Even though I like when Mrs. Parkman reads to us, I can’t let her know that. So I make sure to listen, but I tap my feet and roll around and act like I don’t care. Kids like me don’t like read alouds.
It’s getting harder to act like a jerk though because I actually care about this Hugo kid. He’s smart and resourceful and he found this robot thing that he’s trying to rebuild. He does pretty good surviving on his own, and I wonder, could I survive on my own?
After the bus drops me off that afternoon, I wander around the neighborhood for a while. Who knows where Maya is. She does her own thing, but always comes home when she gets hungry enough. Kind of like a stray dog.
When I finally make it home, I think about our writing assignment today and look at the house like I’m seeing it for the first time. Puke green is how I would describe the color of the outside. No wait, faded puke green is more like it. I open the front door to see the living room that has been cleaned… well… never. An inch of dust covers every surface; I can write my name in it with my finger. And smoke from Mom’s cigarettes makes the air hazy all the time. Since we live in Texas and it’s hotter than you-know-what most of the time, the windows stay closed when the electricity is on, so the smoke just sits on everything. The ratty couch and stained carpet smell of smoke. All our clothes, backpacks, shoes, even my hair, have a smoky smell that no amount of showering could ever fix.
Even if the water was on.
This is why stupid Travis Beaker calls me Smokey, well that and the whole dragons-breathe-fire thing.
Now you know why I can’t bring home my new backpack from Ms. Luna. Because in three seconds flat, it will smell like the rest of my house. And I’m already the stinky kid. I don’t need to be the stinky kid with the stinky backpack. That’s why I left it at school in my locker.
De-vine’s asleep in our room, and I don’t bother going to look for Mom. She’s probably asleep or out back smoking. Mom doesn’t work. She’s been sick for as long as I can remember. The day the doctor said she had diabetes and would need to take insulin shots for the rest of her life, Maya’s good-for-nothing dad took off. Said he couldn’t deal with a “broken woman” and “two messed-up kids” so he left. We haven’t seen him since, and Mom stopped crying about him a day after he left. Even she knew we were better off without him.
Uncle Carlos moved in a year after that, after the lights got shut off for the second time. Mom gets some money from the government, but after she pays rent, makes a food and cigarette run, and pays for her insulin so she can stay alive, we sometimes don’t have enough left for other bills. That’s why Uncle Carlos moved in for a while. He worked at a garage in town fixing cars, changing oil, things like that. His money helped, but lots of it went to buy his own cigarettes and beer.
He’s gone now, though, and no one misses him.
4
My Reading Group
The next day during reading workshop, Mrs. Parkman asks us to get with our reading groups. “Reading Workshop” is just a fancy way of saying there’s a short lesson, lots and lots of reading time, and sometimes meeting with a group. Maybe teachers think it sounds more fun to call it a workshop, but to me it just sounds like more work. My reading group is me and two other kids, Marisa and Caden. Our group is supposed to read whatever Mrs. Parkman gives us and then talk about it.
Usually, I dread reading group time. I’m the slowest reader, and sometimes they look at me like, omg are you done yet? So I lie and say, “Okay, I’m done.” So far, we’ve only met a couple of times, and you can probably guess that I didn’t participate those times. I keep waiting for Caden and Marisa to give up on me like my math group, but it hasn’t happened yet.
Today Mrs. Parkman hands everyone a packet before she sends us to our groups. I can tell right away it’s not a made-up story. For one thing, there’s a photo of an older man and a young kid. It looks like they are talking.
Someone asks why we’re reading this, and Marisa says, “This is the kind of thing you read when you want to learn something new, right, Mrs. Parkman?”
“Exactly, Marisa. And today, we are going to read this article about a program where kids interview older people and record their stories.”
I can’t help it. I make a sort of huffing sound and say, “Who would care about some old people’s stories?”
Mrs. Parkman doesn’t like to answer questions. Instead, she likes to address our questions with more questions. “Well Dragon, let’s think about that for a minute. Why would we care about stories from older people?”
Then she waits. The waiting is the worst because the silence gets super awkward sometimes. Kyla breaks first. She can’t handle the waiting. Me? I could wait all day.
“Because we want to learn from them, right? Like how you tell us that learning history is important so that we don’t make the same mistakes.”
“Yes, Kyla! What does everyone else think?”
Caden speaks up, but barely. He’s so quiet, you have to lean really close to him to hear what he’s saying. Usually I can’t be bothered to even try. But today, something tells me I need to listen.
“My grandpa has some pretty cool stories from when he was in a war in a different country. He told us that one time he saved a little kid from getting blown up and gave her back to her mom.”
Marisa’s eyes widen and she says, “Wow. That’s really cool. My grandma has a quilt at home with a piece on it from every place she’s ever lived or visited. She’s still adding to it, and every time I visit her, she loves to tell me stories about each piece and where it came from.”
I shrug. Who cares? I think. My grandparents don’t tell me anything, I lie, but this time only to myself.
The truth is that I’ve never even met my grandparents, and Mom doesn’t talk about them so I gave up asking. But she had to have parents at some point, right?
