

Jack: [nodding] “And the one who never lets the stones build walls.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Build bridges instead.”

Jack: [smiles faintly] “You sound like her.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we all should.”

Host: The lights faded out completely, leaving only the faint reflection of the city in the windows — a hundred small stories glowing quietly against the dark.

Because as Malorie Blackman said,
“The worst thing about being the laureate has been the attitude of a tiny minority of adults... but I haven’t let it rule my world.”

And as Jack and Jeeny sat in the darkened auditorium,
they realized that power doesn’t come from praise or resistance —
it comes from persistence.
From the courage to keep creating light,
even when the world prefers the dark.

Host: The rain stopped,
and in the hush that followed,
the silence itself sounded like resilience.