My Storied Year

by Katie Proctor

  I don’t know how to write about this without my anger or bitterness leaking out onto the page. I decide to leave Jack out of it totally to avoid making Mom sad and scribble something down underneath the photo.

  Mr. Mark comes around with fresh buttery popcorn for everyone, and we start watching Home Alone. It’s old but still funny. We used to watch this one at home.

  When the movie is over and Holiday Song Karaoke starts, I have to get out of there. I tell Ms. Luna I need a break, and run out the door before she even has time to nod.

  Mr. Mark is in his office sorting boxes of mac-n-cheese and canned veggies and ramen packets. He smiles when he sees me.

  “Dragon! Come in! Man, I’m glad you’re here. I could really use some help.”

  I shrug. “Okay.”

  He tells me how many of each item goes in each bag, so I start making little piles.

  “Where does all this stuff come from?”

  I’m familiar with the Friday Food Bags, because I’ve been taking one home every Friday for the last year and a half. It’s how we eat on the weekends when all the money has gone to Mom’s insulin and cigarettes and when all the chips and cookies are gone.

  “The church down the road gives us all the food. The members buy extra at the grocery store and then bring it to us.”

  “Oh,” I say lamely. I hadn’t really considered where it came from before. And I’ve never considered what it might be like to have “extra” anything from a grocery store.

  We pack a lot of bags in silence, a swish of plastic or a clink of cans the only accompaniment to our work.

  “Are you excited for Christmas?”

  “I guess? Not really.”

  “Oh?” he asks when I don’t elaborate.

  “I just… like being here. That’s all.”

  “I know, buddy. We like you being here, too.”

  I help him deliver the bags of food all over the school, and we finally end up back at my classroom.

  “Thanks so much for your help, Dragon. I would’ve never gotten that all done without you.”

  “Uh… sure,” I mumble.

  “Hey, I slipped a little something extra into your food bag. Make sure you grab it before anyone else does.”

  I nod, and he walks away. I look down at the bags and know right away which one is mine. There’s all the regular food, but also an extra-large box of for-real Cheez-Its. My favorite. Sweet.

  I sit outside the classroom for a while, not ready to deal with all of the noise, not ready to pretend I’m as happy as everyone else. But eventually, I pick up my food bag and push my way back into the classroom against a whirl of noise and activity. Everyone’s either cleaning up or still fighting, but losing, the urge to sing Christmas songs at top volume.

  Right before the bell, Maya’s teacher, Mrs. Garcia, comes to the door and whispers something to Ms. Luna. Whatever it is, it’s urgent. I can tell by the way Mrs. Garcia’s lips are pursed, and there’s a drop of sweat on her temple. Ms. Luna calls me over.

  “Something’s going on with your sister. Do you think you could go with Mrs. Garcia real quick?” She says this with a hint of apology in her voice, like she knows it’s not fair to ask this of me.

  I shrug but step out of the classroom to follow Mrs. Garcia down the hall.

  I can tell something is wrong the minute I walk through the door. Maya’s under Mrs. Garcia’s desk and is refusing to come out. Because of the holiday party noise, I didn’t notice Maya’s high-pitched scream until just now. But there it is, ringing out louder than anything else. I know this scream. This is the scream of a kid who will not do anything anyone tells her.

  The second bell rings, and all the kids leave. Denzel passes by Mrs. Garcia’s room and gives me a look like good luck, man.

  The empty classroom only makes room for Maya’s screams to feel louder, more invasive. Mrs. Garcia makes a phone call, and Mr. Mark walks in a couple seconds later. A fake white beard is pulled down around his neck and the Santa fat suit he put on for dismissal has gone askew, looking like he has a deformed hunchback instead of a bowl full of jelly. He nods at me, gives me a fist bump, and says, “What’s up, man?”

  I shrug.

  Mr. Mark bends down and looks under the desk to see Maya. The screaming has stopped now but she’s got her hands over her ears and is banging her head against the wall. The thud, thud, thud matches my heartbeat.

