My Storied Year

by Katie Proctor

  My Valentine’s Day

  I’m sure by now you can guess that I’m not a huge fan of Valentine’s Day. The only cool part is that usually Valentine’s Day is so chaotic that no one can tell the kids who brought stuff apart from the ones who didn’t. At Piney Woods Middle, it’s always been a huge thing to keep celebrating Valentine’s Day, the way we did when we were little kids. I guess it’s their way of trying to keep school fun.

  This year, even though I’d like to participate for the first time I can ever remember, I can’t. Mom’s still in the hospital, and I don’t have any way to get valentines or candy.

  But the day before the party, Ms. Luna slips me two packs of valentines, one for me and one for Maya. They are Disney, which is lame, but they have Fun Dip candy, the best kind of Valentine’s Day candy. Plus, it’s the thought that counts.

  “I know your mom’s still in the hospital, and I know she’d want you to have some.”

  Well. She’s right about one of those things.

  That night I help Maya fill out her valentines. She only has six kids in her special class, so it goes fast. Then I do my own as De-vine sucks happily on an extra Fun Dip stick. Mr. Reeves is cooking pasta with from-scratch meat sauce. I don’t think our house has ever smelled this good. And now that I mention it, the house hasn’t ever looked this good either. The trash has been picked up, and things are organized. I think Mr. Reeves went so far as to wash our sheets, blankets, and clothes at the laundry in the center of the trailer park because things smell fresher. There’s still a lingering smoky smell; that’s impossible to totally get rid of.

  I’m secretly hoping Mom’s hospital stay might force her to reexamine her cigarette habit.

  After dinner, Mr. Reeves surprises us with shoe boxes, a glue gun, and colored paper. He has already cut holes in the tops for valentines and he helps us decorate them.

  “Valentine’s Day was my youngest daughter Camilla’s favorite holiday,” he’s saying. “We’d go all out—doilies and felt hearts and glitter. I’m sorry, this is the best I could do.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” I say. “This is great.”

  We work together quietly. One thing I appreciate about Mr. Reeves is that he doesn’t ask about our feelings about Mom or try to pretend that everything’s fine. Instead, he’s treating us like regular kids, which helps me to pretend that we really are.

  My homeroom looks like a unicorn threw up in it. Kyla’s mom is hanging up the last of the pink paper lanterns and she squeals when she sees us lined up at the door. Technically, we aren’t supposed to have a “party” party, according to some dumb rules about unhealthy food. But come on, have you seen some of the cafeteria food they serve us? Even so, Ms. Luna said there’s nothing wrong with getting a little festive.

  We put our boxes out in the hallway next to our lockers. It’s the first time I have something other than a plastic grocery sack to put next to mine, and it feels really freaking good. I almost forget Mom’s still in the hospital.

  Throughout the day, teachers let us pass out our valentines in the hallway, a couple kids at a time. When it’s my turn, I drop the Fun Dip with the cards into boxes, and I can’t help grinning like a big goofball.

  When we get back from free time, Mrs. Parkman has us pick up our boxes, which are stuffed so full the lid of my shoebox threatens to topple off. In the classroom, we plunk our loot down on our desks and find little goodie bags from Mrs. Parkman. They are full of popcorn that’s been drizzled with white chocolate and sprinkles and those pink and white circus animal cookies. The ties holding the cellophane bags together have little heart-shaped baseball tags that say, “You’re an MVP in this ‘park’!” I roll my eyes at the play on words but smile anyway. She gets that the way to a kid’s heart is through sugar.

  We watch a short video on the history of Valentine’s Day while we all munch on our popcorn. Afterwards, we get in small groups and write pretend valentines to and from different historical people we’ve studied this year. The fun part is that there are no rules about dates, so these valentines can be between people who didn’t live at the same time.

  Duke and I pull our desks together next to Kyla and Denzel.

  Kyla says, “How about we make one from Pocahontas to Sacagawea?”

