Copyright © 2014 by K.A. Holt.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Holt, K. A., author.
Rhyme schemer / by K.A. Holt.
pages cm
Summary: A novel in verse about Kevin’s journey from bully to being bullied, as he learns about friendship, family, and his talent for poetry.
ISBN 978-1-4521-2700-2 (hc)
ISBN 978-1-4521-3243-3 (epub, mobi)
1. Poetry—Juvenile fiction. 2. Bullying—Juvenile fiction. 3. Friendship—Juvenile fiction. 4. Families—Juvenile fiction. [1. Novels in verse. 2. Poetry—Fiction. 3. Bullying—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction. 5. Family life—Fiction. 6. Humorous stories.] I. Title.

PZ7.5.H65Rh 2014
[Fic]—dc23
2013032175

Design by Jennifer Tolo Pierce.
Typeset in Susan Classic and Flyerfonts.

Chronicle Books LLC
680 Second Street
San Francisco, CA 94107

Chronicle Books—we see things differently. Become part of our community at www.chroniclekids.com.

To my parents, Don and Carole Holt,
who made sure I grew up with a pen in one hand
and a book in the other

DAY 1

First day of school.

My favorite.

Easy prey.

Giant John.

A parade float of himself.

Freckle-Face Kelly,

like a painting

by that one guy

who drank too much beer

and went crazy.

Robin is so short.

I am a dinosaur

stepping on his lunch.

Plus,

his name is Robin.

So many

weenies.

So little

time.

King of the seventh grade

can’t choose his own throne.

Assigned seats.

Not everyone’s favorite.

Not my favorite.

But you know what?

My seat is next to

Freckle-Face Kelly.

Connect the dots,

all

day

long.

Day 2

My brother Petey is in a band

so he always plays air guitar

while he lurches us over curbs

and through red lights

when he drives me to school.

His band is called

The Band with No Name

because it has no name.

Duh.

He and his bandmates can only think of

lame ideas for names.

Like the Flaming Turtles

or Midnight Pukefest

or Mustache Farm.

My ideas are great

but he never listens to me

only to music

with too many guitars.

I could learn the guitar.

Mrs. Smithson.

My teacher.

She has this mole.

I’ve named it Harry.

Not because it IS hairy

but because it’s not.

That’s called

irony.

I think.

Harry gives a shake

when Mrs. Smithson

sneezes

turns her head

walks too fast

laughs

hollers.

If Harry changes color

I would suggest

Mrs. Smithson seeks

a doctor

more makeup

a bag over her head

a Band-Aid

a black pointy hat.

DAY 3

Sometimes I wonder

about the coffee cups.

Every teacher has one,

even the PE teacher

who has so much energy

he seems to float just above the gym mats.

What’s in those cups?

Witches’ brew?

Ugly potion?

Bad hair broth?

It smells like coffee,

but judging from their breath

I’m sure it’s way worse than just that.

I found the page in an old book.

No one will miss it.

No one reads those old books anyway.

The words just jumped out at me

like tickly little fleas

needing a good scratching.

So I scratched them.

And no one will know it was me.

I stuck it on the wall by the lockers

when no one was looking.

I couldn’t help it.

I thought people would laugh.

People did laugh.

A lot.

Until Mrs. Smithson yanked it down.

She was not laughing.

DAY 4

If I was

short

wide

freckle-faced

I would beg for home school

or a ticket

on a boat

to Siberia.

Watch out, Sideshow Robin.

I’d take the long way to recess

if I were you.

I only suggest this

as a friend

because Giant John looks

grumpy

tired

hungry.

He might mistake you

for lunch.

Wait.

Can you take a boat

to Siberia?

DAY 5

The tires squeal

like Petey’s car is making the road

screeeeeeam

in pain.

Get out.

I pull my backpack onto my shoulder

put my hand out

a fist bump

to say good-bye.

He just leaves it hanging.

A lonely bumpless midair fist.

I said, get out.

So I do.

The road screams again.

Petey and his air guitar are gone.

My fist hangs at my side now.

Heavy as a stone.

If I am stone

my fist is a gargoyle, scaring people away.

If I am stone

I don’t have to answer questions in class.

If I am stone

I don’t have to listen to all the boring things.

If I am stone

I am unbreakable.

If I am stone

My foot is jagged, cold, strong.

If I am stone

I don’t laugh when Robin trips on my jagged foot

and slides down the aisle between desks

like he’s a pebble rolling downhill.

I’m not always stone.

Mrs. Smithson.

That old meanie

with Harry the mole

jiggling in my face.

She made me go see

Hartwick.

Dun

Dun

Dun

Duuuun

He called my mom

but she didn’t answer

so he gave me a warning.

BE NICE

OR ELSE

What a jerkface.

As a side note,

I have composed an ode

to Hartwick’s tie:

[Clearing throat noise here]

O, Principal’s tie

You make me want to cry

Because you are the color of

An armadillo butt

Another old book.

Another old page.

Just a quick sneak into the library.

Riiiiiiip.

The trick is to do it fast

when someone is sharpening a pencil.

Noise camouflage.

(A good name for a band.)

A secret message

left from a secret word scratcher.

The teachers are not happy,

and that makes it even more fun.

WEEKEND

When I’m old

enough

I’ll leave

this place.

Will Mom cry?

Will Dad miss me?

I can see them now

laughing together

about one less mouth to feed.

Will they worry?

Will they care?

Mom can use my room

for emails and bookshelves.

She will like that.

We are not rich,

though people think we are.

I’m sick of it.

Get it?

Sick?

’Cause Mom and Dad are doctors.

If we were rich I’d have a dirt bike

instead of four brothers.

Patrick, Paul, Philip, Petey.

One two three four barf.

At least I have my own room.

DAY 6

Numbering the school days

in this notebook

might be

a

Very

Bad

Idea.

It’s making the school year

long

longer

longest.

And the second week

just started.

I don’t know a lot about tornadoes,

but I saw one last year.

Longest five minutes of my life.

Even longer than the

first week of school

which was just

really

freaking

long.

That tornado looked like

someone was putting our

street into a

blender.

Chunks of road mixed with cars.

Trees mixed with windows.

The noise was

so loud.

It was so loud it was almost quiet.

Like how every color mixed together

makes the color

white.

No one was home except for me and Petey.

His face, the same green as the sky,

his feet stuck to the carpet

like the trees used to

stick in the

ground.

Come on! Come on! Come on! I shouted

and he wouldn’t move.

He wouldn’t move.

We were easy prey.

So I grabbed him

by the shirt

and pulled

and pulled

and pulled.

Then he was with me in the Harry Potter closet

under the stairs

my arms over

his head.

And the blender roared by

and Petey cried hard

with my arms still there

still over

his head.

And then the big, messy racket was gone.

Petey sniffed real big and said

What are you staring at?

YOU’RE the baby

in this

family.

