Rhyme Schemer Read online

  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 sh
irt

  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,