  “What now, buddy?” Mr. Mark asks me.

  I shrug again. “You either gotta wait ’til she chills or you’re gonna have to carry her.”

  The walkie talkie on Mr. Mark’s belt crackles to life. “Bus 46 is waiting on Dragon Stewart and Maya Cortez. Bus 46. It needs to leave.”

  Mr. Mark sighs and replies, “On our way.” To me, he says, “Guess we are stuck with option two.”

  He drags Maya, who’s gone completely limp, out from under the desk. Mr. Mark holds her under one arm like a football and the four of us leave the classroom. At this, Maya starts screaming again and she flails her arms and legs. Luckily most of the other kids are already gone, because this is super embarrassing.

  When we get to the bus, Mrs. Garcia holds a full-size chocolate bar in Maya’s direction. “But,” she says, “if you want it, you have to calm down.” Now this is a person who gets my sister.

  Maya considers this, takes the candy bar, hops out of Mr. Mark’s arms and onto the bus like she couldn’t be happier. I take my time climbing the steps, though, and Mrs. Garcia and Mr. Mark wait until I’m all the way in. They wave at me as the bus pulls away, smiles on their faces but pity in their eyes, like they both know I don’t really want to go home.

  16

  My Christmas Break

  Like I predicted, Christmas morning comes and goes without much excitement. At first I didn’t even realize it was Christmas, but Denzel’s mama wraps up some of their leftovers and sends them over.

  I give De-vine a little doll that one of Denzel’s sisters has outgrown, and she loves it. I wish I had something else for her, but she’s not old enough to know she’s missing out on anything yet. Maya is happy with the extra food, and Mom spends most of the day in bed.

  That night, though, she gathers us in the living room and we all watch A Christmas Story together. You know that old movie with the kid who wants a BB gun for Christmas and ends up with awful pink bunny pajamas? Every Christmas, it plays for twenty-four straight hours. After the second time through, Mom turns it off. She goes to her room and comes back with three wrapped gifts.

  “I know it’s not much, but I hope you know I did the best I could,” she says, handing us each a present.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say before I open mine. She gives me a weak smile.

  For Maya and me, she picked out Nerf guns with little foam bullets and we have the best time chasing and shooting each other and playing dead. De-vine tears open the wrapping on hers and finds a brand-new pink dress, tags and all. It’s new, not from Goodwill or the church thrift store. She squeals in excitement, and I catch Mom with a genuine smile. I’ve almost forgotten what her smile looks like, but I’m glad to see it. I give her the Christmas memory we made in class, and she hangs it in her room.

  I have to admit, this Christmas turned out much better than our last few.

  It makes me think: maybe it’s good because of who isn’t here.

  The day after Christmas, we get a rare Texas blizzard. I know something’s different when I wake up to a light that is too bright for winter shining in our bedroom window. When I peek out of the blinds, careful to not wake De-vine, I see Maya out there already, running around like a maniac, throwing snow and falling down and rolling around in it. I heat up a packet of oatmeal on the stove for De-vine and me to share and then we go join Maya outside.

  De-vine’s coat is too small, but I manage to zip it anyway. Mine’s too big—one of Uncle Carlos’s that he left behind—and it lets in too much of the cold. Despite last night’s storm, the sun is out and everything sparkles. The snow makes even this
crappy old trailer park look like a nice, normal neighborhood. By noon, most of it has melted and all that’s left is a sad little snowman head with rocks for eyes that droop off the side of his face.

  We go back inside when our fingers are icicles, and I make all of us some hot chocolate before settling De-vine in front of some show about a little orange singing tiger. Maya sits next to her, mesmerized. I decide this is a good time to talk to Mom about my assignment from Mrs. Parkman.

  The day before the Christmas party, Mrs. Parkman had reminded us about the project we learned about where kids interview adults to learn about their lives.

