by K. A. Holt
He looked at me,
eyes like inky pools.
(Is there such a thing as an inky pool?
You know what I mean. Dark. Shiny.)
Come on, little dude.
He lifted his hand up
and I thought
finally
finally!
He’s going to sign brother!
You can do it!
He tucked his tiny thumb
in between his first two fingers
like he was making the letter T.
Look at you!
It’s not brother,
but it’s so close.
It’s the start of my name
it’s . . .
He started to rock his hand back and forth.
He wasn’t making a T at all.
He was making the sign for . . .
Potty! See that, T-man? Levi can sign potty now!
Now he can tell us when his diaper needs changing!
Levi clapped.
I patted his head and smiled and sighed.
Yeah. Awesome, little man.
And then to Mom:
Don’t call me T-man. Come on.
WEEK 44
Eight weeks
that’s it
all that’s left
eight weeks
then no more James
no more Mrs. B
well, if the judge says I’m good,
if the judge says I’ve learned my lesson.
Have I learned my lesson, James?
I think I’ve learned too many,
just way too many to count.
I wish I could do that thing
you know that thing?
The one where people lift up one eyebrow
but not the other?
That’s what I would have done
when Mrs. B said,
Timothy, you have a way with words,
you really should think about giving that speech.
The people at the Carnival of Giving would love it.
Your mom would love it.
I would love it.
Think about it, Timothy.
For me.
For her.
Who do you think I am, Mrs. B?
James?
[eyebrow lift thing goes here]
A school haiku:
So what’s the deal, then?
Your brother, he’s a retard?
That’s when I punched him.
Things were going so well.
That’s when you know to watch out.
That’s when you know Timothy
is going to do something
stupid
stupid
stupid.
But in my defense
you can’t just call people retards.
That’s offensive to everyone
with a brain
and a heart.
And if you’re going to be the kind of person
who is offensive to everyone
with a brain
and a heart,
maybe your mouth deserves
a Carnival of Giving
from my fist.
I know I’m lucky.
I know it.
I didn’t get regular suspended,
I only got in-school suspended.
I wish I had gotten a medal, though.
I wish I had gotten a parade.
I wish it was OK
to punch a kid
for being an idiot
but I guess vigilante justice
is not a real thing
in middle school
or anywhere
really.
I don’t want to hear it.
You made your decision.
That’s the only thing I heard this time
through the closed door
after the phone rang
and Mom tried to hide
again.
WEEK 45
It’s too late now, James.
I mean, you can yell at me.
You can talk about self-control.
I can wish I had more of it.
But it’s too late.
I can’t just go back and erase everything.
The judge will see I hit that kid.
The judge will see I hit that wall.
The judge already knows I stole that money.
What else do you want me to do?
What else can I do?
I am who I am.
I’m trying, James.
You know that.
Please don’t yell at me.
Please don’t be James from Probation Officer University.
Please don’t be that guy.
What do you mean
if I could talk to him?
I would never talk to him.
I’m not ever talking to him.
Not ever again.
I mean
unless he was kidnapped by a chupacabra,
or went to secret medical school,
or was on a hero’s quest
to find a forest of perfect tracheas . . .
then maybe
maybe
I would say:
Why didn’t you just let us know?
Why didn’t you even say bye?
Don’t you love us?
Don’t you love me?
What is wrong with you,
that a human could be so selfish?
Do you think this isn’t hard for Mom?
Do you think you helped us by leaving?
Do you even have a brain?
Do you hate us or something?
Dear Dr. Sawyer,
Well, thanks for zero help.
It must be nice to be the only doctor
who can do what you do
because then you can be rude
and never answer e-mails
and people still have to figure out
a way to see you
if they want their babies
to get fixed.
So that’s what we’re doing.
First the Carnival of Giving,
then we’re coming.
And I won’t kick you in the shins
when I see you
even though I will want to.
Peace out, nerd,
Timothy
It’s almost as loud as the suction machine,
the turtle car.
José’s dad gunned the engine
like a big show-off
and filled the entire cul-de-sac
with smoke
that smelled like burning tires
or what I imagine burning tires
smell like.
It purrs like a baby,
he shouted over the noise
and I laughed
because since when do babies purr?
Despite my outburst
the Carnival of Giving is still on
even though the PTA
or some of the PTA
is grumbling about it
according to José
who was listening in on the phone call
his mother got.
Lucky Timothy,
ex-vigilante,
almost-ex-criminal,
didn’t ruin everything
this time
I hope.
WEEK 46
O
M
G
shut
up
James
you
do
not
live
in
Butt
Creek
Apartments
we’re
not
going
to
be
neighbors
what
just
what
When I told Mrs. B about
Mom’s job interview coming up
her face exploded into a smile.
Like
, it went from
Superserious Mrs. B face to
BAM
HUGE SMILING FACE.
It was a little creepy.
I mean,
in a good way.
A speech.
A speech.
A speech.
What am I supposed to say?
Please give us all your money?
Even though I am technically a criminal?
Even though technically we won’t pay you back?
That seems like a terrible speech.
Maybe we should just cancel.
Aaaaarrrgh.
We can’t cancel.
But I also can’t make a speech.
Maybe Mom will make the speech.
I can’t believe you’re moving.
throws shoe in box
I mean, why so soon?
throws other shoe in different box
It’s like one day there was a sign . . .
throws Dad’s football in box
And then the next it said SOLD.
throws book in with football
I like having you close, Timothy.
throws old homework assignment in box
It will be weird having you far away.
throws candy wrapper in box
I’m going to miss you.
