Travis is meaner than usual in the yard at free time. It seems like everyone in his path has a target on their back. He’s pushing people around, making rude comments about their clothes or their moms or their hair. Even his normal friends are keeping their distance; maybe they can see that he’s spiraling out of control. In the football game, he’s extra aggressive and when a teacher calls him out for being too rough, he slams Jason down on the ground as soon as the teacher turns her back.
Erin goes to help him up, but Travis has already moved on. I keep an eye on him and feel my hands turn into little balls, ready to protect myself. He mows down some sixth-grade girls who are folding colorful papers into little animals, sending their supplies flying in every direction. Then he keeps stomping around, looking for a new victim. I’m far enough away that he hasn’t seen me yet, but something makes him stop. I follow his gaze and see that his eyes are set on Maya, who is squatting on the ground, digging in a hole.
As soon as Travis starts moving again, so do I. It’s like I know exactly what’s going to happen, and I can’t let it. Sure, Maya’s a weirdo and we might not have the best relationship, but she’s my sister. And Travis is so much bigger than her.
I hear the taunting before I get there. “You’re so stupid, kid. Digging in a hole? Is this pre-school?”
Maya pretends not to hear him, doesn’t even look up, which makes Travis even madder. Things slow down: Travis pulls his leg back to deliver a strong kick, Maya glances up just in time as my body comes flying out of nowhere in between them, and Travis’s foot makes contact with my stomach as I hit the ground with a thud. He’s on top of me, punching my face with both hands. There are tears streaming down Travis’ face, and I recognize in his eyes a kind of deep pain which makes all the fight leave my body.
Maya’s doing her best to get Travis off, screaming at him and slapping at him with muddy hands, but he’s too big for her. I must look pathetic to everyone, just lying there taking it, but before I get hit even harder, teachers are pulling Travis off of me and we’re both getting marched to Mr. Mark’s office.
It occurs to me that I haven’t seen Mr. Mark in a while.
I haven’t needed to.
The front of my shirt is covered in blood, and I can feel my right eye swelling up. I’m not scared, though. I’ve been through this before. Mr. Mark takes one look at both me and Travis. But he’s the one with tear-stained cheeks, so I know what it looks like.
Mr. Mark turns to me. “Really, Dragon? Didn’t we have a plan for this? Why fight with him again?”
Wait a second. He’s mad at me?
I open my mouth to defend myself but shut it tight again. If he’s going to make stupid assumptions, that’s his own problem.
And Travis, of course, doesn’t say a word. Mr. Mark gives me a frustrated and disappointed look and says in a cold voice, “Go get cleaned up in the nurse’s office. We’ll deal with this later. Travis, go sit in that desk.”
When I don’t come back to English after free time, Duke comes looking for me. He runs into me in the hall right outside the nurse’s office.
“Hey, Dragon. You okay?”
I shrug.
“We told Mrs. Parkman it wasn’t your fault.”
“Uh. Thanks.” I can’t meet his eye. I’m mostly pissed that I’m missing class. “I have to go talk to Mr. Mark, so tell Mrs. Parkman I’m fine, okay?”
“Okay, sure,” he says, giving my scar another hard look before walking away.
By the time I get back to Mr. Mark’s office, Travis is nowhere to be found. Mr. Mark’s cold expression from before is gone, but his face is still serious, not his usual self.
“Come in, Dragon. Sorry about before. I always get upset about fighting. But about ten of your classmates came down to tell me you didn’t even throw one punch.”
It feels different to be on this side of a fight, but it also feels right.
“Yeah,” I say.
“But why didn’t you tell me?”
I shrug. “Can I go back to class now?”
He eyes me suspiciously but says, “Sure, buddy. If you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” I assure him. And I’m not even lying.
Maya sits next to me on the bus ride home and offers me a bag of Cheez-Its. I have no idea where she got them, and I don’t ask. For the first time ever, it feels like she’s glad I’m her brother.
If there’s one thing
I know about writing
it’s this:
* * *
You’re never done,
not really.
You may think
a story is good
or over
but it’s usually not either.
* * *
It can always
be improved
or something more happens,
changing the whole outcome
changing the whole ending
changing the whole mood
changing the whole meaning.
* * *
Until
it’s more of a beginning
instead.
27
My Writing Process
It turns out Travis gets three days of suspension, but it takes two weeks for my eye to return to its normal size and color. I try not to worry about Travis anymore, and when he comes back to school, he leaves me alone, probably because he got in huge trouble at home. Besides, I’m distracted with other things, like writing down my story. I don’t know if you’ve ever written a long story, but let me tell you, it’s a process. Once I get going on the thing, though, I can’t stop. My brain keeps bringing up these details that I have to get down right away or else they’ll float away. My blue sticky notes ran out a long time ago, but Mrs. Parkman gives me another pack—green this time. The two colors look cool together all stuck in the notebook that I now have a hard time closing.
We have a big test, well three actually: one for math, one for reading, and one for writing. I don’t know how I did and I don’t care. It’s got to be better than last year at least. Mrs. Parkman has picked some good books for me, and I’m finding that I like to read now.