And he’s hated me.

Hated me

ever

since.

I feel like that tornado,

that blender in the sky,

jumped down my throat

and is now buried inside.

The blob of sauce

drips off his ear

in

slow motion.

His empty bowl

sits on his head

a

crooked hat.

My hand on my mouth

not really covering

the

snorts of laughter.

Spaghetti and meatballs

the same color

as

Robin’s hair.

Robin

doesn’t think

it’s so funny.

Neither does

Harry

the mole.

Now I wait for

Hartwick.

Again.

If I stare at the stain on the ceiling

I don’t have to stare at Hartwick

while he says

Woh woh woh

and tells me to

STRAIGHTEN UP.

He called my mom

but she didn’t answer.

Again.

So he gave me

another warning.

But

THE NEXT TIME

he says

while I stare at the stain

THERE WILL BE MAJOR CONSEQUENCES

. . .

MISTER

He is still

a jerkface.

As a side note,

I have composed another ode

to Hartwick’s tie:

[Clearing throat noise here]

O, Principal’s tie

You make me want to puke

Because you are the color of

Squishy, moldy fruit

There is this word:

Hubbub.

It sounds like someone trying to talk

while blowing a big gum bubble.

Today, there was a hubbub.

I put the stolen page on the door to the front office

when I had a hall pass for the bathroom.

Then it was B lunch

and everyone saw it.

Who is doing this?

the kids ask with a laugh.

The teachers ask with dragon breath.

I’m not telling.

DAY 7

Late.

Petey’s fault.

He was supposed to drop me off

in front.

Instead, I had to walk

six

whole

blocks

so he could take a shortcut

to Lacey’s house.

Giant John was late, too,

which was good.

I had something soft to punch

to make my day

better.

Sort of.

Lacey Lacey Lacey

She’s the only thing Petey

ever

ever

ever

talks about.

Unless he talks about his band

or how much he hates me,

which are both tied for his

second favorite

topic.

If Petey says

one

more

time

how lucky I am to be the baby

to get everything I want

I will smack him

even if he smacks harder.

I don’t get everything I want.

I get nothing.

I get Sort it out, boys!

I get Paul, help Kevin with his math.

I get My shift starts in 30 minutes,

Petey will take you to school.

Doesn’t Petey see?

I don’t exist.

I had to walk six blocks

because of

Lacey Lacey Lacey

and get a tardy

and a detention for hitting Giant John

because of Petey.

Who is not—technically—the baby.

Anymore.

WEEKEND

There’s this one channel with all the reruns.

It’s my favorite.

It’s where I met Cliff Huxtable.

Cliff Huxtable is a doctor

like my dad.

Delivers babies.

Has a bunch of kids.

But he’s always home playing boring games

like chess

with his million kids.

My dad is NEVER home.

He never plays boring games.

Or any games.

He says that’s just TV,

Dr. Huxtable being home all the time.

But you know what?

I don’t care if it sounds stupid.

I wish TV was real.

And I don’t even like chess.

Petey locked me in the bathroom

today.

He thought it was hilarious.

Yeah.

Funny.

I had to climb out the window.

And no one even noticed.

Petey and Philip.

Sixteen and seventeen.

Dumb as hammers.

Paul is almost out of here.

He wants to be a psychiatrist.

That means he asks a lot of annoying questions.

Patrick is the oldest.

He’s in college and only comes home for

laundry.

And food.

That leaves me.

Kevin.

The baby.

The accident.

One college guy.

One senior.

One junior.

One sophomore.

And a seventh grader.

You can see how it might not work.

Paul says it could work.

It should work.

If my parents spent less time at work.

Maybe he’s onto something.

Or maybe he’s just annoying.

DAY 15

Give me that! Petey shouted

this morning in the car

on the way to school.

No, I said.

But he grabbed for it

swerving the car

just missing a fire hydrant.

NO! I said again,

but his arms are long

and his car is small.

That’s why I’m writing this

on the back of old homework.

My notebook

is on the street

somewhere

because Petey is a moron

and says poetry is for old ladies.

By the way,

this isn’t even poetry.

It’s just thoughts

on paper

rapid fire

with not as many words

as usual thoughts

and none of those dumb

likes or as-es

or talking about trees

that old ladies like.

These are real thoughts

like a TV scroll

with a flow that’s like a stream

that just flies out of my brain

like barf

but less gross.

Most of the time.

Wait.

Three likes just then.

Oh man.

Maybe this is poetry.

But cooler than regular poetry.

Yeah.

I’ll walk home from school today

after detention.

No ride home in Petey’s cruddy car.

I’ll walk the whole 1.9 miles.

Maybe my notebook will still be in the road.

Or on the sidewalk.

Or in the grass.

Wherever it landed.

I didn’t see.

Petey drives way too fast.

DAY 16

No luck.

The notebook is gone.

Or turned invisible.

I’m going to kill Petey.

When I get bigger than him.

Which might take a while.

Because he’s like King Kong

with zits

and worse breath.

No one gets past me today.

I am a rock.

I am huge.

My face is stone

like those giant statues

from that one island

with giant face statues.

My island today:

the boys’ bathroom

in the hallway outside the library.

No entry for dorks.

Unless they pay a toll

to the giant statue.

Robin in the hall,

so small compared to everyone.

He can sneak between them

unseen

like a bug.

But I see him.

I see what he’s doing.

Freckle-Face Kelly’s face is in flames,

Robin’s hands flipping up her skirt.

She pushes him away

but she’s too late.

Now everyone sees.

Her white, freckly legs.

Her white, flowery underpants.

And for just a second

I am moving fast.

I scatter the crowd

like a burst of bees exploding

when you hit their nest

with a rock.

Freckle-Face Kelly wipes her face.

Those little red spots don’t smear

like you think they should.

She looks at me.

Robin looks at me.

Everyone looks at me.

Freckle-Face Kelly looks away first.

I think she wants to be stone, too.

In one move Robin is under my arm

kicking

yelling

but he can’t sting me.

You can’t sting stone.

Weenie Robin fits perfectly

under the sinks.

Toll paid.

He snaps right in

between the pipes

like a Lego

like he was made to fit there.

He’s way noisier than a Lego, though

which is why Mrs. Little came

INTO

the boys’ bathroom.

She is obviously

not a boy.

She is obviously

a librarian.

She is obviously

mad.

I am obviously

in trouble.

Mr. Hartwick is obviously

wearing an ugly tie.

Surprise.

Mrs. Little isn’t even a teacher

so why can she send me to Hartwick?

Life’s mysteries

abound.

Suspended.

A word that can describe medicine.

The little bits of healthy mold

suspended

in pink goo

so that the kids like the bits enough

to swallow them.

Suspended.

A word that can describe stopping

like someone hit a pause button and you are

suspended

in time and space

your finger frozen inches from your

nose.

Suspended.

A word that can describe

me.

