My Storied Year

by Katie Proctor

  He walks Travis and me down to the cafeteria where everything has been cleaned up except our table, which looks exactly like it did when the teachers pulled us apart. The custodian hands me a wet rag with a scowl, and I scrub mashed potatoes off the table and chair while Travis picks up the peas and mops soda off the floor. I look over at him just as the arm of his shirt pushes up, moved by the motion of the mop. His upper arm is wrapped in purplish dark marks, almost like a handprint. I’ve seen marks like that before, on my own arm and Maya’s, but I look away; this is not my business. We work in silence, and I know it’s only because Mr. Mark is standing there watching us that Travis doesn’t continue spewing mean words at me.

  Travis sneers at me the whole time we walk back to our classrooms, like this is all my fault or something. Whatever.

  6

  My Writing Lesson

  The next day, I realize that Mrs. Parkman won’t let this story thing go. We finished the article about the old people recording stories in our groups, and now she’s moved on to making the whole class write our own stories.

  Yesterday she told us that when we tell a story, it’s important to start with a small idea. Something important that happened to us, but something that happened in a short amount of time. That way, she says, when we write our stories, we can stretch them out and make the reader feel like they were there with us.

  Today, she starts writing workshop by giving us a few minutes to write down some ideas of small moments that happened to us that we could tell someone or turn into a longer story.

  Turns out, this is kind of hard.

  Some kids are scribbling furiously, like they have so many ideas that their brains are working faster than their fingers. My paper is blank. I have no idea what to write. I glance over at Jason’s paper and he’s got four or five ideas. One says “beach in Florida,” another says “Disney World,” and still another says “FiestaLand.” Dang, Jason gets around. Also, those don’t seem like small moments to me. They seem like huge moments.

  Erin is doodling flowers and writing her name in different colored pens, but she already has a list a mile long. The first one says “Taylor Swift concert,” so I stop reading because, barf.

  By the time Mrs. Parkman calls everyone down to the Writing Circle—also known as the Anytime-She-Wants-Us-Not-To-Jack-Around-And-Actually-Pay-Attention Circle—I still have nothing on my paper. I know she expects everyone to share, so I scribble down “FiestaLand.”

  I think it’s best to go with a made-up story this time because all the ones I can think of would make for terrible stories. Like when the neighbor’s big slobbery dog bit my arm and broke the skin for just walking too close to its fence. Or the time Maya got brought home by the cops for trying to steal a candy bar from that nice lady who owns the Thai place and lets us use her WiFi. Or the time the neighbor’s trailer caught fire and it took the fire trucks fifteen entire minutes to get there and by then the whole thing was totally burned up. No one wants to read stories like that.

  So, a made-up FiestaLand story it is.

  There’s just one problem.

  I’ve never been.

  I have no idea what FiestaLand is like. Unlike lots of the kids in my classes over the years, my family doesn’t get a season pass to hang out at the huge amusement park all summer every summer.

  I was right about Jason’s ideas being too big. He shares first, and Mrs. Parkman asks him questions to get the story to be smaller. He wants to write about his beach vacation. Mrs. Parkman asks him to pick one thing, the most exciting thing from the trip, so he tells us about how he saw a real-live shark in the ocean.

  Mrs. Parkman gives the rest of us one minute to make sure we have a small idea to work with.

  Marisa’s going to write about meeting her baby sister for the first time. Denzel has a great story about running into a long-lost cousin on a road trip. Erin chooses the moment she met Taylor Swift backstage at that concert. Caden surprises me by saying he’s going to write about when his parents split up. Duke still says nothing. He sits as far outside the circle as he can get, his dark hair hanging down in front of his eyes. Not for the first time, I wonder what is up with this dude.

  When I tell the class I want to write about FiestaLand, Erin says, “That’s too big, Dragon,” but Kyla squeals and saves me, asking, “What’s your favorite ride?”

  “Uh…the Scorpion?” I say, but more as a question than an answer. It’s the only one I’ve heard of.

