My Storied Year

by Katie Proctor

  We finally pulled up to a sandy beach, and my dad hopped out of the front of the boat to hold it still while the rest of us climbed out.

  to

  The boat slowed as we floated toward the sandy, deserted beach, and Dad hopped out to drag us the rest of the way in.

  “Ooooh!” Erin said. “I love all the detail in that.”

  “Me too!” Mrs. Parkman agreed and drew a thick line through her original sentence to use Kyla’s words instead. Kyla was beaming and I thought, I can’t believe she let a thirteen-year-old change her writing. But I have to admit, it is better.

  Now I’m sitting at my desk, staring at my mostly empty writing folder. All that’s in there is my lame, four-sentence story about FiestaLand. I don’t really want to work on that. I think about maybe writing down Mr. Reeves’s story, but it’s not my own and it might not be any better than my Scorpion one, because I wasn’t there. I feel my face get hot. I feel my hands start to shake, to grip the pencil I’m holding so tightly that my knuckles turn white. I’m about to raise my hand to ask Mrs. Parkman for a break but instead, she makes an announcement.

  “I’m going to pair you up today. Your partner will become your writing buddy for the rest of the year. Your writing partner will help you edit your work, ask questions about your writing, and give helpful feedback. Most of you have finished your highlighting activity, so we’ll get into pairs now. I know working with a new partner might be a little awkward at first, so I’ve made a checklist to help you with your first meeting today.”

  Then she rattles off the pairs. Kyla and Marisa, Caden and Erin, Denzel and Jason, Dragon and… Duke.

  Huh. This should be interesting. A really smart kid, basically a genius, and… me.

  My stomach starts to crawl up my throat before I take one big breath and push it back down.

  Duke comes over with a paper in his hand. “Thank goodness I got you,” he says. “I can’t stand most of the kids in this class.”

  I let out my breath and say casually, “Yeah. Same.” Even though I mostly like everyone. “Let’s go sit in the library,” I suggest.

  I’ve told you about the classroom library, right? It’s full of baskets of books, all shapes and sizes and colors. It’s really beautiful, if you like that kind of thing. But the floor is the best part. There’s a fuzzy lime green rug between two tall bookshelves, and two of those funky pillows with the arms that come out and hug you when you sit in front of them. If I have to be humiliated, at least I’ll be comfortable.

  “So,” he says, “let’s just switch papers so we don’t have to read aloud. Deal?”

  “Deal,” I agree. But I feel stupid when I hand him my pathetic story.

  His story is almost three full pages. It takes me a long time to get through it, but Duke’s patient. He never sighs or rolls his eyes. His story is good. Like really good. Like an adult or at least a college kid wrote it. It’s about the time his little brother swallowed a quarter. It has funny parts and scary parts and by the end I really care about what happened to him.

  When I finish, Duke looks at Mrs. Parkman’s checklist. “We can talk about yours first, okay? So… what do you like about your story?” he reads.

  Crap. “Uh…,” I flounder. “The detail? Like how it’s a yellow ride?”

  “Yeah okay. But you need more. What could you add?” He’s going off checklist now. I search his voice for mocking, but I find none. He’s really trying to help me. I relax.

  I think back to Mrs. Parkman’s story about the graveyard and how she’d described the type of day it was. “Um… maybe the weather?”

  “Cool. What was it like that day?”

  I look at him then, his hopeful eyes on me, and I realize I can’t lie anymore. Lying makes me so tired. And I’ve done it for so long.

  “Actually, I’ve never been.”

  “Oh. Why’d you write about it then?” He’s not challenging, just curious.

  I shrug. “It was on Jason’s list. It sounded cool.”

  He sets my paper face down on the floor. “Dragon,” he says, sounding almost like a teacher, “if you could write about anything in the whole world, something that no one would even have to read unless you wanted to share it, what would it be?”

  “Anything in the whole world?”

  “Anything.”

  I consider this. I think about the sticky notes in my room and the Smoldering Red poem still displayed front-and-center in the hallway. I think about Mr. Reeves and his friend, and I think about Denzel. I think about the kid in Love That Dog who eventually got brave enough to tell his story in a poem.

