Rhyme Schemer Read online

  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

  Contents

  DAY 1 1

  DAY 2 3

  DAY 3 5

  DAY 4 8

  DAY 5 10

  WEEKEND 16

  DAY 6 18

  DAY 7 28

  WEEKEND 31

  DAY 15 35

  DAY 16 38

  DAY 17 46

  DAY 19 48

  DAY 20 50

  WEEKEND 51

  DAY 23 53

  DAY 24 55

  DAY 25 60

  DAY 26 62

  DAY 9,342 66

  DAY I DON’T EVEN KNOW ANYMORE 68

  WEEKEND 70

  DAY 30-SOMETHING 72

  TUESDAY 78

  WEDNESDAY 80

  THURSDAY 84

  FRIDAY 92

  MONDAY 97

  LATER MONDAY 98

  TUESDAY 100

  THURSDAY 103

  LATER THURSDAY 105

  FRIDAY 106

  LATER FRIDAY 112

  SATURDAY 113

  MONDAY 117

  TUESDAY 118

  THURSDAY 120

  FRIDAY 124

  DINNER 126

  FRIDAY NEVER ENDS 128

  FRIDAY NEVER ENDS, THE OUTSIDE OF THE RESTAURANT EDITION 129

  FRIDAY RESCUE 133

  OPEN MIC 137

  MONDAY 140

  TUESDAY 142

  TIME STANDS STILL (AKA: HARTWICK’S OFFICE) ((AGAIN)) 145

  WEDNESDAY 152

  THURSDAY 156

  FRIDAY 161

  Acknowledgments 165

  NECKTIE POEMS 168

  About the Author 171

  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.

  Th
e 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