Rhyme Schemer Read online

  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

  Tho
ugh 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