“Okay,” Mrs. Parkman chirps. “In your groups, read just this first section then talk about what you know so far.”
Turns out, the article is pretty interesting. Well, the parts that I’m able to read. There’s this company that started to record stories so that once all the old people die, their stories won’t die with them. I guess I never really thought about that. Of course, I don’t say any of this, I just mumble along in agreement as Caden and Marisa talk.
Right before group time is up and the conversation has died, Caden looks at me and almost whispers, “Dragon? Are you dyslexic?” He says this not in a mean way, but more curious. I feel all the blood rush to my face and suddenly it’s ninety million degrees in the room.
“So?” I ask him, challenging without realizing I just admitted my dyslexia.
But Caden doesn’t get a chance to respond, because Mrs. Parkman says it’s time for independent reading, and she wants me to come talk to her about my book.
It takes me a minute to calm down, taking a deep breath and counting down from five like Ms. Luna taught us to do if we’re mad. At first I thought she was full of crap, but I tried it once and it worked, so now it’s my go-to when I need to chill.
Mrs. Parkman ignores my very obvious attempt not to make eye contact and asks what I’m reading. I shrug. In my desk is a comic book from the library about Captain America, so I tell her that, even though I’ve barely looked at it. She asks what it’s about, so I tell her my best guess from flipping through the pictures as she nods and writes something in her enormous binder. Kids tease her about that binder all the time. She says it’s like a second brain, where she keeps all her knowledge.
“Hey, Mrs. Parkman?” I ask. “Are you gonna read to us about Hugo?”
She brightens and says, “Absolutely! And I have a feeling something very exciting is going to happen today!”
I mutter, “Cool. Can I go back to my desk now?”
She gives me another smile and pats my hand. “Yes. Go ahead. Enjoy your book,” she says. Her long fingers are clean and her nails are perfectly polished. I pull my hand away because next to hers, I can see how dirty it is.
When I look at her face, though, she’s lost in thought, like she’s trying to solve a puzzle in her mind. Who knows what that’s about.
I walk back to my desk and pretend to read my comic book. But something about that article and stories clings to the back of my mind and threatens to take up residence there.
It’s not that
I don’t like to read.
* * *
It’s that
the words have a tendency
to dance around on the page.
* * *
So it’s slow
and I’m slow
and kids don’t like to wait.
* * *
Poems work best for me
not too many words
not too much dancing.
* * *
Every word is important,
none wasted.
* * *
I might be missing out
on big stories
grand adventures
kids like me being heroes.
* * *
But it just takes too long.
5
My (Sort Of, Not Really) Detention
At lunch a week later, I get in a food fight with Travis Beaker. For whatever reason, I am Travis’s most favorite kid to mess with, and days where I unluckily find myself at his lunch table are the worst. I try not to pass him in the hallways, either. In case you don’t know, it doesn’t feel great to get bodyslammed into a metal locker. This has been going on since the second grade. Travis usually starts off by looking at my cafeteria food like it’s not fit to be fed to pigs on a farm. His lunch today, like almost every other day, is an honest-to-god Chick-Fil-A sandwich, complete with fries and a Coke. And, his mom brings it just before lunch in her shiny black Range Rover, so it’s fresh. She must not have anything better to do. Travis saw me looking longingly at his meal one day, and he never let me forget it.
See? Jerk.
After making fun of my food, he starts teasing me about how I smell and moves on to how I can’t read until he lands on why I don’t “talk Mexican” like my sister. I tried to explain once that Maya is a) only my half-sister and b) doesn’t even know any Spanish, but all that got me was a punch in the gut and another trip to the principal’s office.
He’s at it again today. The other kids at our table eat quickly, avoiding looking in Travis’s direction, knowing this could all blow up at any minute. No one likes to deal with him because he’d probably turn on them, and no one likes to deal with me because I’m, well, me.
But today, I have peas. Real peas are probably good. But cafeteria peas? They are like a brownish-greenish color, and when they squish between your teeth, it’s like you’ve just eaten sand. Cafeteria peas are not good for eating, but they are great for throwing.
Before Travis can get very deep into his, “but you are part Mexican, right Smokey?” bit, I’ve loaded up my spoon. Without thinking, I’ve pulled it back, and without really considering what might happen afterwards, I let go. The mushy projectiles hit their target right in the face, and before I know it, Travis has taken the lid off his soda and thrown it right in my direction. My arm takes over, like a reflex, and I grab a handful of mashed potatoes and cream them right into his hair. He tries to tackle me like one of his football opponents. But he can’t, because now I’m mad. Cafeteria mashed potatoes are my favorite, not something to be wasted. The fight only lasts for about three more seconds before teachers come and pull Travis off of me and take us both down to the office.
The front office is usually my home away from home. There’s a little desk right outside the assistant principal’s office that might as well have my name on it. Every year in elementary school, I spent some part of almost every day in a desk just like it. My fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Brock, especially hated me. She’d send me to the office if I even looked at her sideways, saying I was being “disrespectful.” One time I heard her yell to the principal that she just needed a “Dragon time-out.” It’s true, I can’t control my face or my mouth, and sometimes she said dumb stuff. Usually, I’d just sit out there in the little desk until the principal tried to call my mom and when she didn’t answer, she’d send me back to class with a, “make better choices, Dragon,” kind of speech. It rarely worked out like she’d hoped.