You should have seen Mom’s face

when she came to pick me up.

Not red.

Not purple.

No forehead veins,

like Hartwick’s.

She just smiled really big.

I’ll deal with him, she said

and then she laughed

but I know she wasn’t really laughing.

Unless something

was funny

on her phone.

DAY 17

I dreamed about that smile last night

and woke up

shivering.

Mom hasn’t talked to me

in 24 hours.

Dad is on call so he’ll be back tomorrow.

Today is the first day

of three days

of not being allowed at school.

Is this what it means to be dealt with?

Isn’t this sort of every kid’s dream?

Missing parents.

No school.

Long weekend.

Is suspension really that big of a deal?

Paul says yes. It is a big deal.

But Paul never gets in trouble,

so how does he know?

The band is here tonight,

Petey and his friends

who all look the same.

They make sounds kind of like

the tornado did

but noisier

and less memorable.

Noisier Tornado.

That could be their band name.

DAY 19

I guess when you’re suspended you’re supposed to

think

about what you’ve done.

I am supposed to

think

shoving Robin under the sinks was

not cool.

I am supposed to

think

I’ll never do anything like that

again.

You know what I really

think?

Petey shoves me under the sink

in the bathroom at home

All.

The.

Time.

No.

Big.

Deal.

No.

One.

Cares.

DAY 20

Get this.

As part of my punishment

Mom and Dad say Petey can’t drive me

to school

anymore.

If I had known these were the

severe consequences

I’d face

I would have gotten suspended

a lot

sooner.

WEEKEND

Intervention.

That’s what Paul called it.

He’s taking a nighttime college class.

It’s for nerds who want to be psychiatrists.

It teaches them words like “intervention.”

When he said it, I thought he meant for me

but he meant for Petey.

He took Petey aside

while Petey rolled his eyes.

Paul told him to be a better big brother,

a better person.

Paul is the only one who sees Petey

as he is,

a King Kong jerk.

You’d think

Philip would see the King Kong jerk part, too—

but Philip is too busy

with football and girls

to notice anything

other than cheerleaders or boobs.

Paul told Petey to watch it.

Petey said Watch THIS.

And then punched a wall.

Paul rumpled my hair.

I think my getting suspended bothered Paul

more than anyone else.

More than

me.

DAY 23

Well.

My notebook is not lost.

Guess who found it?

Shrimpy Robin.

His face is like a dog

with a juicy bone.

Whatever.

No one can hear your heart beat fast

when you are jagged stone.

Mrs. Little put 50 pounds of books

in my arms.

Shelve them, she said.

Her mouth was tight,

puckered

like a cat

(’s

butt).

This is part of the punishment.

Not just suspension.

Becoming Mrs. Little’s slave

for two weeks

after school.

So boring

I might

die.

DAY 24

I did not die.

But now I might.

Robin made copies of some pages from my

notebook.

COPIES.

Gave them to everyone.

EVERYONE.

Guess who’s going to get to watch his nose

EXPLODE OFF HIS FACE?

At least Robin didn’t copy my secret

about messing up the books.

And at least he didn’t copy Petey’s crying secret.

Even with Petey in high school

he would still find out

from someone’s big mouth.

I’m sure of it.

So now I’m worried

because Robin knows my secrets.

And I know he knows.

And he knows I know he knows.

And the way his smile curls like the Grinch

is no good.

That I know for sure.

Deep breaths.

Jagged stone turns to smooth rock.

Cold rock.

Rocks don’t die.

Rocks have no feelings.

Rocks don’t care.

Mrs. Little relaxed her cat-butt mouth

as she made me dust

the computers.

Your face is as white as a sheet, Kevin, she said.

Are you quite well?

Mrs. Little is from England.

She hardly ever talks.

But when she does,

sometimes she talks with extra words.

I didn’t say anything

in case I threw up on the computers

and then had to clean it.

So much for being

cold rock

that doesn’t care.

It turns out the problem with

having been suspended

is that you are not just on

thin ice,

as they say,

you have been sucked into

zero tolerance

which is like

zero gravity

except instead of floating in space

suspended,

you are pinned against a wall.

Frozen.

One misstep

and you’re done.

I told Paul about the zero tolerance

and how I can’t hit Robin

for making copies of my notebook

even though Robin could use a swift kick in the butt.

Paul said it’s my own fault.

He said Robin is protected from me

because of me.

I don’t know what that means

other than that Paul is annoying.

DAY 25

Poetry boy.

You’d think they could come up with something

better.

Poetry boy! Poetry boy!

Who’s so tough now?

Poetry boy! Poetry boy!

Where’s your dress?

Poetry boy! Poetry boy!

Harry’s out to get you now.

Why is poetry boy a bad thing

when everyone loves the pages I put on the

walls?

Isn’t that like poetry, too?

Messing with sentences to make new ones?

I’m no boy. I’m an outlaw.

Peter Pan

I’m a poetry bandit.

Maybe I should tell my secret.

Spill the beans.

Except what about zero tolerance?

What about MAJOR CONSEQUENCES, MISTER?

It’s all so dumb.

It doesn’t bother me.

Poetry boy! Poetry boy!

Whatever.

Robin is their leader.

By the way.

He thinks I’m easy prey

as he leads the chants

with his juicy dog-bone face.

That I can’t hit.

Anymore.

DAY 26

Robin says he’ll tell on me.

He’ll tell everyone I’m the one

who puts the marked-up pages on the walls

and I’ll be in big trouble

because of the zero tolerance thing.

But

He’ll keep my secret safe if I do one thing.

He wants me to mark up the pages

and then HE wants to put them on the walls.

HE wants to be the outlaw.

The Poetry Bandit.

Hmph.

I don’t care.

I don’t.

Really.

I told him he’ll get in trouble.

He says no he won’t.

I told him those are my bandit words.

He says not anymore.

I said I won’t do it.

He says he’ll make sure I get in trouble for it, then.

He’ll make sure everyone sees my whole notebook, too.

All of it.

I’ll be murdered by Petey

and then I’ll be expelled.

This is a problem.

They all loved it, of course.

Well, except for the teachers.

But no one cares about them.

Now Robin wants me to “discover” him,

so he can be King of the School for real.

That made me laugh.

“King of the School” is not an actual thing.

(But it would be a good band name.)

I was just making fun of him.

Duh.

DAY 9,342

It’s not really day 9,342.

But it feels like it.

Shelving books.

Poetry boy.

Poetry boy.

Shelving books.

Poetry boy.

Poetry boy.

Shelving books.

The days don’t even separate anymore.

It is all just one long

never

end

ing

day.

The Cat Stranglers.

That should be Petey’s band’s name.

Or Cat Tornadoes

or Bleeding Ears

or Bleeding Cat Tornado Ears.

Something like that.

I don’t know what they’re doing in there

but it doesn’t sound like music.

What they need is a real song,

real words

to scream

in that microphone.

