My Storied Year

by Katie Proctor

  and I couldn’t blame them.

  Scribbles and torn paper

  can really mess up a bulletin board.

  * * *

  But on Mrs. Parkman’s

  there’s a splash of red

  right in the middle

  so everyone can see.

  * * *

  It’s my poem

  the Smoldering Red one

  she really did like it

  she really does think I’m a poet.

  * * *

  Here’s the proof.

  17

  My Mr. Reeves Story

  Morning meeting isn’t a typical Monday-morning-after-a-break meeting. We don’t go around and tell what we got for Christmas or what we did. Instead, Mr. Mark visits our homeroom and tells us a story.

  “Let me tell you guys about my third-grade spelling bee.” He lowers his voice, trying to sound suspenseful. “So it was just me and one other kid, Richard Evans.” He scowls when he says the name, like he’s still bitter after all these years.

  “We had made it through twenty-seven rounds of spelling bee agony. And I was up to spell. As I passed Richard on the way to the microphone, I gave him my best stare-down. The announcer sized me up and said, ‘Alright, your word is balloon.’ In my head, I couldn’t believe my luck! What an easy word! Especially ’cause they’d probably give Richard some word like extravaganza or pulchritudinous.” Mr. Mark pauses to let the joke sink in, but we all stare at him. Ms. Luna stifles a giggle behind me.

  “Anyway, I stood there, proud as a peacock, and said strongly into the mic: B-A-L-O-O-N. I flashed my best smile at the judges. They looked around at each other and one of them hit the bell to signal I had misspelled the word. Richard was at the microphone in one second flat like he couldn’t wait to spell it right and win the thing, which he did of course.” He takes a breath.

  It’s a funny story, mostly because it’s hard to believe someone like Mr. Mark could make a mistake like that. The interesting part is what comes next.

  “It’s a painful memory. I was so embarrassed. Why do you think I told you this story?”

  The room is quiet, but Denzel raises his hand. “Because you want us to know everyone makes mistakes?”

  “You got it. And to tell you that mistakes are really important. Good, even.”

  We all stare at him like he’s speaking a different language.

  “What?” Millie asks. “How are mistakes good? You lost!”

  “Yes, but mistakes are how we learn. To this day, I have never once forgotten that balloon has two Ls in it. I also learned not to be so proud and to slow down and take my time.”

  He asks us to share some of the mistakes we’ve made, and a few kids tell stories while the rest of us think of what they could’ve learned. I don’t join in; if I spent time thinking about all the mistakes I’ve made, we’d be here forever.

  Before we get our things to switch classes, Ms. Luna says, “Thank you, Mr. Mark, for sharing with us. And friends? Next time you make a mistake, instead of getting frustrated with yourself right off, take those five deep breaths and ask yourself: ‘How did this mistake help me learn?’”

  It takes about ten minutes for me to make a mistake. Of course, it’s in math class and, of course, Travis Beaker lets me know just how stupid the mistake makes me.

  To ease us back into our math brains after the long break, Mr. Berman hands out a paper that has to do with coordinate pairs. If you follow the directions, graphing the points and then connecting the dots, there will be a mystery picture. And it’s a race. The first one done gets a prize.

  This kind of math doesn’t bother me too much, because there’s barely any reading and it’s just putting dots at certain points. You’re supposed to plot the x-axis (horizontal) first and then the y (vertical), but I get mixed up and do the y-axis first. I don’t notice this, though, until after I’ve plotted all the points and after I think the picture sort of resembles an alligator and after I yell that I’m done and after I raise up my paper for everyone to see and after Mr. Berman has to tell me, painfully, “Not quite right, Dragon, keep trying.”

  Almost no one cares, they’re too busy racing to finish, glad I wasn’t the winner. But Travis stands to go sharpen his pencil, probably knowing he’d never win, and elbows me on his way. “Moron,” he says loud enough for my table, but not Mr. Berman, to hear.