I put my hand on her hand.
I look at the sixteen million boxes
all with two things in them,
all with stupid things in them.
Isa.
My voice is low.
I have something very important to tell you.
Her eyes fill up her face.
Two things,
actually.
She leans in closer.
One: the Butt Creek apartments are just down the street.
Two: you are a terrible packer.
She smacks me in the head with a shoe.
I try to stuff her in a box.
She’s so short
it almost works.
Just sign the papers.
That’s what I hear this time
through the door
after the phone rings.
We’ve been over this.
Sign the [swearword bleeped] papers, Tim.
The first time I’ve heard it.
His name.
My name.
It really is Dad.
He really is out there somewhere.
WEEK 47
Who knew that moving into
the Butt Creek Apartments
would also be a ticket to
James’s Gun Show?
Holy muscles, Batman.
You lifted my whole bed over your head.
Dude.
Everything’s coming up Annie!
That’s what Mom said
when I walked in from school.
She was wearing a suit
she got from some place
that gives suits to ladies
looking for jobs.
I was like,
What?
Everything’s what?
And she grabbed me
smelling not like herself
because of that suit,
looking not like herself
because of the lipstick.
And she kissed my forehead.
I got the job, T-man.
We won’t have to eat the kitchen table
after all.
And Marisol laughed from the kitchen
where Levi was busy barfing
on the aforementioned kitchen table.
Don’t call me T-man,
I said.
And then I hugged her back.
Hard.
Because, dang.
She got that job fast.
Mom is on fire these days.
Speaking of things on fire,
José’s dad took us out
for a ride
in the turtle car
just around the block,
which was good
because about halfway
I watched his feet working the
clutch the gas the brake
and then this smoke came shooting through the vents
making him grab the fire extinguisher
from under the seat
leap from the car
that was still rolling a little bit (!!)
and put out a fire
in the engine.
So that was way more fun
than the history project
José and I were supposed to be working on.
Baby Signing Adventure
Levi in my lap
fingers moving
brain whirling
mesmerized.
I can’t help but wonder
who is Miss Jill
with her long fingers
and big white teeth
and singsong voice?
Who is she in real life?
Why does she do this show?
How did she learn all the signs?
Maybe she has a baby with a trach.
Maybe she has a kid who’s deaf.
Maybe they needed a Carnival of Giving
to raise money
and maybe she gave a speech
using only her hands
and everyone loved it
and gave her a zillion dollars
and she started this TV show.
Or maybe she’s just an actress.
I hate to think that, though.
I hate to think she’s just an actress.
He hasn’t called since we moved.
Not once.
Who knew the Butt Creek apartments
had punching bags
a treadmill
a thing with those big round weights?
Who knew James would
gasp
break a rule
and let me in the tiny gym
even though I am under sixteen.
Who knew it would be so great
to punch that bag
really slam it
over and over and over and over
until my arms went limp and wiggly
like giant worms.
The Timothy Gun Show.
Coming soon
to some arms near you.
WEEK 48
You’re coming, right?
Mrs. B?
To the Carnival of Giving?
I mean, you don’t have to give money
it just seems like you should be there
and James, too.
We wouldn’t even be having this thing
without you guys.
So you better be there.
You better.
Maybe I will write something down.
In case I have to do the speech.
Or, no.
Maybe I won’t.
Because I’m not going to get onstage.
No way.
Nope.
Clowns.
People on stilts.
A fire-eater.
A dunking booth.
Tacos!
And Levi.
Out in public for the first time
in a long time.
His face was so funny
watching all those things,
trying to figure out the world
outside of his four walls.
I guess that’s what made me take the microphone,
what made me make that speech
(without any notes!)
what made me say those things
about my own four walls
my walls made of James and Mrs. B and Mom
and now José’s house, sometimes, too.
I guess that’s why I talked about
how strong Levi is
how nothing scares him
how he could be attached to a ten-ton boulder
and he would still learn to drag it behind him.
Still learn to run.
I guess that�
�s why I said those things,
watching his walls open up like that,
and how it all made me think of my own walls
and how they made me open up
instead of the other way around.
Up there onstage,
looking out over all the people—
holding the microphone,
seeing so many faces—
it wasn’t as scary as I thought.
I think I used more feeling words
at one time
than I have ever used before.
And I wasn’t even really thinking about it.
I was just talking.
Just telling people how things are.
The feelings came out on their own.
And not one of those feelings
made me want to punch a wall.
And that was something.
That was really something.
Seriously.
You guys.
Was that fun or what?
I don’t even care if they raised a hundred dollars,
or a million dollars,
it was just
so
much
fun.
All day, outside, laughing and talking
like regular people,
just me and Levi and Mom
and Marisol and James and Mrs. B
and Jose’s one million sisters
and Isa.
Just hanging out
eating corn dogs
goofing around
watching that crazy fire-eater
watching Levi grin and sign
more more more
hot smile man
more more more.
I wanted more, too.
I wanted it to never stop.
A real gullywasher.
A frog strangler
as Dad would say.
The rain just pounding
so loud
so loud
it makes you smile wide
because how can nature be so crazy?
I almost didn’t hear the knock
because of the rain
and the howling wind,
but my spidey senses . . .
they kicked in and
sure enough
right there
in the pouring rain
stood Mrs. B.
She held up a piece of paper
so wet it looked like it was melting.
Her hair was stuck to her face
the rain dripping down her chin
and into that little throat space,
that little neck hollow,
like a tiny pool.