We hate everybody!

We hate you!

We hate everybody!

Especially you!

We hate everybody!

We hate you!

We hate everybody!

We scream till we’re blue!

See? That wasn’t hard.

DAY I DON’T EVEN KNOW ANYMORE

Metamorphosis.

We watched a movie about it in science.

It’s when a caterpillar snuggles up in a chrysalis

like a backward mummy.

Instead of dying and being wrapped up,

it wraps itself up to live.

To become something new,

something with freedom.

Something pretty.

Unless it’s a moth.

A moth still has freedom,

but it’s

Ugly

Gross

Brown

Dusty.

It’s just a dirty moth.

In that case, metamorphosis is kind of sad.

Little caterpillar wraps itself up

like a kid in elementary school

going to sleep

and waking up a pizza-faced middle school weirdo.

Robin is changing, growing wings

every day

in a chrysalis made of my notebook.

A revenge chrysalis.

(Which would be a good name for a band.)

If I squint, I can see his

Ugly

Gross

Dusty

Dirty

moth wings.

His pizza face.

His pale eyes

glowing with greed

at the laughs he gets

at my expense

that Mrs. Smithson ignores.

Just like fake moth eyes on ugly wings

Robin’s eyes

better be hiding

his true self—

that he is still scared of me.

Because he should be.

WEEKEND

Dad asked what was going on.

But he meant it like,

Hey, bro! What’s going on?

Like a dude punching another dude’s shoulder

at the beach.

So I said:

Nothing

Because that’s what he wanted me to say.

If I am made of stone at home

no one can bother me.

If I am made of stone at school

no one can bother me.

Paul says even stones have to crack

to let out steam.

But what he doesn’t understand is that

there is always someone

who wants to stick their head in a crack

and sniff around.

Hahaha.

But seriously.

Paul is so annoying.

DAY 30-something

Hartwick was looking at me

from his office across the hall.

I wanted to say

You can’t look at me like that.

I wanted to say

Hide those beady eyes back under your greasy lids.

I wanted to say

Go away.

But I didn’t say anything

because the nurse was putting antiseptic on my lip

where it busted open

after I fell on it

in the hallway

when Robin tripped me

and said

Poetry boy can’t write sentences

or walk, either.

And Giant John laughed.

It’s a shame, really,

how Mrs. Smithson ignores Robin

as he seeks revenge.

She is depriving him

of the ceiling stain

of Hartwick’s tie-nightmare-of-the-day

of the SHOUTING ABOUT RESPONSIBILITY.

The moth-faced boy flies free.

Again.

My heartbeat in my lip.

Mom pinched her face up tight.

She made sure I didn’t need stitches.

Philip high-fived me

when I said You should’ve seen the other guy.

Petey just rolled his eyes

and Paul sighed real big.

But there was no other guy.

Unless you count Robin

looking innocent

as Mrs. Smithson and Harry

bobbled by.

Robin says it’s time for another Poetry Bandit

thing.

I told him to go rip out a page from the library.

He said no, that I should do it.

Blackmail stinks.

(Another good band name.)

I put it up before I gave it to Robin.

I think he grew three inches just from being mad.

He wanted to get “caught” putting it up,

by me.

I told him to go sign his name if he wants all the credit.

But someone had already thrown it away.

The teachers, they learn fast.

TUESDAY

Mrs. Little looks at me sideways.

I know she wants to say something

but I don’t want to listen

so I pretend I don’t see

her eyes

in the corner of her face

like a hieroglyph.

It’s not like I never had a fat lip.

That’s what I want to say

to her hieroglyph eye.

Every time I look up and see her

she is staring.

And she doesn’t look away.

It’s like she wants me to see.

She’s looking, searching, telling me something

that I can’t hear.

Just like my lip keeps a beat

to a song I can’t hear.

I’m glad for the books today,

heavy in my hands.

They go on the shelves,

one after the other.

I don’t have to think.

I don’t want to think.

Building a fortress

of books

all around me.

I worked for an hour before I realized

today is Tuesday.

The day after

my library detentions ended.

WEDNESDAY

Rocks don’t eat lunch.

Rocks don’t eat at all.

Rocks don’t hide from moth boys

bent on revenge.

But I’m hungry.

Ham sandwich in my backpack.

Left the chips at home.

Too noisy.

If I sit back by the old encyclopedias

Mrs. Little doesn’t see me,

or pretends like she doesn’t see me,

and I can eat in peace.

No one spilling milk on my food

“accidentally.”

No one saying

Roses are red

Violets are purple

Kevin writes poems

Because he’s a girl

That’s a terrible poem

by the way.

Though “girple” would be an awesome word.

Tried to leave the library

but Mrs. Little tapped me on the arm.

Her cat-butt face

was in full force

but her eyes were softer.

Maybe.

I’ve seen what you’ve done to the books,

she whispered.

I’m aware of your little schemes.

She sounded like she was a ghost

from England.

I pulled my arm away and ran

trying to disappear like I was a ghost

from Busted-ville.

The noise again.

Maybe that should be the band’s name.

Just . . .

The Noise.

They make their screeches and whines

like robot animals fighting to the death.

Today I scream with them:

I feel lost all the time

A toy in a shoe

A sock in the trash

What do I do?

The boy who is lost

Though they see me right here

I cannot be found

But I can’t disappear.

Until Petey comes to my room

and tells me to shut up.

Your dumb rhymes are ruining the music, he says,

and I want to laugh

but it sticks in my throat

because ruining things

seems to be my new specialty.

THURSDAY

The Poetry Bandit is in trouble.

Mrs. Little knows it’s me.

Robin knows it’s me.

Robin wants it to be him.

So he can be King of the School.

Am I going to be King of the School now?

I highly doubt it.

I don’t think you can be king

if you’re expelled.

I put this one on Mrs. Little’s desk.

So maybe she’ll know

why I hurt

the books.

The intercom buzzed in Social Studies,

and in front of everyone

it was announced:

Please send Kevin Jamison to Mr. Hartwick’s office.

Ooooh.

Giggle.

Yeeeer in truhhhhbullll.

Harry the mole bounced at Freckle-Face Kelly and Robin,

of course,

to walk me to the office.

Buddy system.

Not.

Water on my pants.

Well, not just my pants . . .

my crotchal area.

Thanks to gum on the water fountain.

Gum I didn’t see.

Robin almost passed out from laughing.

I almost passed out from not punching him.

Luckily Robin doesn’t know why I was called

to see Hartwick.

All his Poetry Bandit dreams

down the drain.

I can still hear him laughing

while I sit in the office.

Yeah, well,

we’ll see who laughs last.

At least Freckle-Face Kelly didn’t laugh.

I mean, Kelly didn’t laugh.

The stain on the ceiling again,

in the shape of a cauliflower.

The stain fills my pupils

my brain

my ears

instead of Hartwick and Mrs. Little’s words

discussing my fate

for defacing school property.