  “I think… I think I’d write a story about my family. But it might be a real bummer. And nobody would want to read it.”

  Duke’s eyes find the scar on my face, and I can tell he’s studying it. He opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it again. He’s quiet for a minute, then says, “So what? Writing’s not for them, it’s for you. Didn’t you feel so much better after you wrote that red poem?”

  I shrug. “I guess?”

  “Then write a real story. Who cares what anyone thinks?”

  He’s right.

  We talk about his story some, but it’s already pretty perfect, so I don’t really know how I can help. I do ask lots of questions about how things turned out, so he decides to add more to the ending.

  I spend my reading workshop time writing down all the things I can think of about my family. How Maya whimpers when she sleeps, how De-vine sometimes curls up next to me on the couch, her hot breath on my arm. How, when Mom is having a good day, she makes her Spanish rice and black beans and we eat them for days. I leave out Uncle Carlos. I’m not sure where he fits, or even if he does. I still don’t have a story, but I have a lot of words.

  Before lunch, Mrs. Parkman reads to us. She started a new book this week called Esperanza Rising and even though the main character is a girl, I find myself involved in her story from the beginning. So far, we know that her dad had been killed and she and her mother have to leave their family farm in Mexico.

  I think about Mom. About how even though she’s sick, she’s still here. I think about our house. About how it might be gross, but it’s still ours and we’re together in it. I think about Miss Stephanie and if she really thought things were fine. I think about what would happen to us if Mom couldn’t take care of us. I’ve heard words like foster care and group homes float around. I wonder if my dad would ever come back for us. I wonder if they’d let me keep De-vine close to me.

  Right before the story gets all too real and I start to imagine the worst and panic, Mrs. Parkman says it’s lunch time. And it’s pizza day in the cafeteria. Pizza day means it’s also slushie day, so I shake it off and line up.

  20

  My Worst Day

  Ms. Luna reads us Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day for morning meeting. I think every teacher in the world has read this book aloud. It must be famous or something. Even though it’s kind of babyish, I like that she reads it. It’s familiar and never changes, no matter how many times I hear it. Alexander’s a little kid, and everything goes wrong for him. Of course, Ms. Luna’s going to make us think about it, instead of just listen to it. She does this every time.

  “Now, friends. What choices does Alexander have at this point?” she asks when she gets to the end.

  Gavin speaks up. “Well, he could go to bed mad and maybe he’ll feel better in the morning?”

  Caden says, “No way, that never works. When I go to bed mad, I wake up more mad.”

  Marisa jumps in. “Me too. I think Alexander needs to decide what things he should actually be mad about or not. Some things weren’t his fault. But other things were.”

  Ms. Luna smiles. “Interesting, Marisa, can you tell us more about that?”

  “Can I see the book?” she asks, and Ms. Luna hands it to her and waits while she flips through the pages. “Well see, here, Alexander gets mad about the cereal and the carpool, but those things were j
ust unfortunate, not his fault. And I understand why he gets upset about those things. They don’t feel fair.”

  “Yeah!” Jolie says. “But like, when he gets mad because the teacher doesn’t like his ‘invisible’ castle drawing, that’s totally his fault! Because he didn’t do his work!”

  Denzel nods and adds, “Yeah and when he fights with his brother, he chooses to do that and gets in trouble.”

  Ms. Luna says, “So what I’m hearing is that even though he had an unlucky day, he did have some places where he could have made it better for himself?”

  “Totally,” Kyla agrees. “Also I think the book is saying that there is stuff that’s just going to happen, like my mom’s going to forget dessert or the shoe place might not have the exact ones you want, but you can’t let that stuff ruin your whole day.”

  I let the idea sink in. So many things that happen to me aren’t my choice. I can’t help that my dad left or that Maya’s dad left or that we live off of the small check that comes from the government. I can’t help that Mom’s sick or that Maya is, well, Maya. I can’t help that my brain doesn’t work as fast as I want it to. But how do I make it better?