  My cheeks burn. My fists make little balls. I move to stand, to challenge him, but I take my five breaths. By the time I’m done, Travis is gone. I think about what Mr. Mark said, and I know I’ll never mix up the x and y axes again. I’ll probably also double-check that I’m right before I raise my hand in math again. And, so what about Travis? No one else even cared that I messed up.

  Erin ends up winning the prize, a week’s worth of homework passes. The mystery picture was a Christmas tree. I smile at her and say, “Good job, Erin,” and she grins back.

  Travis Beaker shoves me again when the bell rings. “I can’t believe what an idiot you are.”

  I just look at him and say, “Keep walking, Travis.”

  “Ooh, big words, Smokey.” The nickname doesn’t get the reaction he wants.

  Denzel comes and stands next to me. “Sit with you at lunch?”

  “Yup,” I say.

  “Cool.”

  Travis walks away, the sneer gone from his face.

  When I get to English, Mrs. Parkman’s ready to hear the stories we collected over break. For some reason, coming in here erases all the bad feelings from math class. I reach my hand into my pocket to take out the sticky notes that tell Mr. Reeves’s story.

  Some kids look nervous, like they totally forgot, so Mrs. Parkman says we only have time for a few today and we’ll continue for the rest of the week. Not wanting to look too eager, I shove the sticky notes back in my pocket. I can go tomorrow. But it’s too late, because Mrs. Parkman saw me.

  She knows better than to call me right out though, so she asks again for a volunteer. Erin’s hand shoots up.

  “Yes! Erin! Tell us the story you heard.”

  “Well I got to see my Aunt Lucy for Christmas, and she tells the best stories. But this one’s my favorite. She told me about traveling to a country in Africa, I can’t remember which one. She was there to do some nursing for people who needed but couldn’t pay for a regular doctor or hospital. When she was driving one day, she and her friend came across a little boy, maybe six years old? He was skinny and covered with flies and naked. Wait. Can I say naked in school?”

  She glances nervously at Mrs. Parkman, who shrugs and says, “It sounds like a pretty important detail to the story to me. Go on.”

  “Well. He didn’t speak a lick of English, so they used some hand gestures and figured out he had gotten lost. They scooped up the boy, flies and all, and took him back to the clinic to get him cleaned up. But just as they were about to leave, a woman in one of the beds cried out. The boy looked at her and ran to her and wouldn’t let go. You guys. She was his MOM! She’d gotten real sick and the boy had gotten scared and run off but by the time he went home, she was gone. He’d been looking for her for two whole weeks, just eating trash or leftover scraps from strangers.”

  Erin stops and finally takes a breath. Everyone is so into her story.

  “But was the mom okay?” Millie asks exactly what I’m thinking.

  “Oh, yeah!” Erin says. “She needed some medicine and a few days of rest but then they got to go home. Together.”

  “Woah,” Marisa says. “So cool.”

  I think about my sick mom. About how even though she doesn’t do much, she’s at least home and we haven’t gotten lost from her. Yet.

  Duke volunteers next. I’m starting to think I was way wrong about him being shy. The kid talks all the time now. Maybe at first he didn’t know if he could trust us.

  I know a little bit about that.

  He tells us about his dad when he was a boy.

  “My dad remembers his twelfth birthday perfectly because
it was the day his dog, Rocky, got hit by a car.”

  We all gasp. Mrs. Parkman’s eyes widen; she hates stories where the dog dies.

  Duke continues. “They were celebrating my dad’s birthday, so there were relatives and friends going in and out of the house, and somehow Rocky got out. My dad says he was a runner, always looking for some grand adventure. Anyway, he escaped out the front door and nobody noticed until they heard the screeching of tires in the street. Everyone ran out to see what had happened, but my dad was the fastest and he got to Rocky first. He was still breathing but looked pretty banged up. The lady driving the car felt awful, and she asked my dad to get in with Rocky to take him to the vet clinic, which was only down the road. My dad forgot all about his party and his presents and went with the lady. She didn’t even care that Rocky’s blood got all over her back seat.”