In my defense, I did not remove any faces from

anything.

I stare at the stain

and congratulate it in my head

for getting bigger since we’ve seen each other last.

Two more weeks’ detention.

In the library.

Not expelled!

But I’m on THIN ICE

Hartwick says. His favorite thing to say.

And I totter, in my head, on the brink

of a lake paved with icy poems cracking under

my feet.

YOUNG MAN

Purple veins pulse to get my attention.

LAST CHANCE

Fingers shake at me.

OUT OF HERE

Mrs. Little stands and so I do, too.

THIN ICE

Repeated

Ringing in my ears

Thin ice

Thin ice

Thin ice

As a side note,

I have composed an ode

to Hartwick’s tie:

[Clearing throat noise here]

O, Principal’s tie

You make me want to scream

Because you are the color of

Puked-up Neapolitan ice cream

Why did Mrs. Little have to tell?

Her eyes seem to like me.

Her ears seem to hear me.

Why would she want me in trouble?

Maybe she’s lonely

in the big library

all by herself.

Maybe she needs company.

I don’t really mind being here, though.

Even if she stares at me

with her hieroglyph eye.

There are no sabotaged water fountains

in the library.

FRIDAY

I tried to explain better

about everything.

It will probably backfire

again.

I ripped this one out of a book

from home.

She makes me explain what I meant.

So I do.

You’ve got yourself in a bind, then.

She looks at me over her glasses.

I nod.

Just tell him you’ve been caught, Kevin.

His Poetry Bandit machinations can go no further.

I don’t know what that means.

Except that she still doesn’t understand.

My hand on the door,

it vibrates with the robot murder noises.

The KEEP OUT sign shakes a little, too.

Today I yell into my invisible microphone:

Rumbling, stumbling, fumbling, crumbling

but there is nowhere to go.

I’ve become easy prey

and there is nowhere to go.

Go! Go! Go! Go!

Go! Go! Go! Go!

But I’ve become easy prey

and there is nowhere to go—

The door yanks open, Petey is sweaty,

his eyes black arrows, stabbing at my face.

Get away from my door

you creeper.

Hey man,

the one friend says,

the guy who looks like all the rest of them.

His rhymes are kind of maybe not half bad.

Petey’s hand goes to the middle of my chest,

his palm against my shirt.

He pushes.

I stumble back.

Get out of here, turd!

And he slams the door.

But I smile.

Because I’m kind of maybe not half bad.

MONDAY

398 GR

This is the section for fairy tales.

Not the section for a random photocopied page

flittering around

making a mess.

I take the loose page to the trash,

but then I see

the page has the word

“wolf”

circled in red.

Like an invitation.

LATER MONDAY

I put my poem on a shelf

with the poetry books.

Hopefully Mrs. Little will find it there.

Properly shelved.

And maybe she will understand.

TUESDAY

I

On my desk this morning,

a familiar page

copied from a familiar notebook

about a familiar topic

having to do with a familiar mole

on a familiar teacher’s face.

II

ON EVERY DESK,

a familiar page

copied from a familiar notebook

about a familiar topic

having to do with a familiar mole

on a familiar teacher’s face.

III

On Robin’s moth face,

a familiar look

copied from a familiar face

I used to see in a familiar mirror

when I was stuffing a familiar someone

under the familiar sinks.

IV

Stolen a page from your own book, hmm?

That was Mrs. Smithson.

She actually said it.

In her familiar voice.

Out loud.

Before she grabbed most of the papers

and recycled them.

I am not a stone.

I am not a rock.

I am not giant and unblinking and cold.

There is an earthquake.

In my guts.

Shaking and quaking.

Quaking and shaking.

Cracking and jagged.

Jagged and cracking.

Breaking everything into sharp points,

poking my insides

until I want to scream.

But instead, I put my head on my desk

and close my eyes slowly

and wonder how the earthquake in my guts

isn’t shaking the whole classroom.

Kelly looks at me.

Her head is on her desk, too.

Those freckles are the same color as the desk,

like the desk has splashed a little on her face.

She blinks.

I blink.

She slides the paper into her lap,

the paper with my Harry poem.

She crumples it and drops it on the floor.

She smiles.

I stare.

One side of my mouth twitches up.

It’s hard to smile with so many

jagged places.

THURSDAY

001.94

Not the poetry section,

the mystery section.

But there’s a book misshelved.

A book with poems and quotes

short and funny

that go off like firecrackers in my brain

surprising me

until I laugh and laugh

for the first time in days and days.

And I see her smile,

Mrs. Little behind the checkout desk,

not looking up.

I put my poem in the book

and put the book on the right shelf

with the other poems.

Maybe Mrs. Little will find it

like I found her misshelved book.

And maybe she will laugh

with fireworks in her brain.

LATER THURSDAY

FRIDAY

Instead of chasing Kelly

or punching Giant John like pizza dough

I try to be Godzilla

to Robin’s Mothra.

I am bigger

but he is suddenly meaner.

My words, in my notebook

have given him power over me

which isn’t fair.

Paul would say it is kind of fair,

in a karma kind of way.

But never forget

Paul is annoying.

I see the library window from the recess field.

Maybe I could go there

like Godzilla in the ocean.

Regenerate my powers.

But no.

Robin and I shout at each other,

shooting fire from our mouths.

Angry enemies.

He still wants to be the Poetry Bandit.

He still wants all the credit.

When I get close to his face

the fire from my mouth to his ear

burns the truth in his head.

Mrs. Little knows about me and the books.

Hartwick knows about me and the books.

The Poetry Bandit has been discovered.

The Poetry Bandit is done.

Like a moth to flame

I lure Robin in with my tractor beam of words.

I call him all the worst things:

A baby. A jealous nerd. Ugly.

But he is word-proof now, a fireproof moth.

He does not combust.

He expands.

Kevin, Kevin, poetry boy, he yells.

Kevin has 900 brothers who all hate him.

Kevin has no friends.

Robin grows ten times bigger than my Godzilla.

Swollen with angry revenge.

Kelly grabs my hand

in the middle of the shouting fight

with Robin.

My face catches on fire.

She drags me off. She says,

Maybe if you apologize to him, he’ll stop.

And I say,

Bluh, whugh, huh blerf

because she’s still holding my hand.

808.51

Not the poetry section.

Again.

I smile.

There is a note.

A flyer.

I unfold it as if it is a treasure map,

or a secret message from the FBI.

Instead, it is an announcement.

Beatnik’s Brews

Poetry Night

Friday

8 pm

And a handwritten note:

If your parents give permission, I can give you a ride.

I look at the checkout desk

and think about the silver car with a dent

that I sometimes see Mrs. Little climb into

after school.

I wonder if it smells funny in that car.

If the AC works.

What music scrambles from the speakers.

Mrs. Little glances up

over her half-rectangle glasses

and

smiles.