  Duke snorts and says, “Dear Sacagawea, sorry those white dudes made you their slave. Signed, Pocahontas, a fellow victim.”

  Kyla frowns. “That’s pretty depressing. Even if it’s true. How about something more encouraging, like, ‘Dear Sacagawea, Hang in there! Signed, Pocahontas, a fellow strong Native woman’?”

  Denzel shrugs. “I like them both.” I nod in agreement, and we work together to make the cards.

  Duke comes up with the next idea. “Dear Amelia Earhart, Where are you hiding, really? Just say the word, and I’ll come get you! Signed, Charles Lindbergh, fellow pilot.”

  Kyla laughs. “Dear Charles Lindbergh, You wish! Signed, Amelia Earhart, happy alone in paradise.”

  We all laugh, and it feels so easy, so right, to be happy.

  The whole class gets so wrapped up in our projects that we run out of time to go through our valentines. We rush to clean up the glitter and scraps of pink and red paper that litter the floor, and then I scoop up my shoebox and hustle to last period.

  At home, I dump the contents of my shoebox onto the kitchen table. Maya takes hers back to our room, probably to hide her candy in all sorts of places where someone will find it mummified in one hundred years. I usually go right for the candy and don’t even bother with the valentine cards. But this time, two things stand out.

  One is a wrinkled sticky note. Scribbled in big, clumsy words, it reads,

  Roses are read,

  Violets are bloo,

  Smashing you’re face in is

  Somthing i wanna do.

  I actually laugh out loud at this. I know right away, from the spelling mistakes and sloppy handwriting, that this is the work of Travis Beaker. What a moron. I crumple it and throw it away.

  But the other thing that catches my eye is a homemade valentine. The rest of them are like the Disney ones Mrs. Parkman gave me to pass out, small and generic, barely enough room for a name. But this one is a huge red heart. The edges are lined in silver glitter, and white lace covers the back of it. Someone went to a whole lot of trouble for this one. I flip it over to see if whoever made this signed their name. I find a whole note instead.

  Dragon,

  Denzel told me about your mom. I hope she gets better real fast and I hope you know that I’m your friend. I’m so sorry, and I wish I could change this for you. Even though you’re probably sad, I hope you had a really good Valentine’s Day.

  Your friend,

  Kyla

  I don’t know exactly how to feel about this. I had worked hard so that none of my classmates knew about my mom. I don’t know why, exactly. I don’t think I’m embarrassed that she’s in the hospital, just more embarrassed that I’m upset about it. Big tough Dragon shouldn’t be scared of anything or sad about anything.

  Tough guys don’t have feelings.

  Right?

  At first I feel angry at Denzel. He’s supposed to be my best friend; I’m supposed to be able to trust him. And he sold me out to a girl. But then I read Kyla’s note again and realize he didn’t tell her to be mean but because he knew she’d care.

  Even though it’s cold outside, a warm feeling washes over me, like Kyla’s note somehow has come to life and wrapped me in a hug.

  “Of the many trees

  in my front yard,

  only the willow survived the storm.

  It got blown around and soaked with rain

  but was able to bend and move and right itself again.”

  * * *

  The words come from Ms. Luna’s personal journal;

  she talks a lot about surviving Hurricane Katrina.

  I didn’t know she was a poet, too.

  * * *

  “What do you think I meant when I wrote this?”


  She asks—like she doesn’t know.

  * * *

  But as people

  struggle with its meaning,

  I realize I don’t.

  * * *

  I know something

  about being broken.

  I know something

  about being bent,

  pushed around,

  wounded, even.

  Scarred.

  * * *

  But like the willow,

  I’m still here,

  surviving.

  23

  My Mom’s (Almost) Story

  Mom stays in the hospital for a whole week. Mr. Reeves cooks breakfast and dinner for us and honestly, it’s the best I’ve eaten in a few years. I don’t know how to thank him.

  Mrs. Washington is waiting at home with Mom when Maya and I get home on Friday. Mom looks… good. Her cheeks have a healthy pink glow and it looks like she’s had a shower. I’m kind of shocked, because I expected her to still look just like she did when I left her in that cold hospital, withered and fragile.