  He stops. Like he needs a rest from speaking for a second. Kyla, of course, cannot handle this. “But what happened?”

  “The vet thought it was really good that he was still breathing, but Rocky was pretty hurt. My dad and that lady waited three hours, but the vet finally came out to get them. It turns out, Rocky was going to be okay, but he did lose one of his back legs. My dad was so happy he cried. And he never cries. So Rocky became a three-legged dog wonder and lived for almost ten more years!”

  “Oh, I’m so glad that had a happy ending!” Mrs. Parkman says. “Thank you for sharing, Duke. Anyone else?” She looks right at me. I think of the bulletin board in the hallway and how she put mine right in the middle, right so I’d see it and know it was good. I raise my hand.

  “I’ll go.” Everyone turns their attention to me. They’re not shocked like the last time. This time, they’re looking at me expectantly, like they’re interested in what I have to say.

  That’s new.

  My voice is a little shaky and I feel awkward flipping through my sticky notes, but I manage to tell Mr. Reeves’ story anyway. Duke nudges me and says, “Cool story, man.” And Kyla reaches over and pats my back. “That was good, Dragon. I liked it.” Denzel adds, “I didn’t know that old guy had any good stories!”

  Mrs. Parkman smiles and says, “Yes Dragon, very cool.”

  By the end of the week, we’ve heard stories from grandparents and parents, aunts and uncles, cousins and neighbors and friends. The stories are all different, some sad and some happy. Some, like Duke’s, are a mixture of both. What strikes me is that these stories are so simple. They aren’t about winning the lottery or a gold medal at the Olympics. They’re mostly small, simple moments, when someone made a choice or something crazy happened, but moments that changed them from that point forward.

  I wonder what moments like that I’ll have to tell someday. And I think about how my mom won’t talk about my grandmother.

  And then I think, maybe I’m asking the wrong questions.

  18

  My Visitor

  When I get home from school, there’s a strange car sitting in front of my house. It’s not so beat up that it looks like it belongs here, but it’s not the nicest, newest car I’ve ever seen either. Maya, who’s walking beside me today, notices too and looks at me with a question in her eye. I shrug and walk up the steps.

  When I push the door open, for a second, I think I must be in the wrong house. The living room has been cleaned. I can see lines in the carpet from a vacuum, and the couch smells like laundry detergent. A blanket covers up the loose spring. My mom is sitting with De-vine in her lap and in the chair next to her is a woman I’ve never seen before in my whole life. She has bright orange hair, curled in tight little ringlets, and her glasses make her look like a strange reptilian cat. She turns toward us at the sound of the door and gives Maya and me a big grin. I swear, I can see all of her teeth. And not one of them has any trace of the bright red color that’s painted on her lips.

  “Oh, hello! We thought you might be home from school right about now!”

  We?

  I look at Mom, who’s giving me her best just-go-with-it-Dragon look with her eyes before saying, “Dragon and Maya, this is Miss Stephanie. She’s from social services.” She pronounces the last two words very slowly and carefully; she really wants it to sink in. Even Maya knows what this means, so she smiles at the lady and sits down in front of Mom, criss-cross applesauce, like a perfect little girl.

  Social services has been here before, right after Maya’s dad left. A nice, older lady had come and given us yellowish pieces of hard candy to suck on. Mom had answered her questions politely and we never heard from them again. But Mom had been shaken up. She warned us that those people could take us away from her and we’d never see her again. Every so often, she’d remind us how to act (like everything was fine) and how to smile (like there had never been a sad day in our life) and how to lie (oh no, the water’s only been off for a day and we sent the check already) if they ever came back or if any important adult started asking questions about home. My ten-year-old mind had struggled with that last one. “You want us to lie, Mom?” and she’d looked right at me and said, “You bet, Dragon. If it means we stay together.”