The light catches the diamonds

on the sides of her glasses

or the fake diamonds

or whatever.

Her whole face is sparkly,

and for just a speck of a second

I see what she looked like

when she wasn’t 9,000 years old.

I smile back.

I put my poem in the book,

and put the book on the right shelf

with the other poems.

Maybe Mrs. Little will find it

like I found her folded flyer.

And maybe she’ll smile

at the words I wrote.

LATER FRIDAY

I don’t sing anything myself today.

Instead I slide a paper under the door

and run fast to my room

before Petey can call me a turd.

SATURDAY

Football on TV.

Somehow the whole family is home.

A packed house.

Even Patrick, home from college for the weekend.

Paul and I on the floor,

cheering.

Dad throws chips at us.

He is laughing.

Wrong team! he yells

and we know it

which is why we cheer.

Mom reads a book,

her feet in Dad’s lap.

Petey and Philip call plays

before the announcer says them.

Patrick is in the kitchen

eating all the food.

We are a real family.

Like a TV show,

but a classy one

with a live audience laugh track.

I make it a rule

to not think about school when I’m at home.

But I can’t help wonder

What kind of TV show does Robin live in?

What kind of TV show does Kelly live in?

What kind of TV show does Mrs. Little live in?

Do they have live audience laugh tracks?

A chorus of “awww”s?

I bet Mrs. Little has a funny theme song

running through her show,

that seems simple,

but then busts out with bongos.

Always a surprise.

Mom doesn’t look up from her book.

She says,

Oh yeah, Friday we’re all going to dinner

together

with my boss.

Dad’s eyebrows go up like helium-filled

caterpillars.

Paul says, Everyone?

Everyone.

Petey says, Can I bring Lacey?

No.

The game comes back on.

I think no one hears when I say,

But I have plans.

Then Petey and Philip bust out laughing.

Got a hot date?

Got a bank to rob?

Now everyone joins in.

Job interview?

Skydiving?

Bus driving lessons?

They’re hilarious.

Not.

Everyone needs to be there, Kevin.

Mom’s face goes pointy.

This could mean a promotion for me.

Normal hours.

More money.

Everything we all want.

So everyone comes. On their best behavior.

Everyone.

MONDAY

I put it on the shelving cart,

and then I leave.

TUESDAY

Old lady hand on my shoulder.

Veins and wrinkles,

shiny rings,

but when I close my eyes

energy shoots from the veins

like from a superhero

whose power is to say

That’s okay,

but without using words.

There are people who talk

so much

all the time

forever

with words falling from their mouths

like crumbs

from a sandwich.

But then there are people who never talk

hardly ever.

Except with their eyes

and their head-tilts

and their lips that can smile and frown

at the same time.

Mrs. Little says so much

without ever

ever

SHOUTING ABOUT RESPONSIBILITY.

THURSDAY

Do you think Kevin is a stupid loser?

That’s what the note said

in perfect handwriting

though the paper was so wrinkled

it looked like my Easter shirt

wadded up at the bottom of my drawer.

Robin tossed it on my chair.

(The note, not my Easter shirt.)

A big box was checked

YES

Everyone signed it. Everyone except Kelly.

Someone even pretended to sign Mrs. Smithson’s name.

At least I’m pretty sure it was fake.

Harry the mole signed it, too.

Eyes on me

is all she says.

Not Don’t pass notes, Robin.

Not See me after class, Robin.

Not Pay attention, Robin.

Eyes on me.

How can eyes NOT be on her

with Harry staring at us like that?

My pillow over my head.

My homework on the floor.

My window painted shut.

My door closed with a chair under the knob.

No one in.

No one out.

I breathe into the pillow, hot breath stinking it up.

Then I hear it.

Muffled.

The pillow hits the floor.

The homework is under my foot.

The window blinds rattle.

The chair goes back to the desk.

I am in the hall.

I am out.

Because I think I heard something.

Something I could not possibly have heard.

But then I hear it again.

Among the robot cat-slaughter sounds.

The days go by so long and so hard

The days go by so slow and so far

The days go by so stretched like a chord

From broken-down, slammed-around electric guitars

My words.

Coming from the guy who looks like the other guys.

They saw my paper.

They’re singing my rhymes.

I am so happy I punch the air.

And it feels better

than punching Giant John

ever did.

FRIDAY

It doesn’t make sense that wearing a necktie

could make a difference

at all

in the world

ever,

but especially when it comes to my mom

getting a promotion.

And yet, I am strangled by blue with small red dots

the same colors my face will be

any minute now.

I didn’t want to see poetry readings anyway.

Fancy people onstage

talking about flowers

and trees and ravens and feelings.

I don’t care

about any of that stuff.

Jagged rocks don’t care about people onstage.

Jagged rocks don’t care about flowers.

Jagged rocks don’t have feelings.

Except maybe they do.

Except maybe I do.

I.

Hate.

This.

Tie.

DINNER

You know how when something bad happens

your ears feel stuffed with socks,

your eyes focus like microscopes,

your cheeks catch on fire,

time slows down,

and no matter how much you

wish

pray

promise

beg

a hole does not open up and swallow you?

Well, none of that changes

when you’re at a fancy restaurant

with your mom’s boss

and your brother

puts Tabasco sauce on your fries

and you don’t notice until it’s too late

so you punch him under the table

while you’re choking and gasping

and spitting French fry chunks

everywhere.

And you knock your drink

into your mom’s boss’s drink

like dominoes

that land in his lap,

but cold and wet

and smelling

like the lady who works at the post office.

FRIDAY NEVER ENDS

Mom is so angry.

Maybe angrier than ever before.

I can see it in her face.

The way her eyes don’t match the curl of her lips.

The way her eyes suck in all the energy of the room.

The way her eyes are a vortex

trying to swallow me whole.

FRIDAY NEVER ENDS, THE OUTSIDE OF THE RESTAURANT EDITION

The bench is hard and the metal hurts my back

but it’s better out here than inside

listening to Mom apologize for me.

Always the mistake.

Always ruining things.

I kick a rock out from under the bench.

It hits a trash can, and with a BANG,

it breaks in half.

Good.

I sit in the night for a long time,

watching cars go by.

It stinks to live in a really small town,

because tonight I know all the cars.

Everyone seeing me on the bench,

a statue formerly known as Kevin.

Cars stop and go at the red light.

Customers come and go from the restaurant.

I shoot laser eyes at everyone.

Stop and go. ZAP.

Come and go. ZAP.

They’re not trapped.

Like me.

Zap.

One car stops at the light even though it’s green.

Two cars honk,

but it doesn’t move.

I zap it with my laser eyes.

It still doesn’t move.

It is an old car.

Beat up.

Silver.

With rust on the bottom.

Do I know this car, too?

In jerks, the passenger window opens

like the jerks I feel when I fall asleep,

only now I’m waking up

more and more

with each jerk of the window.