  “Now, friends, I know the holidays are usually a time to spend with family,” she’d said. “So let’s make the most of it this year! I want you to choose a family member, preferably one older than you, and I want you to ask them to tell you just one story. This could be something that happened a long time ago or yesterday, but I want it to be a story that was meaningful to them somehow. Does anyone have questions?”

  Erin had raised her hand. “Do we have to write it down?”

  “Good question. Yes… well, yes and no. You do not have to write the entire story, unless you’d like to. What would be helpful are some detailed notes that you could use later to turn into some kind of story. Anyone else?”

  Caden asked, “Does it have to be true?”

  “Well, there’s no way for me to really know if a story’s true or not, but I think you’ll find that some of the best stories our relatives have to tell are, in fact, true stories.”

  Marisa added, “Do they have to be a real family member? Like does my mom’s best friend who we call Uncle Joe count?”

  “Any adult you know well and spend time with will be perfectly fine.” Mrs. Parkman smiled. I could tell she was hopeful about this project. I had looked down at the carpet, already knowing I’d probably disappoint her and come back to school empty-handed.

  That day, I had come home and gone in my room for a nap and spotted that blue sticky note on the wall with the question about my grandmother. It made me think about Mrs. Parkman’s project, and I made up my mind to ask Mom about her sometime over the break. I’ve been putting it off because I didn’t know how to start the conversation, but today I take a deep breath, grab my sticky notes and a pencil, and push open the door to Mom’s room.

  She’s awake, but her eyes are tired and she’s staring at the TV, some random soap opera. The picture isn’t coming in that clearly, and I have no idea if she’s even watching it or just listening.

  “Mom?” I ask.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I ask you some questions? It’s for a school project.”

  “Questions about what?”

  “Well, Mrs. Parkman wants us to come back to school with a story that someone told us. So any story about you would work. But… er… I’m really curious about my grandmother, your mom.”

  I hear the covers rustle slightly as Mom stiffens. These are the most words strung together that I’ve spoken to her in a while, and I know they shock her. I was kind of counting on shock factor to work in my favor.

  Spoiler: it doesn’t.

  “Whatcha wanna know about her for?” she asks, not meeting my eye. “She’s not around anymore.”

  “But she was at some point, right? What happened?”

  “It’s nothin’ to concern yourself with, Dragon. Now go on, I don’t feel good. Let me rest.” She turns her back to me and I know it’s my cue to leave. I don’t push the issue.

  Later, over a cup of ramen noodles and some canned green beans, I try again. “What was your mom’s name?”

  Mom sighs. “It was Clara.”

  “What was she like?”

  “That’s enough, Dragon. I’m not going to tell you anything more. Now eat up or give De-vine your noodles.”

  Sunday morning, the last day before we go back to school, I try one more time. I wait until after lunch, when Mom’s tired and lethargic. She goes to lie down and I follow her into her room.

  “Mom,” I start. “I remember the day you took us to the graveyard.”

  She looks at me but says nothing.

  “I remember the flowers you put there and her name on the stone. So I know she’s gone. But I want to know how. And why you won’t say.”

  Now she looks away. “Well, you’re gonna be wanting to know for a long time, because I’m not gonna tell you. So forget about it and you can tell your nosy Mrs. Parkland or whatever that she doesn’t need this story from you.”

  I sigh. At least I tried.

  I decide to go over to Mr. Reeves’s. By some miracle, our water hasn’t been turned off for a couple months, so I don’t need to use the bathroom, but I think that maybe he can give me a good story to tell in class. I don’t want to disappoint Mrs. Parkman.

  Mr. Reeves is happy as ever to have a guest. He invites me in with a jolly laugh and makes me a cup of hot chocolate, the real kind, not the sugar-free kind my mom gets. He even drops in five fluffy marshmallows, the big ones.

  “What can I do for you, young man?” he asks, after he’s invited me to sit at his kitchen table.