  Now, it takes a second for me to find my voice. “Uh. Hi,” I manage, nodding at the social services lady.

  I take a good look at Mom. I think she’s wearing makeup. And she’s in her best outfit, the one she always wears when we make it to church on Sundays, which isn’t often. She’s given De-vine a bath and braided her hair, and De-vine is happily sucking on one of those little colorful lollipops. This must be a really important visit from social services.

  “Now, as I was saying,” Miss Stephanie says to Mom. “This is just a routine visit. There was some concern about the children and about your health, Ms. Stewart. But I can see right now, everything looks to be in perfect order! It’s just a shame De-vine’s father couldn’t get off work early to meet with us…”

  I freeze and glance at my mom, who will not meet my eye.

  “… but I understand! Gotta pay the bills, right?” Miss Stephanie giggles, and to my surprise, my mom does the same. I’ve never seen my mom act like this before. We must be in some kind of trouble.

  Mom gets up and walks to the door to see Miss Stephanie out. There is no hint of her usual limp, but I can tell by the way she’s biting her lip that her leg hurts.

  “Now remember,” Miss Stephanie’s saying, “I’ll be back in just a couple weeks to make sure y’all are still doing well!” From a less cheery person, this would sound like a threat. She leans down to pat De-vine on the head. “It was so nice to meet you!” De-vine grins and wipes a sticky hand on Miss Stephanie’s pants.

  We huddle at the window to watch her get into her car and drive away.

  “What was that about, Mom?” I ask.

  Maya’s already back in our room doing who-knows-what, and De-vine’s already turned on the TV and helped herself to a bag of chips.

  Mom gives me a hard look; the easygoing smile and demeanor from before is gone. “Some little rat called the government on us. Lucky this time, Miss Cindy down at the church heard wind of her visit. She works there, too. So she came and took me to the store and helped me vacuum.” I peer around her into the kitchen; grocery bags lay unpacked on the counter.

  “Lucky for us, that Stephanie is a newbie or else she probably wouldn’t believe me about Carlos and go digging around, looking for him.”

  Mom sinks into the couch and breathes out the longest breath, like she’s been holding it in for a whole year.

  “But, why’d someone call on us?”

  “Because they think I can’t take care of my own kids. That’s why. Must’ve been someone from your school. It’s always those nosy school people.”

  My mind flashes to the visit with Mr. Mark. I don’t think he would call Child Protective Services, but then I remember what he saw when he came, and I decide I can’t blame him.

  “But why’d you lie about Uncle Carlos? It shouldn’t matter if he’s here or not. We’re still good.”

  “I had
to, Dragon. Dee’s not my baby. If they know he’s gone, they could take her from us.”

  Oh. I didn’t know that. I let it sink in. Then I remember something.

  “Mom, don’t be mad at my principal. It wasn’t him. The cops said they’d be sending someone last time they were here, remember?”

  But Mom’s far away now, lost in her thoughts, relieved that the lady’s gone.

  How do you

  make something

  better

  when you have

  nothing

  in the first place?

  * * *

  Three sentences

  is not a story

  it’s not enough to fix

  not enough to revise

  not enough to rework

  not enough to even read.

  * * *

  It’s all a lie

  anyway.

  Telling the truth is too hard

  too sad

  too much.

  * * *

  So how can I edit this?

  19

  My Writing Partner

  During writing workshop, Mrs. Parkman lets us choose a piece of writing we’ve already started and either add to it or do this cool revising thing she taught us. Just before we left the circle, she took her own story, the one about the graveyard, and highlighted the first word of every sentence. She made a list of each word and realized she had repeated herself a whole bunch. Then she asked us for suggestions on how to fix it. At first I thought, why would she need us? She’s the grown-up. But then, Kyla came up with a neat way to change