  “Oooh! Cool!” she says, leaning forward. “That’s my favorite, too.”

  Mrs. Parkman smiles and pairs us up to tell our stories, because like she says, well sings really, “If you can tell a story, you can write one!” She makes us all say this with her like some sort of mantra. It’s annoying every time.

  Especially because I don’t believe her.

  As luck has it, she pairs me with Kyla, who loves to talk. She rambles on about her gymnastics meet where she got second place. When we are supposed to switch, she starts by asking me all kinds of questions and then answering them herself. I don’t mind.

  “So Scorpion, huh? Why’s it your favorite ride? Do you like it ‘cuz it’s yellow? Yellow’s my favorite! Do you like how you go upside down?”

  Kyla’s talking so fast that her million little braids are bouncing around, and I’m oddly soothed by the noises the little beads at the ends make when they hit each other.

  “My sister totally puked last time we went, but not me! My mom says I have a stomach of steel. I really love how it starts off in the dark and then pulls you outside to loopty-loop in the sunshine, just like—hey!—yellow again!”

  By the time Mrs. Parkman rings her chimes, Kyla’s hardly taken one breath and she whispers, “Oops! I didn’t even hear your story!”

  I shrug. “Doesn’t matter,” I say. Plus, at least now I have some material to work with. Too bad writing time’s over. Maybe tomorrow.

  But—surprise!—writing time isn’t up. Mrs. Parkman claps her hands and explains that we are having an extra-long writing workshop today, as if this news is the same as winning a free iPad or getting a snow cone machine for the class. Extra writing time is definitely not like either of those things.

  “I didn’t get to share my story in the circle,” Mrs. Parkman’s voice rings out.

  I look up. Her stories are usually pretty interesting.

  “But instead of telling it to you, I’m going to show you how I’d start writing it. I’ll tell you one thing, though. It involves a graveyard. And maybe even a ghost!”

  From the “oooooh”s and “wow”s, I can tell that everyone’s really into this.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Erin speaks up. “A ghost? Aren’t these supposed to be real, true stories? Ghosts aren’t real!”

  Mrs. Parkman winks at her. “Or are they?”

  Okay, now I’m hooked. Dangit.

  Mrs. Parkman says she hasn’t decided on a great beginning yet, but that’s okay because she says you can always go back and add one later.

  “So,” she continues, “I’m going to start by describing the setting, to get you to feel like you’re right there with me.”

  She grabs a sheet of loose-leaf notebook paper and puts it under the projector so we can see it on the white board. She starts writing:

  I remember it was hot. So hot. So hot you could practically see the heat waves rise up off the water. Sweat dripped off everyone’s faces, and the dogs’ tongues hung all the way out. It was so still, not even a slight breeze. We had driven the boat up a quiet creek, away from noisy lake-goers and screaming inner-tubers. Grandpa’s excitement was contagious as he pushed buttons on his GPS to tell Uncle Brad where to take the boat. I could tell some of the grown-ups were a little bit nervous, following along with what seemed like an insane wild goose chase to an abandoned island.

  We all watch her in silence. Mrs. Parkman has this way about her. I think we’d all be silent if she were writing about clipping her toenails or giving her dog a bath. When she says, “Okay,
I think this is a good start!” we all groan. We want more. She hasn’t even made it to the graveyard yet.

  “What have I, the writer, told you, my readers, so far just in this first part?”

  Hands go up and she points at them one after the other. My classmates shoot off answers like popcorn.

  “It’s summer!”

  “You’re a little kid!”

  “You’re at a lake!”

  “You’re going on a fun adventure!”

  “You have dogs!”

  Mrs. Parkman nods at each one.

  “Exactly. And it’s your job as the writer to give away these hints to your readers without actually telling them. You show them instead.”

  There’s a special energy in the room. It’s like everyone is, this very moment, planning out exactly what to write down for their story. Mrs. Parkman sends us to our writing spots with directions to describe the setting of our story.

