by K. A. Holt
You’re talking! I laughed,
ignoring Mary,
shouting as loud as I could,
He’s talking!
He said Mama!
And that’s when I saw Mom in the doorway,
her hand on her mouth,
tears on her cheeks.
Oh, Levi, she said.
She looked at Mary, still on the floor, cleaning.
She looked at me.
Oh, Timothy.
MA MA MA MA MA MA, Levi answered.
Mom was crying, but also laughing.
I think maybe I was, too.
The first time we’ve ever heard his voice.
The very first time.
But you know the best sound I heard?
Maybe the best sound I’ve heard in months and months?
Mom’s voice, still choked up, still loving on Levi
who was still in my arms,
the three of us standing together,
a triangle,
a family.
I’ll call the agency, Mom said, nuzzling Levi’s ear.
Mary.
You’re fired.
INTAKE
all
ripped
up
little
pieces
paper
snow
in the
trash.
I didn’t do it.
But someone did.
He won’t talk to you.
That’s all I heard
through the door
at 9:17 p.m.
after the phone rang
and Mom ran upstairs.
Caller ID.
The number from last night
not our area code.
I pick up the phone
press the call button
my heart shoots into my throat.
This is so crazy.
Three rings, then:
Hello?
My heartbeat is behind my eyes now,
in my fingertips, too.
Annie?
[pause]
[pause]
I just wanted to tell him happy birthday.
I drop the phone.
BAM.
Just like I would
if it were on fire.
WEEK 40
Eighth grade.
What else can I say?
It’s better than being in juvie?
Maybe?
Mom lost her job.
Just like that.
Snap.
Downsized.
That’s the word she used.
She emptied her work bag into the trash can,
kicked off her shoes,
sat at the kitchen table,
and smiled at me,
like she had zero cares in the world.
Did you have a good day?
She took a sip of water.
I could only blink.
First she fired Mary.
Then she tore up the facility intake form.
Now this?
We might have to eat the kitchen table.
But we’ll be fine.
Then she laughed and laughed
and shook her head
and put her bare feet up on the table
on top of all the stacks of papers.
Why did Mom look so happy?
I don’t want to talk about them, Mrs. B.
The phone calls, I mean.
Can we make those off-limits?
Can we talk about never stealing again?
Or how I feel about Levi’s weird trachea?
Or what we’re going to do now that Mom has no job?
I will talk about all that stuff.
Just not the phone calls.
Please not the phone calls.
Dear Dr. Sawyer,
In case you’re wondering,
I’m not giving up.
Things got crazy for a bit here
but even so
I will not stop e-mailing you.
We’re really going to need extra help now,
figuring out the money stuff
and the travel,
but I’m not giving up.
Not if you can help Levi.
And you can, can’t you?
The website says you can.
I won’t stop believing, Dr. Sawyer.
Just like that horrible song my mom listens to.
Always believing,
Timothy
Tap tap tap on the front door.
I opened it wide,
ready to say good morning to Isa,
ready to see what surprise she might have.
It wasn’t Isa.
It was more of a surprise
than anything she could have had.
Marisol.
Grinning wide.
Wearing her teddy bear scrubs,
her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Timothy!
She hugged me with one arm
and ran inside
swooping Levi up
getting tangled in all the cords,
laughing.
Levi’s finger in his trach
MA MA MA MA MA.
Mom taking a picture.
Marisol is back.
Was anyone going to tell me?
Your face, Timothy!
Mom laughed and laughed.
You’d think Marisol was a ghost.
But . . .
was all I could say.
My mouth couldn’t find the words,
the ones to say
I thought we lost her because of me
I thought she would never come back.
Who needs full-time nursing
when you have no job?
Marisol is back to her old schedule
while I try to find new work
and then we’ll figure something out
just like we always do, Timothy.
Just like we always do.
I could only nod and smile
while Marisol tickled Levi
and his wheezy gasping laugh
filled the whole room.