  She’s sitting in the recliner in the living room with a blanket on her lap, but she smiles when we walk in and doesn’t have a cigarette in her hand. De-vine is clean and dressed and eating a cut-up apple out of a bowl on the floor. Mr. Reeves must’ve gone home already.

  Maya runs to Mom and climbs up in her lap. Mom winces but laughs lightly and hugs Maya to her chest. I haven’t seen her like this in a very long time, so I’m unsure. I stay back, giving her, and myself, some space. Mrs. Washington says to Mom, “Okay, there’s a lasagna in the oven for y’all. Glad you’re home. I’m sure these kids will be very helpful, right Dragon?”

  I nod, still feeling like I’ve walked into a house that isn’t mine, like the people I knew have been replaced with different ones. Mrs. Washington flashes me a reassuring smile and heads out the door.

  When the oven beeps, Mom gets up, takes the steaming lasagna out, and serves it to us on clean plates. I watch all of this cautiously, without saying a word, scared it’s going to go bad any minute. I don’t want whatever spell has been put on Mom to break. She’s limping less and it looks like it’s less painful for her to move in general. Halfway through dinner, she glances up at me and sighs. “Alright Dragon, what is it? You’ve been staring at me for an hour.”

  “I… I… I just don’t get it, Mom. What happened? Are you better?” Mom’s been sick for as long as I can remember. The diabetes makes her tired and irritable, and it’s all I’ve really known. Now, she seems almost, I don’t know, happy? I think back to every lesson on drugs and how drugs—not the pink liquidy medicine kind—can make people feel better for a short time but then usually make them sicker. Oh, God. Is Mom on some kind of drug?

  “Relax. I know it got pretty bad the other night. But no, I’m not better. I’ll always have diabetes. I got it when I was young, I think, but didn’t know for sure until a few years ago. But it wasn’t until my hospital stay that I found out there’s a better way to manage it.” She stands up and lifts up her shirt a little to show me this small box clipped to her pants and then a patch-looking thing taped to her belly. “This thing’s called a pump. It gives me exactly the amount of insulin I need.”

  She lifts her sleeve and there’s another thing attached to her arm. “And this is a glucose sensor that tests my blood so I know when to adjust the pump.”

  Maya says with a mouth full of noodles, “Oooooh cool.” It’s the first time I’ve heard her voice in a while. Mom raises an eyebrow at me.

  I ignore Maya, but it is pretty cool, I have to admit. “How come you haven’t had one before?”

  “I didn’t know I could have one. Miss Stephanie… you know that sweaty social services lady? She really helped me out. The doctor I was seeing at the clinic didn’t have my medical records. He saw my weight and assumed I had a different kind of diabetes, the kind you get when you’re older. But when I told Miss Stephanie I’d had it almost my whole life, she pushed the hospital doctors to take a closer look. She was on the phone a lot. That woman—she might look young and clueless, but she got stuff done. I have a real doctor now, and a type of insurance that will pay for the pump. I’ve only had it two days, but I already feel so much better. I’m gonna start seeing someone to talk to once in a while, too. To help me deal with… some things that make me sad.”

  “Oh.” It’s all I can say. I’m glad, don’t get me wrong. But it’s weird and new and I don’t trust this version of Mom yet. I rinse off my plate and tell her I’m going to thank Denzel’s mama for dinner. Instead, I walk over to Mr. Reeves’ and rap on the door.

  “Oh, hey Dragon. Everything okay?” He looks worried, and I get that warm feeling again, knowing that he’d be concerned.

  “Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. I just wanted to come by and say thank you for watching De-vine. And for the oatmeal. It was real nice of you.”

  “It was nothing. Just something neighbors do for each other. How’s your mom?”

  “Good, actually. It’s weird, the day I thought was the worst might turn out to be good for all of us.”