  I know I’m in trouble now.

  I spend a lot of time looking around the room and writing down words that Kyla said like “yellow” and “upside down.” I don’t get very far, so I get frustrated.

  Frustration feels like

  hot prickles on my cheeks.

  * * *

  It feels like mad.

  Mad at everybody.

  Mad at nobody.

  Mad at myself.

  * * *

  Mad I’m not smart.

  Mad I can’t focus.

  Mad my handwriting sucks.

  * * *

  Breathing doesn’t work.

  Counting doesn’t work.

  So Mad Dragon comes out.

  * * *

  Today Mad Dragon

  tears up his paper

  into teeny tiny bits.

  * * *

  It’s snowing down around his desk

  the floor is covered,

  he doesn’t even notice

  everyone else is gone.

  7

  My Deal With The Principal

  I barely notice Mrs. Parkman’s hand on my shoulder or her saying, “Dragon, do you want to share what’s up? Or do you just need a minute?”

  When I don’t respond, Denzel shakes his head. He knows that talking to me will make it worse. Mrs. Parkman makes a quick phone call before leaving the room to follow the rest of the kids, and I resume my paper tearing. Duke is the last one out. I see him pause for a second and look at me like he might say something or come over, but he doesn’t.

  That’s when Mr. Mark steps into the room. He smells like he’s fresh out of the shower and like he uses hair gel from the teenager section.

  I look down and see the paper snow all around my desk. I’m pretty impressed with how much I did so fast.

  Mr. Mark says, “Snow in September! Aren’t we lucky?”

  Ugh. What a lame dad joke.

  I shrug.

  “Dragon, what’s up, man?” He says this like we are buds, not like he’s an assistant principal and I’m a juvenile delinquent.

  I shrug again. I don’t tell him I’m frustrated because I can’t write a story. I know I’ll sound like a baby kindergartner.

  He asks more questions. I don’t look at him. I shrug some more. I realize this is my favorite move. Maybe I’ll call it the Official Dragon Shrug.

  When I get mad like this, I can only see about a foot in front of my face. My whole body shakes, my face turns red, my hands turn into fists. Also, I don’t hear very well because the heartbeat in my ears is deafening.

  I spit out, “What?” because I don’t quite catch the last thing Mr. Mark asked, but I’m pretty sure he said “pizza.” There are only two ways to get me out of Mad Dragon Mode: time and food.

  “I said, I just ordered a pizza and I’m starving. So instead of sitting here not talking, let’s go eat. You game?”

  I shrug again, playing it cool, “Sure.” But inside, my heart is racing. My principal wants to share a pizza with me?

  While I stuff my face with slices of hot pepperoni and cheese, Mr. Mark talks. I still haven’t said a word to him besides “sure,” but that doesn’t seem to bother him one bit. He tells me all about how he grew up in a trailer park and how he worked so hard to take care of his little brother. He talks about how they used to play Kick the Can and marbles—this dude is ancient—and how some of his best friends are the ones he made in that trailer park.

  I realize that I’ve stopped eating and I’m listening to him, like really listening. I want to ask him, Then how’d you get here? You’re pretty much in charge of a whole school. But I swallow down the question.

  He changes his tactic. “Okay, man. I can see that you’re calmer now. Let’s make a plan for next time you get frustrated, okay?”

  What’s with him and these plans?

  “Okay,” I say.

  “How about for now, you come up with something to tell Mrs. Parkman when you’re about to shut down.”

  “Shut down? Like a robot?”

  Mr. Mark laughs. “Yeah, like a robot. So what do you think you could tell her?”

  “Umm… could I just ask to take a break?”

  “Yes! That’s a great idea. I’ll talk to her after school and next time, before you get so mad and mess up the floor, just tell her you need a break and you can come hang out with me.”

  “Wait, with you? Like I’ll be in trouble?”