I know, I can’t believe it either.
Plus, Jason and Erin have been helping me with math, too. It’s funny. I thought I’d hate sitting with them, but both of them are good at math, and one day Jason swung his chair around so he was sitting next to me and he showed me a cool shortcut to multiply bigger numbers.
Once the tests are over, though, things in the classroom get more relaxed. We have tons of free reading time and writing workshop has completely taken over. My classmates are absorbed in their writing. Kyla has decided to write not just one color poem, but a whole bunch of them, all related to one another. I think she’s doing something scientific with the rainbow colors and squeezing in others that she loves, but I haven’t seen it yet. In fact, everyone’s being kind of secretive about their stories. It’s like we all want it to be a surprise, and we want it to be the best thing we’ve ever written.
The only exception to this is our writing partners. Duke’s made-up story is about a kid who was born with only one arm and can read minds. It’s so good so far, and we’ve been helping each other with our writing.
Mrs. Parkman knows what everyone’s writing about, and I swear she’s not walking around the classroom anymore, she’s floating. I told you, writing is her thing. She’s been teaching us some new editing tricks. But she also told us to never, ever take a red—or otherwise colored—pen to each other’s writing. “You’re the author. You decide what changes to make.”
I fidget while Duke reads what I have. I’m kind of stuck, which is frustrating, but I’m handling it better than usual. He sets it down in his lap and looks up at the ceiling, like he’s trying to figure out what to say.
“What are you stuck on?”
“I think… I think… I’m just not sure where to go next,” I say. “It was a bad night. It’s hard to write about. I don’t know if there are things I should
even say in school.”
“I get that,” he says. “But can I tell you what I think?”
“Sure.”
“You’ve got a lot of detailed facts. Like I know what’s happening, but there’s a big piece missing.”
I look up at him. “What’s that?”
“You’re telling the story as an outsider, like a reporter. But you should tell what it felt like to be there.”
“So, just add some feelings?” I ask.
“Yeah but remember that we weren’t there. When we read your story, we have to feel what it was like to be there. You’re the only one who can tell us that.”
I think hard about what Duke said. I think this whole time, I’ve been focused on the details, the movement of the story, first this then that, but he’s right. I haven’t put myself into the story yet. Where did I even fit into all of it?
That’s something I have to figure out.
And quick.
I’m running out of time.
The following Friday is our District-Wide Seventh Grade Play Day. Picture a track meet, but like the longest track meet ever. Every seventh grader in the whole district signs up for three events. The PE teachers make us practice and practice for months because when we show up on Play Day we represent our schools, competing against the other ones. And I don’t know if you know this, but PE teachers hate to lose.
I’m signed up for shot put, where you throw these heavy balls as far as you can, the 50-meter dash, and Tug-of-War. The way Play Day works is you do your own events but the rest of the time you sit in the bleachers with your friends and eat snacks and lunch and watch everyone else until it’s your turn. Lots of parents come. Mom doesn’t though; she’s at work.
Lots of kids bring their writing notebooks with them. Me included. I’m not sure what kind of magic spell Mrs. Parkman has put us under, but we are all determined to get our stories just right. We sit in a group at the top of the bleachers, huddled together against the wind.
We get up, one by one, to compete in our events but always make it back to our little group. By lunchtime, the notebooks are closed and we’re sipping on sodas and eating red licorice from the giant bag Kyla’s mom sent with her. From up here we can see everyone.
“Hey, Denzel. Isn’t that Travis Beaker’s mom?” I point at a taller woman wearing jeans and boots and a long chunky sweater, despite the fact that it’s a pretty warm spring day.
“Yeah, I haven’t seen her in a while.” He’s right. She came to lunch almost every day in elementary school, but she hasn’t been around much this year. Now that I think about it, I can only remember seeing her a few times right when school started.
Denzel goes back to his conversation with Kyla, clearly not thinking anything of it. You might think it’s weird that a seventh-grade boy like me would even notice someone’s mom, but Travis Beaker’s mom is pretty. Like really pretty. She’s got these long legs and shiny dark hair and a loud funny laugh. And even though Travis has been a jerk to me for as long as I can remember, his mom always smiles at me when I see her.
But today, something’s different. For one, she’s not smiling a big smile. And her head is covered in a silky scarf with bright pink roses on it. I don’t see any of her hair coming out the back and the scarf sure doesn’t look like it’s hiding any of it underneath. I watch as Travis comes up to her after finishing and winning a race. He puts a hand on her back and guides her gently to sit down. I’m taken aback by the tenderness, using his strength to help someone rather than hurt them. I can’t think about it too much longer, though, because it’s finally time for Tug-of-War, the last event of the day.
Piney Woods Middle School is notoriously bad at Tug-of-War. We lose every single year. We’ve heard this now from Coach Gray and Mr. Mark and all the eighth graders who did Tug-of-War at last year’s Play Day. I don’t know if they were trying to motivate us or make us feel bad, but all it did was make me imagine the other school’s seventh graders like giant yetis, ready to take us down.