Things keep happening.
So many things
to us.
But none of the things are
things we can control,
not really . . .
Don’t you think it’s time for
things to change?
Time for us to try and
control some of the things?
Time to let people help?
Let me ask about the Carnival.
Maybe they won’t even want to do it.
We won’t know
until we ask.
That’s what I said
to Mom.
For real.
With my actual mouth.
It can’t be a big deal.
That’s all she said.
With her actual mouth.
Her eyes, though,
her eyes said:
People will think things about us.
My mouth said:
It won’t be a big deal.
My eyes said:
People already think things about us.
People already want to help with things.
All we have to do is let them.
Let them help us.
Let them help us change things.
WEEK 41
Different greens.
Dark from making a gash across tall grass.
Medium from bashing a hedge.
Brown-green from spinning onto a dirt clod.
So many different greens
smeared across the laces
of the football that should not be on this coffee table,
that should be in Mom’s trunk
with the rest of Dad’s stuff.
I guess it’s none of my business
that Mrs. B isn’t really a Mrs.
Though maybe someone should have warned me
jus
t in case I might be out with Mom
at the mall
on the ONE day we go out for fun,
the ONE time Marisol comes on a Saturday,
and we are just walking around
just happening to see
two people I know very well
HOLDING HANDS
and
SHARING AN ICE CREAM CONE.
Gross, James.
Gross, Mrs. B.
I mean, Ms. B.
Or Miss B.
Or whatever.
Seriously, you guys.
Gross.
What do I think about fresh starts?
That’s a weird question.
First of all, “fresh starts”
sounds like a grocery store
or a really lame handout in Health class.
Second of all, what kind of question is that?
Mom handed me about a hundred brochures,
all for apartments.
I was already going to have to do it, T-man.
Don’t call me T-man.
It’s either sell the house, or let the bank take it.
The brochures show happy skinny people
with mirrors on the walls of their dining rooms
and bottles of beer by swimming pools.
I should have done it a long time ago.
I was paralyzed or something.
I’m sorry, Timothy.
I haven’t been here.
Even when I have been here, I haven’t been here.
We need a fresh start.
This will be our fresh start.
She pointed to Bottle Creek Apartments.
I thought it said Butt Creek Apartments.
Seems about right, I said.
And she hugged me tight.
I heard you wanted to see me?
Her face was all wrong.
Pointy and blinking.
Not soft, not like Mrs. B at all.
But I talked to her anyway,
the elusive Guidance Counselor,
in her native territory of
plastic chairs
and posters of terrified kittens
falling out of trees,
with the words Hang in There
dangling over their heads
just out of reach.
I asked about the Carnival of Giving
watched as, the more I talked,
the more her mouth opened wider, little by little
like a drawbridge preparing to let in
an army.
I’ll talk to the PTA.
Then she paused.
She blinked a lot.
You know, you are very brave, Timothy.
She said that last part
as I walked to the door
and I didn’t have the heart to tell her
she’s mistaking bravery
for flat-out
desperation.
If I stare at the wall,
this particular wall
with the spot
that’s whiter than the rest,
the hole that Mom filled with newspaper
and covered with goopy white stuff
and smoothed out with the edge of a ruler.
This spot,
if I stare at it,
reminds me of me
a little bit.
Not quite all put together
but sort of.
I mean, at least put together enough
to rub your hand over it
and call it smooth
like Isa is doing right now
to the back of my neck
while she pretends to not
read over my shoulder
and I pretend to not notice
that she’s reading over my shoulder.
WEEK 42
Levi stood up on his own today.
We jumped around and screamed and clapped.
Pretty much like morons.
Happy morons.
He is almost eighteen months old.
That’s when most babies are already running.
But Mom says Levi is growing on Levi time.
That’s OK even though Levi time is slow.
Can you believe he stood up?
I gave him a prize.
Vanilla yogurt.
His favorite.
I love that they painted it green.
Because of course.