This year, though, I have a new assistant principal, and he’s a dude. Like he’s a dude bro. He wears a suit and really uncomfortable-looking shiny dress shoes, but most days I think he’d wear a Texas Rangers jersey with jeans and running shoes if someone let him. He’s over-the-top happy all the time, like someone added extra sugar to his coffee. And he high-fives kids and is goofy in the halls and it’s only the first month of school, and he knows almost everyone’s name already. He even wants us to call him Mr. Mark, which is technically his first name. It took a few weeks for everyone to get used to it.
Travis goes in first, and I imagine he’s telling Mr. Mark that I threw the peas, so he was only defending himself. I know the drill. He’ll go back to class with a stern warning and then lay low until the next time he feels like being mean to somebody.
Just like I predicted, Travis comes out a minute later, making sure to shove me with his shoulder, but super sneakily so Mr. Mark doesn’t see it.
Mr. Mark calls me in. His office is different than any other principal’s office, and trust me, I’ve seen my fair share. It’s way more relaxed and less organized, like someone actually lives in here and enjoys himself. This is my first office visit of the year because, so far, my teachers have ignored my rude facial expressions and the fact that I don’t do my work, and this is the first fight of seventh grade.
I start to sweat because I don’t know how this will go. Other principals weren’t great, but at least I knew what I’d get. I expect Mr. Mark to lay into me about why I started the fight and what my consequence will be and a harsh look and a phone call to Mom. Joke’s on him, though; her phone is turned off most of the time. But instead, he gets up from his desk, holds out his hand for a handshake, and says, “Hey, it’s Dragon, right? I don’t think we’ve actually met.”
And he’s… smiling? I want to be like, dude, I just got into a food fight. Shouldn’t you be mad or something? But instead, I shake his hand and mutter, “Yeah.”
“Have a seat, buddy.” I give him a suspicious look but sit down slowly in a comfy blue chair at a round table, expecting Mr. Mark to stay behind his desk. Instead, he comes and sits right across from me.
“Tell me about yourself. Whose homeroom are you in?”
“Uh. Ms. Luna’s.”
“Oh man, you are lucky. She’s pretty great. And, how’s seventh grade going?”
“Um. Fine, I guess? So am I in trouble or what?”
“Well, Dragon. What do you think about what happened today?”
I really can’t believe this whole thing. What’s this guy’s deal? I don’t know what to say, so I mutter, “I started it, but he made it worse.”
Mr. Mark laughs and says, “Makes sense. Don’t all fights go that way?”
“I guess.” I shrug.
“So, would you like to tell me why you started it?”
Hmm… let me think. Do I want to tell you that Travis was making fun of my food and my last name and how I talk? Nope. Then I’d be a snitch. And snitches are losers.
I shrug again. “Travis is a jerk.” This type of statement in the past usually got me more time at the desk out front and a lecture on how I need to be nice to all kids. But, then again, nothing today is going the usual way.
Mr. Mark nods and says, “That may be true, pal.” Is he allowed to say that? “Unfortunately, you can’t change Travis.”
This hadn’t ever occurred to me before. But I’m getting mad, and I can’t hold my thoughts in any longer. I try the whole deep breath, five-count thing. It doesn’t work this time. I ball up my fists and explode at him.
“So what? He just gets to keep being a jerk and I can’t fight him to make him stop?”
“Pretty much,”
Mr. Mark says, leaning back in his chair, like it’s that simple. He shows no surprise at my outburst.
“But,” he starts again, “you do get to choose how you respond to him. The way you responded today probably wasn’t the best. Fights can lead to suspension, missing days of school, whether you’re the one who started it or not. And we like you, Dragon. We want you to be in school.”
Something in his tone makes me think he knows that Travis really was being a jerk.
I look up to challenge him. “Oh yeah? Who likes me?”
Mr. Mark grins and says, “I do! And Ms. Luna, we like you. We like it when you’re in school.”
“Whatever,” I say, not believing him. “Can I just go back to class now?” I already missed free time, dangit.
“Well, not yet. We need to make a plan. For next time.”
“Next time what?” I ask.
“Next time Travis, or anybody, is a jerk.”
Oh, here it is. The do-better-next-time. But Mr. Mark is looking at me, like I’m supposed to come up with the plan.
“Umm… isn’t that your job?” I ask him. The staring is getting creepy.
He laughs again. “If you don’t have any ideas, I’m happy to help.”
“Well I don’t,” I say and cross my arms over my chest.
“Okay. For starters, let’s just see if we can keep you two apart at lunch. If you see that he’s at the table you’re supposed to sit at, then move to the next one, okay?”
“Whatever,” I say. I’m getting real tired of this conversation.
“Okay Dragon, it was nice talking to you,” Mr. Mark says, like I’m some kind of grown-up. “But now, it’s time to clean up.”
My Storied Year Page 3