In reality, the other teams don’t look that big. We’ve got a pretty good team, and we’ve trained hard. As one of the biggest kids in my grade, I’m the anchor. They always put me at the end; I have an uncanny ability to know when we’ve got the other team beat, giving me strength for one last pull. Travis, who’s super strong, is at the front of the line, and the rest of the boys on the Tug-of-War team line up between us.
We win the first match, then—amid the trash-talking and hoots and hollers from the coaches—the second one, taking two of the strongest schools out of the running. The final round is us against the Davy Crockett Volunteers. The referee holds the rope steady and counts down for us. “Three… two… one!” and we pull.
We are all pretty sweaty by this point. It’s hot and the rope is slippery. I dig my feet into the grass and pull. The rope comes toward me, the familiar feeling of winning the match taking over. But then I’m jerked forward and feel myself getting pulled away.
Travis yells, “COME ON ARMADILLOS, PULL!!!” and then I hear Mr. Mark yell, “Come on, boys! You got this! Dig deep!”
I’m so tired, but I dig my heels into the ground even farther and pull as hard as I can. The rope’s coming back toward me again, and I stumble back. I almost lose my grip on the rope but when it pulls tight against me, I do the only thing I can think of. I sit down. With my full weight on the rope, the other boys are able to pull the last inch of it over the line.
“Armadillos WIN!!” We all collapse on the grass, and then every seventh-grader from our school is flooding the field, screaming their heads off. The announcer hands Mr. Mark a giant Tug-of-War trophy, and he’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him. Lots of the guys come over and clap me on the back, saying “Great job, Dragon! That was a good idea to sit down.” Travis doesn’t come near me, just gives me a hard look and walks back toward his mom.
It’s the first time I feel like a real part of a team that did something important. For so long it’s just been me and my weird sister and my sick mom and De-vine. And at school it’s always just been me, sometimes me and Denzel. But today, it’s like I’m a part of something bigger than myself.
I have to say, it feels pretty good.
I say goodbye to Denzel at the corner, wearing a dopey grin, the same one I’ve had since we piled onto the bus, the energy from winning the Tug-of-War still buzzing around in everyone. My grin disappears, though, when I see two police cars and Miss Stephanie’s car in front of my house.
Not again, I think.
I try, but fail, to slow my heart. It’s beating so fast my chest hurts and, for a minute, I think I can’t breathe. But I close my eyes and exhale slowly, counting to five, until my lungs are completely empty.
Maya looks at me and I shrug, trying to play it cool, but she comes and stands close to me and we walk up the stairs together as one unit. I give her one last look before turning the doorknob, without any idea what we’re walking into.
Mom’s on the couch with a tissue in her hand, tears leaking out of her eyes. De-vine is on her lap, looking confused but sucking on a pink lollipop. Miss Stephanie is holding Mom’s other hand and two policemen stop talking when we walk in.
“What’s going on?” I demand.
Miss Stephanie’s voice is soft, “Dragon, Maya, come sit down. There’s something you need to know.”
That night, I can’t sleep. So I write and write and write some more. I take one of De-vine’s markers, a fat purple one and cross words out and add details and scribble things out until I think I have it just right. And the ending I add now seems fitting. I just need to get to school so I can write a final copy, in my best handwriting, and get it to Mrs. Parkman.
I think it’s finally ready.
28
My Story
The week before school lets out for summer break, our English classroom looks totally different. Mrs. Parkman has arranged our desks in groups of four and she has draped dark-colored tablecloths over them. On each desk is a plate and plastic utensi
ls, a fancy napkin, and a stack of sticky notes and a brand-new pen. The overhead fluorescent lights are switched off, and the floor lamps she has placed around the room give off a calm, cool glow, like we’re in a coffee shop. A lone stool sits at the front of the room right under a brighter lamp, one of those with a bendy arm and a bell-shaped head. Every chair in the room has been carefully placed so that whoever is sitting in it will be able to see that stool.
The back counter is full of food: fresh strawberries and melon, chocolate and glazed donuts, cheese cubes and carrot sticks. There are glass pitchers filled with lemonade and apple juice next to a stack of plastic cups, the pretty ones that look like crystal. Mrs. Parkman has outdone herself.
I come in, silently, with the rest of my classmates. We’re all too afraid to say anything, like speaking aloud might make it all disappear. But Mrs. Parkman has the biggest grin on her face.
“Come in! Come in! Welcome to our Writer’s Lounge!”
We take our seats, and she explains what we’re going to do: one at a time, we will take the writer’s chair. We’ll read our stories aloud to the class, who will listen, respond appropriately, then write one thing they loved from the piece on a sticky note. The sticky notes will all end up stuck to our own personal copies of the class anthology.
Mrs. Parkman teaches us how to snap our fingers if someone reads a beautiful poem, how to clap somberly for a sad story, how to whoop it up for something exciting, and how to stand up and go wild if someone’s story blows us away.
We all take our plates and fill them with goodies. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a bunch of seventh graders eat, but normally it’s like watching a pack of wild dogs. Today, though, everyone takes dainty little bites and no one slurps their drinks. Mrs. Parkman’s magic has cast a spell on us all.
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