Kevin? Is that you?

The voice doesn’t belong in the nighttime

or in the road

or between the honks

of other angry drivers.

I stand, my statue legs breaking free.

She has leaned across the seat to open the window,

her silver hair around her shoulders,

shining in the streetlights.

Shadows darken her wrinkles.

I walk to the sidewalk.

Hold up my hand

to wave hi

or say Stop, please?

What’s the matter, then?

Her voice belongs in The Sound of Music

or on PBS

not in the parking lot of Chez Whatever.

It turns out I’ve been crying.

Who knew?

Her face is soft with sympathy. So soft I feel sick.

She puts her hand on my shoulder.

It makes me jump.

Kevin.

How can I help?

I hiccup. Wipe my face.

Where are your parents?

FRIDAY RESCUE

Wind on my face.

Seat belt on.

Tie off.

I am free.

For now.

She just walked in, like a queen.

Introduced herself,

apologized for interrupting,

asked if she could borrow me.

Dad couldn’t say anything.

Mom tried to say no.

Mrs. Little wouldn’t listen, though.

She called me talented.

A poet.

Paul ruffled my hair and smiled.

Philip and Petey snickered but Mom’s boss gave them

LASER EYES

and they stopped.

She called me

A schemer, no doubt.

But also?

Smart.

Funny.

Fragile.

Dad’s mouth stayed open

catching flies

if Chez Whatever

had flies.

Certainly, he should go,

Mom’s boss said, standing, shaking Mrs. Little’s hand,

his pants still wet.

You must be so proud,

he said to Mom, smiling.

Her face turned pink from the neck up,

a crawling warmth, climbing behind her ears

until she said with bright eyes,

Yes.

Yes, I am.

What?

She’s giving me the hieroglyph eye as she drives.

What? she asks again.

I am giving her the hieroglyph eye back.

The words she just said in there . . .

so many

at one time.

More than I’ve ever heard her say.

And they were all about me.

And they were nice.

They didn’t fall from her mouth.

They flew.

Like flaming arrows.

Flaming arrows keeping everyone away.

But keeping me warm.

What? She asks one more time,

Her hieroglyph eye shining in the dark.

Nothing, I say.

I hope my hieroglyph eye is shining, too.

OPEN MIC

How old is this guy?

His glasses say old,

but his shorts say young.

His words say old,

but his smile says young.

He talks in the microphone like he’s telling a secret,

but we can all hear.

I drink a hot cup of decaf coffee.

It tastes like my dad’s breath on Sundays.

Mrs. Little says

You can’t watch an open mic without coffee.

but she smiles when I push mine away,

and she buys me a Coke

in a real glass bottle.

My eyes wide.

The girl said a swear right into the microphone.

No one seems to notice

except me.

A teacher in the night

at a table

in a coffee shop

like a regular person

is weird.

Like a tiger

at the grocery store,

buying ice cream

and toilet paper.

Dew drops on flat leaves . . .

I try not to groan out loud.

Glistening in the moonlight . . .

I roll my eyes. And then roll them again.

Gentle breezes spin the drops like marbles . . .

I can’t help a bored cough.

Unlike marbles, the drops evaporate . . .

I look at Mrs. Little. She is loving it.

As the breeze reveals itself to be breath . . .

Wait. What?

Of a dragon, long since thought dead . . .

Dragon? Awesome!

Everyone claps.

I clap the hardest.

Two muffins. More Coke. Five more poets.

Mrs. Little stands,

smooths wrinkles out of her skirt.

I stand, too.

Crumbs fall from my shirt.

A man walks over to her.

They hug.

This is my youngest son.

I am confused. I’m not her son.

But then I realize,

the dragon poem poet from the stage

is her son.

Maybe a little older than Patrick.

His teeth are whitewhitewhite.

He shakes my hand.

Nice to meet you, Kevin. I’ve heard so much about you.

I look at Mrs. Little.

She’s smiling. Her face is soft.

I think I’m smiling, too.

MONDAY

Best night.

It’s all I can say

because there are too many words

to sort through.

TUESDAY

Robin does not think I am

Talented

or

Smart.

But he does think I am

Fragile

A poet

especially after he made Giant John

sit on me at recess

so he could rub my old notebook in the dirt

and then in my face.

Who’s tough now?

The words, over and over, out of his mouth

like dirty flies.

Who’s tough now?

Who’s tough now?

Until the words turn red,

And drip on the dirt.

And there’s a cut on my hand,

from a tooth

attached to a mouth

that isn’t saying

Who’s tough now?

anymore.

For a minute I think a bird is attacking,

shrieking.

But then I see it’s Kelly.

The shrieking is coming from her face.

Her open mouth.

Her eyes, squinched and angry.

She flies at us, her wings wide,

and I’m afraid she’s going to hit me, too.

Instead, her sneaker connects with Robin.

A soft spot

under his ribs.

There is a slow-motion oooooof.

And we’re apart.

Until we aren’t anymore.

Robin’s moth face is dusty,

his teeth are pink from blood

with darker red parts

in the shadowy places

between each tooth.

And he’s on me.

And it hurts.

And I hit back.

And there is more shrieking.

And I can’t catch my breath.

And I scramble, kicking, because I’m on my back.

And I want to be standing.

And I feel like I’m drowning in dust and screams.

And a hand grabs my shirt collar

And a voice yells enough! ENOUGH!

And it’s not Mrs. Smithson.

And I see her through the dust, far away.

And my arms are swinging like puppet arms.

And are made of jagged rock.

And I don’t know what’s happening anymore.

TIME STANDS STILL (AKA: HARTWICK’S OFFICE) ((AGAIN))

Dirt and blood on her skirt form the same shape

as the stain on the ceiling.

I stare at her skirt.

Trying to forget her hands on my shirt, my arms,

her voice shouting,

Kevin!

Kevin!

Stop it!

Enough!

My heart beating so fast.

Just think of the look on Hartwick’s face

if my heart explodes

like a water balloon

smashed in a shirt pocket.

Every day I watch this nonsense from the window.

Mrs. Little is breathing fast.

Her hands clenched. Angry.

She is a dragon,

heating up the office,

growing bigger with every word.

This is not the answer, she says,

giving the hieroglyph eye to Mrs. Smithson,

who is here, too.

Having them sort it out Lord of the Flies style?

Not.

Working.

It.

Has.

To.

Stop.

The words are ten feet tall.

They are a fortress,

shielding only me

from the angry dragon breath.

Harry shakes on Mrs. Smithson’s face.

Obviously, the boy can stand up for himself.

There is spit in the corners of her mouth.

She is not a dragon,

more like a donkey.

His disciplinary file proves that.

I am afraid Mrs. Little

might burst into flames.

She looks at Hartwick.

Who is contacting the superintendent, then?

Shall it be you?

Or me?

I don’t know who that is, but it’s a magic word

erasing color from faces

just like a bleach pen

on a blood stain.