  “No, no,” he says, reaching out to pat my shoulder in what I imagine is a fatherly, reassuring kind of way, “You can just take your break in here. Deal?”

  “Deal.” I force my face into a smile. The guy at least deserves that. “Thanks for the pizza.”

  “Sure thing, buddy. Now, before free time is over, how about you help me clean up Mrs. Parkman’s room?”

  “Okay.”

  And here’s the crazy thing: Mr. Mark gets down on the floor and really helps me. On top of that, right as we hear the kids coming in from recess, he takes a pack of blue sticky notes—the good kind that actually stick—out of his pocket and says, “Next time, don’t tear up your assignment, use these instead.”

  I nod and take them from him. But I don’t think I’ll tear them up.

  I have a better idea.

  8

  My Drunk Uncle

  Mrs. Parkman is reading about Hugo again. She does this thing where she asks us to make personal connections to the story. Usually I don’t care enough to try, but today it’s easy.

  We find out that Hugo’s uncle, who disappeared a while ago, used to drink a whole bunch and made Hugo do all of his work. The cool thing is that once this dude left, Hugo got to do whatever he wanted. No grown-ups to tell him anything. Sure, he has to keep the clocks working at the train station or everyone will know his uncle is gone. And sure, he has to steal food and parts for his creepy-looking robot thing. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you another reason I like the book: because half of the story is told in these awesome pictures. And Mrs. Parkman puts it under the projector so we can see them up close. Hugo always has this frightened expression on his face, but if you ask me, he’s better off without the uncle.

  Alcohol can bring out the darkest sides of people.

  I always knew when Uncle Carlos was drunk. His eyes would turn red and his steady mechanic’s hands would shake. The thin mustache over his lip would turn into a permanent snarl, and it was best if you got out of his way.

  I learned there’s a fine line between just-a-little drunk and way-too-drunk. Just-a-little drunk Uncle Carlos would fall asleep face first on the couch and wake up twelve hours later. Way-too-drunk Uncle Carlos would hit and kick whatever got in his way: his own toddler, Maya, me, the neighbor’s dog, his car. Once, he even broke three of the toes on his right foot. I got pretty good at recognizing when it was bad, and I would stay away.

  Luckily, our bedroom door has a lock, so when I’d hear him throwing stuff around in the living room, I’d lock me and De-vine in. Maya too, if she was around. When I did that, he didn’t even know we were there. I had to keep De-vine qui
et though, because she didn’t get what was going on. If she started to cry or whimper, I’d whisper-sing her songs or tell her stories until she got quiet. I was glad Uncle Carlos didn’t come looking for us, but also, I wondered how he could completely forget he had a daughter. How messed up is that?

  Listening to Mrs. Parkman read aloud, I realize that Hugo and I have something in common. Because Uncle Carlos is gone too. But I’m not ready to tell you that one just yet.

  Hugo has this flashback about his uncle, and I slip into a flashback of my own.

  One night, a bad night before The Worst Night, it got really scary. That night, he did remember us. That night, he almost broke the bedroom door down, looking for what? Food? Money? More beer? Someone, anyone, to hit? Who knows? But I knew we were in trouble. He was yelling and slurring his words and I heard in him a rage I hadn’t seen before. I froze, held De-vine close to me, one ear on the door. Maya was nowhere to be found, and I didn’t have anywhere to go.

  I heard Mom then, telling him to get away from our room. I’ll never forget the thud of his fist smashing into the wall. Mom screamed at him to stop. Afraid he would turn on her, I pushed De-vine out the window carefully and took her over to Mr. Reeves’ house, where I called the police before coming back through the front door to check on Mom.

  The first thing I saw was a gaping hole in the wall, one I could almost walk through. Uncle Carlos was in the bathroom and I could hear these great big heaving sobs. He sounded like some type of injured wild animal.

  When the cops showed, my mom lied and said everything was fine, that it was just a loud argument, that her brother was ill. She said I called them because he scared me, that’s all.