  “I like that idea,” Jolie says, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s like we get to choose how we feel about things. And we can make choices that help bad days be not so bad.”

  “Yes, Jolie, that is a great point,” Ms. Luna says.

  I know something’s wrong the minute I get home. De-vine is outside in the front yard, and the door is wide open. She’s digging in the dirt and doesn’t have a coat on, even though it’s forty-five degrees and I’m shivering. There’s a muddy trail leading from her hole to the steps and I don’t want to go inside, because I know I’ll find more mud in there.

  “Where’s Mom?” I ask her.

  She giggles, throws some mud up into the air, and points at the house. “She ’leeping, Dagon. She ’leep all day.”

  “All day?” Now I’m concerned. I scoop up De-vine and run up the steps. I set De-vine in the bathroom and turn on some warm water for a bath before knocking on Mom’s door.

  “Mom?” I call. I don’t hear anything, not even a groan. I turn the doorknob and walk in. Mom’s laying on the bed, her skin is pale and she’s sweating. There’s a needle sitting on her side table, but the vial next to it is empty. I can tell she’s breathing, but her eyes are half open and I can only see the white parts. You’d think I’d be freaking out at this point, but instead, I’m strangely calm. I know exactly what to do. I go turn off the tub, no time for a bath now, and I grab the last of De-vine’s apple juice boxes from the very back of the fridge. I put the straw in Mom’s mouth and squeeze a little in. It dribbles down the side of her face.

  Maya decides it’s a good moment to stroll in and drops her backpack by the door, not noticing the mud tracks everywhere.

  “Maya! Get her to drink some of this!” I yell at my sister. She looks up, surprised. I’ve never once told her what to do. She must understand that I am dead serious, though, because she comes over and takes the juice box out of my hand and squeezes a little into Mom’s mouth. I tell De-vine to stay put and run next door, praying that Mr. Reeves is home.

  He opens the door quickly, probably because I’m banging on it as loud as I can.

  “Dragon! What’s going on? Are you okay?”

  Between breaths, I pant, “My… mom… need… a… phone.” He must understand what I’m saying because he hands me the phone but then rushes out the door and over to my house. I dial 911.

  I tell the operator that her insulin is gone but that she had a lot left. I tell him that she’s sweating and unconscious. I tell him that I have no idea how long she’s been like that. I tell him to please come quick. I list the address and he asks me to stay on the line until I hear the sirens, which come practically the next second. I freeze, for just a moment. The siren sounds the same as it did That Night. The lights look different in the afternoon sun, but I feel the siren sound deep in my gut.

  I shake it off and run to meet the ambulance.

  The next few minutes are a blur. The paramedics, one man and one woman, grab a red backboard and run into the house. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move that fast. I follow them into the house and find Mr. Reeves with Mom. He’s taken the juice box but isn’t trying to give it to her. There’s a dark patch on the sheets and I realize none of the juice made it into her mouth. De-vine is sitting on the floor next to Maya, whose mouth is wide open watching all the activity.

  One paramedic is checking Mom’s blood pressure, measuring her pulse, shining a light in her eyes. He pricks Mom’s finger and the sight of her blood makes me feel woozy, like I could fall down at any minute.

  “Blood sugar is way low.”

  “Got it,” the other paramedic says and jabs a needle into the crook of her right arm. The other one grabs a huge syringe full of clear liquid and connects it to a little tube coming from Mom’s arm. She pushes the liquid in slowly; it looks thick like jelly. They do all of this in silence, like they’ve done it before, like they know exactly what the next move is and who will do it.

  I hear Mom groan, and she tries to move a little. A good sign, I think. I realize then that there is a strong smell and I notice that she’s gotten sick on the floor. Was that there before? I can’t remember.