  “Funny how life happens that way sometimes,” he says, his eyes twinkling, and I know there’s a lot of experience behind those words.

  “Well, er, I just wanted to say thanks.”

  “Anytime, young man. You let me know if I can ever help in any way, okay?”

  “Sure thing,” I say and walk down the steps. I shiver as I watch the last bit of the sun go down.

  Mom’s watching TV and smoking a cigarette when I walk back into the house. De-vine’s already asleep and Maya is flipping through the pages of a graphic novel. She’s had it from the library all year, and I doubt she has read one word. But she likes the pictures.

  I sit down next to Mom on the couch, and she turns off the TV. She looks at me and says, “Dragon, I know life hasn’t been easy.”

  I shrug. What does she want me to say?

  “But this pump, it could change our lives. I might even be able to work.”

  I look up. She hasn’t worked a single day since she got sick and Maya’s dad left. I decide this is the time to be brave and ask some questions.

  “Mom? When did you first get sick?”

  “I was real little, I think. But we never had money for doctors, so the free clinic we went to would tell Mama to give me more water and make sure I got enough sleep. They never even ran any tests because all she told them was that I was losing weight and tired all the time.”

  “Your… Mama?” I ask, quietly. She’s never said one word about her.

  “Yes. My mama. I know you want to know about her.”

  “It’s just that… I remember that day at the cemetery, Mom. I remember her gravestone. I remember you crying and the purple flowers you set on top of her name.”

  “You were so young.”

  “Not too young, I guess. What happened to her?”

  “That part I’m not ready to tell yet, Dragon.” She looks away and just like that, the connection we had is broken. She says goodnight, smashes what’s left of her cigarette in an ashtray, and goes into her room, leaving me wondering if anything has changed at all.

  24

  My Class Anthology Project

  Mrs. Parkman is all smiles when she tells us about the end-of-year classroom anthology she wants to put together.

  “We’re going to continue our writing workshop like usual, but for the next couple of weeks, I want you to focus on one piece that you really like. You’ll revise it and polish it and make sure it’s the absolute best it can be. You’ll work closely with your writing partners for this. Then we will put all the wonderful stories and poems together into a big book, and you’ll get to take one home with you at the end of the year!”

  Erin has a question, of course. “Does it have to be a true story?”

  “Nope. It can be a poem, a true story, or one that you make up. Just think about which one is your best piece of writing. You could even start working on somethin
g new today if you like. It’s totally up to you.”

  “Can it be one we’ve already read to the class?” Kyla this time.

  “It can, but I’d prefer it not be since we will have a great big share on one of our last days. Of course, if it’s something you’ve read to us before and just want to rework, that would be fine.”

  She sends us to our writing folders and I watch as my classmates dump loose papers and scraps of colored paper and sticky notes and flashcards onto their desks, searching for some kind of literary treasure. My folder is basically empty, but I find a few blue sticky notes with Mr. Reeves’s story on them and a sheet of notebook paper that has been painstakingly taped together.

  I look around.

  I know I didn’t do this.

  Mrs. Parkman smiles when my eyes reach her.

  The taped-up piece of paper contains all that I wrote about my family before I totally freaked out. Some of it is missing, lost in the tornado of paper shreds I threw around that day, but most of it is still readable. I picture Mrs. Parkman sitting cross-legged on the floor with her roll of tape, piecing back together the remnants of my screwed-up life. I feel a little squeeze in my heart. I know I’ve said this before, but this time I mean it: it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.

  A pit of guilt settles in my stomach, and I make a silent vow not to let Mrs. Parkman down again. I’m going to write this story, get it all out, finally tell the truth. It’s going to be hard, but I know I can do it. And I know Duke will help.

  For the first half of writer’s workshop, I neatly copy down all that I had written on that original paper. Then I start adding more to it, this time adding Uncle Carlos and all the things I remember from That Night. Denzel’s the one who shakes me from my work, saying, “It’s time for lunch.” He stares at my paper like he can’t believe I did all that, but he says nothing as we line up together.