Rhyme Schemer (10 page)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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