Clearly, this cannot continue.

Robin looks at the floor.

I look at the stain.

Hartwick gives his speech.

You boys need a truce,

RIGHT NOW.

We clear this up,

TODAY.

I shake Robin’s hand.

So small in my own.

I don’t mean it.

He doesn’t mean it.

Except I sort of do.

I’m sorry for what I’ve done.

I’m sorry I made him hate me.

I’m sorry he turned me into jagged rock.

I wonder if he is sorry, too.

As a sidenote,

I have composed an ode

to Hartwick’s tie:

[Clearing throat noise here]

O, Principal’s tie

Is this the last time we’ll meet?

That makes me super happy

Because you smell like feet

I hear them coming up the front walk,

talking in sandpaper voices,

whacking guitar cases on the door frame

as they come inside.

My homework is on my lap

but it might as well be on Mars

as much as I have seen anything on the paper

in the past hour.

A head peeks into my room.

It’s the boy who is

starting to not look like everyone else

and look like his own self

with his dark slashy hair

and his always half-open eyes.

Got any more rhymes?

I stare at him as if he is on Mars, too.

Is he joking?

Teasing me?

I reach for a crumpled page.

This is about ugly monkeys, I say.

I wrote it about you.

He looks me up and down and then laughs,

a big donkey hee-haw sound that fills up my room.

You want to come watch? he asks.

Watch what?

He rattles the paper. The song. Are you brain-dead?

I will be when Petey finds me in his room.

But I go with this kid anyway.

Because, yeah.

I do want to watch it.

I do want to watch them sing my song.

WEDNESDAY

Enemy status dissolved?

Superintendent is also a word for

Robin’s dad.

Who knew?

Robin holds out my journal.

Dirty,

scratched,

torn in places.

Just like me.

I take it back.

Kelly oversees the exchange.

I’m sorry, you know.

My voice is crinkly. I cough.

Robin turns around

because he had already started walking away.

His lips are scrunched together.

A wadded-up-bubble-gum shape of a mouth.

He scratches at the scab over his eye.

Aren’t you sorry? I ask.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just walks away.

At lunch I sit with Kelly.

For the first time.

She has peanut butter and jelly

like a first-grader.

But I don’t say anything.

She slides a piece of paper to me.

It is a poem.

It has a unicorn in it.

I give her my best hieroglyph eye.

I have decided something.

Freckles are not like connect the dots at all.

They are like stars. Galaxies.

They hide stories of bravery.

They hide poems about unicorns.

Unicorns that eat teachers.

THURSDAY

Today I am thirteen.

The start of a new year.

I don’t feel that different

but I know I am.

Six presents on the table.

One from

Mom

Dad

Petey

Philip

Paul

and one with stamps mailed from Patrick.

I open them one by one.

They are all the same.

Six new notebooks.

I laugh out loud.

Mom says,

For our poet.

Dad says,

The next Hemingway.

I say,

Hemingway wasn’t a poet, Dad.

Petey says,

Nerd.

I laugh again

even though Petey just kicked me under the table,

and Mom is already checking her voice mail.

Petey grabs me by the shirt.

Hey.

His voice is low in my ear.

You know that blue notebook? The one with the skull?

I nod.

Maybe you should use that to write songs.

You know,

for the band.

I blink a couple of times.

You mean the Shrieking Tornadoes?

He looks at me.

Really looks at me

for a long time.

That’s our name, huh?

I shrug. Those are the sounds you make.

With your guitars.

Petey laughs. Yeah, then. Use the notebook for that.

For songs.

For the Shrieking Tornadoes.

I nod. Thanks for letting me in the band.

I almost whisper it. Can it be true?

Petey laughs again. You’re not in the band, turd.

He taps the notebook.

Just lay down some rhymes. Okay?

Oh. Okay. Cool.

Cool.

Paul walks me to school

even though it makes him late.

He tells me he’s proud of me.

He says he’s sorry no one else ever says that.

I swat at him with one of my new notebooks.

Paul is so annoying.

(But his words were nice.

Even when he was yelling at me to quit whacking him.)

811.6

The real poetry section.

This red book is new,

not bent or scuffed,

no plastic cover.

The author’s name is K. Jamison

just like me.

My heart speeds up, my eyes focus tight.

A hand rests on my shoulder, it’s a quiet smile.

Inside the book,

my poems.

The ones I showed Mrs. Little.

Bound together.

In a real book.

Like a real poet.

FRIDAY

Shelving books, just like every day.

No detention needed.

This is my job now.

A job that needs shining eyes and soft fingers.

Jagged stones need not apply.

I take deep breaths of the library smell,

the book smell,

the soft, shiny, safe smell.

A note from Mrs. Little says:

There’s another poetry night in one month.

You better get started, yes?

And the only easy prey

as far as my eyes can see

are a million words

on a million pages

just waiting.

I pull a pen from my pocket,

open up my notebook.

So many

words.

So little

time.

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank my incomparable agent, Ammi-Joan Paquette, who gets all the credit in the world for seeing this manuscript and saying yes. (She gets extra credit for all the times she shakes her head at me and says, “Not quite, but keep trying.”)

I’d also like to thank the supportive and fiercely talented group of women I spent a lovely autumn week with at a Highlights Foundation workshop in Honesdale, Pennsylvania. Extra sloppy kisses go to our faculty: Sonya Sones, Virginia Euwer Wolff, and Linda Oatman High. (And special thanks to Linda for saying, “Ooh, I like the band name parts of this manuscript, you should add more of that.”)

Thank you to my critique group, Bethany Hegedus, Vanessa Lee, and Sara Kocek, for not only knowing how to give a great critique, but for knowing when it’s time to just stare at the ceiling and quietly eat chocolate.

Thanks to my Spiderhouse coffee shop crew for not judging me when I eat breakfast tacos instead of writing. (And a high five to E. Kristin Anderson, who mentioned found poetry and how she thought it would improve the first draft.)

To everyone in the Austin, Texas, SCBWI, you guys are the epitome of awesome. (And a shout-out to Nikki Loftin, Donna Bowman Bratton, and Liz Garton Scanlon for reading early drafts and assuring me I wasn’t insane to want these words to be a book.)

Even though they hate my comfy writing pants, I will still thank my kiddos, Sam, Georgia, and Isaac, for dealing with the whims of a crazy mom writing a book. And an extra million billion thanks go to my husband, Steven, for knowing that sometimes I have to run away and write write write.

Last but most definitely not least, huge, huge thanks to everyone at Chronicle, especially Tamra Tuller, who has laughed and agonized and sniffled over Kevin just as much as I have.

K.A. HOLT is a writer

a mama

a bad (but fearless!) cook.

She has written three

(three!)

books for kids.

Also?

She shelved books

in the library

during grade school.

Ms. Holt claims

(claims!)

she never had a detention.

Believe what you want.