José’s dad said,
Thanks for the inspiration.
And he laughed
and I patted the top of the turtle car,
the shiny green top
and felt a little bit amazed
they actually did it,
you know?
They actually took that hunk of junk
and made a real car out of it again.
Killing aliens.
Getting killed by aliens.
Side by side.
His shoulder knocking mine.
My shoulder knocking his.
I guess you like her,
he said, running behind a bunker.
I shot a missile
into an alien’s face.
You mean Isa?
I stared at the screen.
José stared at the screen.
Who else, dummy?
He darted from the bunker
covering me as I opened fire.
Sure,
I said,
I mean, I guess, yes. I do.
His shoulder knocked mine.
Another alien went down.
Don’t be gross about it, dude.
My eyes burned into the screen.
I’m not being gross about anything.
I laid down some cover.
He ran into a building.
She’s my sister.
I know.
I ran into the building after him.
He whirled around a corner
and shot me
as if I was an alien.
He shoved my shoulder,
Don’t forget that, OK?
I shoved him back.
OK.
Then we laughed weird laughs
and started over again.
10:42.
She runs upstairs as soon as it rings.
Selfish.
I hear her through the locked door.
No
I don’t
he doesn’t
he might never
unforgivable
Then the shower turns on
and I walk down the hall,
back to my room,
my heart pounding,
my stomach twisting.
As some of you might know
we have a family at Honeycutt Middle
who is in need of a little help.
And because we are a family at Honeycutt Middle
we’re going to do everything we can.
That was when I slid down in my seat
and tried to shrink into a dot-sized Timothy.
In just less than six weeks
we’ll have our annual
Carnival of Giving!
So get ready, Mustangs,
and let’s show the world
how our family
helps other families
in their time of need.
I stayed low in my seat
for the rest of class
not wanting to be embarrassed
not willing to admit it’s my family
but feeling my pounding heart
feeling my breathing going faster
just thinking about how it might really
really
be happening
and how we might really
really
be able to take Levi to Cincinnati
if we can all survive
the Carnival of Giving
first.
WEEK 43
Don’t think I’m not counting the weeks
until it’s been a whole yea
r,
a year of this house arrest.
And as soon as that year is up
BLAMMO.
I’m done with homework.
I’m done with being nice.
I’m back cruising the grocery store,
back stealing fat wallets,
back to ignoring homework . . .
OH WAIT.
Of course I’m doing my homework, James.
Why do you even ask things like that anymore?
You know me by now.
You know what I do.
Jeez.
I don’t want to talk about it.
I don’t want to talk to him.
And if you keep bringing it up, Mrs. B,
I’m just going to shout
SO WHAT SO WHAT SO WHAT SO WHAT
and never stop
like I have that syndrome
that makes people shout things
without being able to help it.
Except I’ll be able to help it
and I’ll do it anyway.
I’m sorry I said that
about the people with the shouting syndrome.
That’s probably not fun,
to yell things when you don’t need to.
Kind of the opposite of Levi . . .
not being able to shout when he wants to.
I only meant it as an example
but I guess it wasn’t all that great of one.
Sorry about that.
I wouldn’t want someone using Levi’s nonshouting
in a court-ordered journal
just as a way to describe
how they were feeling
to a court-ordered psychologist
with blond hair
and too many plants
and crinkly eyes
and a bad habit of dating the court-ordered
probation officer.
Did I just do it again?
Accidentally write something insulting?
Or maybe it was accidentally
on purpose.
YOU’LL NEVER KNOW, SUCKERS.
Do you want to say anything?
That’s what the guidance counselor asked me
about the Carnival of Giving.
She said I could give a speech
if I want
and I was like
nooooooooooooooooooooo
oooooooooooooooooooooo
oooooooooooooooooooooo
oooooooooooooooooooooope
but thank you for asking.
Go on, Levi.
He stood, bounced a little
fell on his butt
smiled.
Go on, show Timothy.