My Storied Year

by Katie Proctor

  Everyone’s too scared to go first; the stool up front under the spotlight is intimidating. But Mrs. Parkman lets us chat at our tables while we eat, waiting for just one brave volunteer.

  Marisa finally can’t stand another minute. “I’ll go, Mrs. Parkman.”

  “Wonderful!” Mrs. Parkman claps her hands together, and Marisa walks up to the stool. I have to hand it to her, Marisa has some guts. As hard as it is for us dyslexic kids to read, it’s even harder for us to write. So imagine having to read words aloud that you wrote yourself.

  Like I said, guts.

  Marisa’s voice shakes at first, but I can tell she’s practiced, maybe even memorized, her story. Marisa tells us about the night her sister Allie was born, how she met her for the first time, her face all pink and scrunched up, her sweet little cry. When she gets to the end, I look around and see that no one’s eating or drinking anymore. They’re all looking right at her; the perfect audience.

  Marisa puts her paper down in her lap and smiles so big when everyone claps and Kyla whoops. Then everyone peels off a sticky note, writes something down, and takes it over to Mrs. Parkman. The only sound in the room is the scratching of pen on paper and chairs clinking together as people get out of their seats. I write Allie’s really lucky to have a big sister like you.

  Next we hear from Caden, who saw an alligator while he was swimming in the lake last summer. It gets tense for a minute and we all go wild, clapping and yelling “yeaaaahhh!” when he makes it safely back to the beach.

  Kyla reads through all of her poems in rainbow order, ending with silver, her own version of a pot of gold. We snap our fingers after each one and she takes a dramatic bow when she finishes “Silver.” We can’t help it and clap wildly for her, too.

  Jolie tells a sad story of losing her grandmother. I’m grateful the lights are dim because I tear up, jealous that she even knew her grandmother.

  Duke’s story about the one-armed boy with superpowers has everyone on the edge of their seats. We gasp when he makes a narrow escape and sigh collectively when the villain is captured. I’ve read his story over and over, but it feels good knowing I had a hand, even a small one, in helping make it the masterpiece it is.

  Everyone shares their writing, one after the other, until it’s just me. I’m the last to go, and even though I’m proud of what I wrote, that doesn’t mean my stomach hasn’t tied itself in a million knots.

  I walk up to the stool at a sloth’s pace. My feet feel heavy, like my shoes have weights in them. I hold my paper so tight it feels like it might fall apart in my fingers. When I open my mouth to begin, I freeze. A sound like “urgh” comes out, so I clear my throat to cover it up. The whole class is looking at me expectantly, but it’s Duke’s eye that catches mine. He is smiling and moving his mouth silently to say, You can do it! I straighten my back and take a deep breath.

  Before I tell you this story, I have to tell you one thing: Uncle Carlos wasn’t a bad guy. He was fine, nice even, until he got hurt and then got sad and then did some bad things. But he himself wasn’t bad.

  The last day of sixth grade ended like every other day. I rode the bus home, dropped my stuff by the door, and watched some cartoons with De-vine, who was only two then.

  Uncle Carlos came home from the auto shop late. The way he banged the front door open and limped inside the house told me it wasn’t a good night, so I grabbed an already-sleeping Dee and Maya and locked us all in our bedroom.

  I remember everything else in a series of images, like disturbing snapshots in my mind, only worse because there are sounds and smells, too. De-vine’s angelic face, sleeping in the middle of the storm around her. Maya’s wide eyes and shaking hands. The door bursting open, splinters from the broken door frame suspended in mid-air. A fist. An angry growl. Alcohol on his breath, spitting word after hateful word at me. Dirty hands holding me up against the wall, my feet hovering a couple of inches off the ground. Mom wailing. ‘STOP!’ she yells. His anger leaves me for a second as he turns on her. She’s ready to fight him.”

  I stop for a second to gauge the audience. Everyone’s looking right at me, waiting for me to continue.

  I couldn’t watch him hit her again. So, over the pounding of my heart in my ears, I yelled out to him. He turned back to me, baring his teeth like an angry wolf. He lunged at me, tried to wrap his hands around my throat. But I was faster. My fist shot out and made contact with his face. It wasn’t hard enough, though. The last thing I remember is my own face running into the door frame. Everything went black. I woke to a searing pain in my eye and thick, syrupy blood in a puddle around me. It smelled like metal, like your hands after you play with a bunch of pennies.”

  I put my hand up to touch the scar running down my face. I don’t know if I do this on purpose or if it’s just a reflex.

  The next thing I knew, there was a cop in the living room, and a paramedic cleaning off my face. My hand was pretty bruised up, but thankfully didn’t appear to be broken. I remember him telling me, ‘That’s gonna leave a scar—but you won’t need stitches,’ about the gash in my cheek. Mom was sobbing, and Uncle Carlos was gone. We never saw him again. And by the time my swollen face shrank down to normal size, it was like he was never here to begin with.