  “We’ve got to get her to the hospital,” the woman says, as a third paramedic walks in to check on his team. The original paramedics get my mom onto the backboard and strap her down. It’s strange. I know it’s Mom, but she doesn’t look anything like herself. Her hair is wrapped all around her face, her skin is the wrong color, her arms and legs are moving with the motion of the paramedics’ steps, but involuntarily. Mr. Reeves puts a strong hand on my shoulder as we watch them walk outside and load her into the ambulance. I don’t close my eyes. I’m afraid if I blink that she’ll disappear, but then they slam the door and drive off anyway, siren blaring.

  The new guy, seeing them off, comes in and looks around. I see him take a business card off the fridge and punch a number into his cell phone. He turns to Mr. Reeves. “Can you stay with the children?”

  “Yes, of course,” Mr. Reeves says.

  “Thanks.” Then he gets in his truck and pulls out.

  I stare at the place on the street where the ambulance sat just seconds ago. I’m finally still enough to understand what’s going on. The silence is loud, my thoughts louder. What if she dies? What if they didn’t get here in time? What will we do? De-vine grabs my hand and says, “Dagon? Why you cry, Dagon?”

  It’s then that I realize I am crying. Mr. Reeves crouches down to look at her. “He’s just scared, that’s all, darlin’. But Dragon was so brave and so smart, to get the juice, to come get the phone. He knew just what to do.”

  I wipe my tears and try to smile at him. I’m sure it looks more like a grimace. “Can you take us to her?” I ask, my voice trembling.

  Mr. Reeves deflates, looks down at his hands, and shakes his head. He won’t meet my eyes. “I can’t drive. But go ask your buddy’s mom. I know she can help. And I can stay with the little girl while you and Maya go.”

  He barely finishes his sentence before I am running as fast as I can to Denzel’s house. I don’t hear Maya’s footsteps behind me, but she’s there just the same. In the time it takes me to explain what happened, Denzel’s mama has wrapped us up in a protective hug and grabbed her keys. Denzel says he’s coming, too.

  I sit with Maya and Denzel in the waiting room of the hospital while Mrs. Washington talks with a busy-looking nurse in pink scrubs. I bet they wear pink to make the hospital feel cheery, but I’m not sure it works. I sit down in an old chair whose fabric has been worn down on the arms from worrying family members. And all I see is the rush of activity and tennis shoes running on floors so smudged with shoe prints and wheel marks I wonder if they’ve ever been cleaned. Even so, the smell of bleach is hard to ignore. Plus, it’s loud: heart monitors and painful moans and people shouting orders and gurney
s being wheeled past.

  The siren from the ambulance still rings in my ears. There’s a man behind us who sounds like he’s hacking up a lung. Babies are screaming and clutching at their mothers, a few older people are wearing masks, lots of people are crying or look like they have been recently. Every chair is taken by someone who needs a doctor to fix them or give them any kind of news. I scoot a little closer to Denzel, and I see Mrs. Washington turn around to check on us. She gives me a weak smile, one that says, It’s fine, well maybe it’s fine, well it’s gonna be fine someday.

  Not very reassuring.

  Maya makes a fist with both of her dirty hands and slams them into her lap. She refuses to look anywhere but the ground. I know she’s scared. Mrs. Washington comes over to us and sits down next to me. She hovers over us protectively, like a mama bear. “Your mama’s in good hands. The doctors are with her and we just need to wait a minute until the nurse has an update for us, okay?”

  Denzel adds, “She’ll be okay, man. She will.” His confidence warms me up even though, like me, he has no idea what’s going to happen.

  I nod. There’s nothing else to say or do. Mrs. Washington grabs an old Highlights magazine for us and tries to get Maya involved in those find-the-difference games. She’s resolutely ignoring her, so Mrs. Washington does it herself, talking aloud to herself the whole time. I’m amazed; she knows Maya’s probably about to freak out and she also knows her steady voice will calm her down. The four of us sit there long enough for the long hand on the clock to make one full round. The clock is noisy, and every tick matches my heartbeat, which I can feel in my stomach. It soothes me to count each one.

  “Ma’am?” the nurse calls out.

  I can’t hear their conversation, but I can tell by the way Mrs. Washington hasn’t clapped her hand over her mouth or hunched her shoulders that things might be better than I thought.