  I explain about the project and watch while his eyes close, searching for the perfect memory to share with me. He’s quiet for so long I start to worry that something’s wrong with him. Denzel’s mama told me once that Mr. Reeves has seizures sometimes, so he’s not allowed to drive, and that if it weren’t for his daughter bringing him groceries every week, he’d have to live in a group home of some kind.

  But then he turns his gaze back toward me and says, “I think I have just the one!”

  “Is it okay if I take notes, Mr. Reeves?” I ask, trying to remember the etiquette Mrs. Parkman taught us about interviewing.

  “Oh, sure!” he says, laughing. He seems to be enjoying himself. “Now, where should I start? Oh yeah, it was fourth grade. That year, they let a Black boy come to my all-white school.”

  Uh-oh. This story could go in all kinds of wrong directions. I try to hide my discomfort and just listen. “And?” I ask him.

  “And Antoine was his name. He was the best football player to ever grace the playground at Jackson Elementary. Nobody liked him, though. He was the only Black kid for miles. I don’t even know why his parents let him come to our school. For a long, long time, he sat on the side of our football games at recess. He tried hard not to look interested because he knew we wouldn’t let him play.

  “One day, my buddy Johnny was home sick, and we needed one more man. So I asked him, ‘Hey, kid. How ’bout you get up and play with us?’ I remember him looking at me like it must be some mistake, look behind him to make sure there was no one else I could be talking to. But he smiled big, so I threw the ball for him.”

  Mr. Reeves leans back in his chair, puts his hands behind his head, and closes his eyes. Like he’s savoring the memory. Then he laughs.

  “I overshot that throw, probably on purpose, and it went way past his head, but he hopped up and ran like a jackrabbit. He caught the ball like a pro, and cradled it to his chest. I remember thinking, Oh, we’re in trouble now. It’s like I knew he was that good.”

  “Well, did he play?” I ask, totally into the story now.

  “Oh yeah Antoine played, and he schooled us.” Mr. Reeves lets out a deep chuckle. “Even when Johnny came back, he played. We made room on the team for him. We’d never seen anybody run as fast or throw as far. Not only that, but he taught us all his tricks, despite that we’d been so mean to him before. Nobody had hurt him or anything like that, but we didn’t let him play and some of the boys said cruel things about his family and his skin color.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Well, Antoine and I became good friends. He got along with all the other boys too, but we were close like brothers. When we moved on to middle school and there were lots of other Black kids there, Antoine always saved a spot for me at lunch. And I went to all his football games in high school to cheer him on. We were best man at each other’s wedding
s. He died just last year, but I made sure to be at his funeral. We were good friends, me and him. ’Til the end.”

  Mr. Reeves stands up and walks over to his living room, where he takes a picture down off the wall. He hands it to me.

  “That’s when my Gracie and me got hitched. And you can see Antoine right there, right next to me.”

  The photo is black and white, and I can only see the slightest hint of Mr. Reeves’s face in the young man smiling back at me. I see Antoine’s dark skin and bright smile in the midst of all the other people, and I grin. I think of Denzel. I wonder if we’ll be friends that long.

  “Did your parents get mad that you were friends with a Black kid?”

  “At first, they didn’t like it. But as the years went on, they got to know Antoine, and he became more like a part of our family. He changed a lot of their ideas about Black folk.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, Mr. Reeves’ eyes never leaving that photograph. I think he might say more, but he doesn’t.

  “Why’d you pick this story to tell me?”

  “Because I’ll never forget that day, Dragon. The day I asked him to play. My whole life would’ve been so different had I made a different choice. And in the end, it was such a small thing, to ask him to play. A small thing that made a big impact.”

  I look down at my sticky notes. They’re blank. I haven’t written a single word. But I thank Mr. Reeves, clean up the hot cocoa dishes for him, and head home. When I get there, I scribble down as much as I can remember.

  Mrs. Parkman’s gonna love this.

  In elementary school

  they’d hang up my work.

  * * *

  Only cuz they had to

  not cuz they wanted to.

  * * *

  Sometimes they didn’t though