Rhyme Schemer (14 page)

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.

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.

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,