  That was going to be the end of my story, but it turns out it wasn’t over.”

  I look over at Duke, who raises an eyebrow. He hasn’t heard this part yet.

  Three days ago, they found Uncle Carlos in a park, dead for about a week. No one knows where he’s been the past year, what he’s been doing. But he’s gone now. For good. The cops found a note in his wallet. It said, ‘I’m sorry. Take care of D.’

  I guess in a way, I should feel sad, but I don’t. Instead, I feel safe, knowing that he won’t come crashing through the door again, won’t come back for De-vine, won’t hurt anyone else. The night the cops told us about him I had the best sleep of my life.

  I know kids like me can be kind of ‘scary.’ I have problems that most of you don’t have or don’t see. I have deep dark secrets that I’ve never told before. But if I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that everyone has their own story. And our stories make us who we are. So even if they aren’t happy ones, tell them. They are a part of you. And trust me, it feels really good to get them down on paper.

  “The End,” I say because I feel like it deserves to really be the End. Capital E.

  Last days of school

  are the weirdest.

  * * *

  You get up and go,

  same time as usual.

  * * *

  But there’s no work to do

  no homework to turn in

  no lessons to learn

  except maybe the most important ones.

  * * *

  You’re there one minute

  the next it’s over,

  then summer’s here

  and nothing will ever feel the same

  as it did before.

  * * *

  Part of that is good,

  and part is sad.

  * * *

  But the day comes anyway,

  it goes by fast

  and weird

  and then it’s done.

  29

  My Awards Assembly

  I used to dread awards assemblies. I’m pretty sure you can figure out why, but I’ll run down the list for you anyway. For one, Mom never, ever came. Other people’s parents came, their moms in flowery dresses and dads in starched ties. They’d bring bouquets of flowers and take a bajillion pictures afterwards. I wasn’t the only kid whose parents never came, but it felt like it sometimes. There’s nothing lamer than having to hang out by yourself on the side of a stage waiting to go back to class while everyone else gets fawned over and kissed to death by their aunties.

  I never once won an award, either. Perfect attendance was out, because there were some days that I just didn’t feel like going. And Mom didn’t make me. Any kind of academic award or honor roll was out; we’v
e been over this. And there were certainly never any character awards. Travis Beaker isn’t the only one who has met the wrong end of my fist.

  Okay, maybe I lied. I did win one award in third grade when my teacher insisted everyone win an award, whether they deserved one or not. I got one that said, “Most Improved.” What I was “most improved” in I don’t know, because it didn’t say. But I would’ve rather not gotten an award. Everyone knew it was just a pity certificate. It was embarrassing.

  This year feels different, though. I’m not dreading awards this time, not plotting an escape to the bathroom or a way to get fake diarrhea to get sent to the nurse’s office. My homeroom class shuffles in last, behind all the other seventh grade classes, and we sit on the floor in nice rows in front of the stage. The seventh-grade teachers are walking around, giving the stink-eye to anyone who’s talking too loud or still has a hat on. Mr. Berman walks up and down the rows with a trash can, waiting for the gum chewers to spit it out before the awards start.

  I see Travis’s mom come in, walking with a cane, looking weak and fragile. She looks worse than she did at Play Day, and now I know for sure something’s not right with her. The colorful scarf on her head has come askew, and I can see part of her scalp, shiny and bald. Travis’s dad puts a hand on her elbow and guides her to a seat near the front.

  Mom sneaks in at the very last minute, right behind Mrs. Washington. My mouth hangs open in shock, and I only close it when Kyla nudges me. I knew Mom had to work, so I didn’t even tell her about the awards. I’m most likely not getting one anyway. I didn’t want to waste her time. But she gives me a big smile and finds a seat near the back just as Mr. Mark takes the stage.

  “Welcome, welcome, Piney Woods seventh graders and your wonderful families! Thank you so much for coming out today to help us celebrate our awesome students. This has been such a great year, in so many ways, but one of the highlights for me was watching our tug-of-war team take home the championship! It’s never been done in the history of the school!”

  He waits for the applause to die down. “Without further ado, I’m going to hand the mic over to our teachers!”

  I’m going to spare you all the boring details of this very long assembly. Every teacher gets up in turn and gives about fifteen awards each. It takes forever because seventh-grade teachers like to gush about their students. Erin and Jason are the only two from my homeroom who made the A Honor Roll, and Marisa has perfect attendance. Jolie and Denzel get Math Whiz prizes for winning the most math competitions Mr. Berman holds every Friday. I’m about to check out when Mrs. Parkman takes the stage.

  “This year has been one of my very favorites so far,” she starts out. “We did so much reading and writing together. I have never seen such enthusiasm for books and stories and writing as I have in this class.”

  I turn to Denzel and bet him ten bucks that she’s gonna cry. He’s smart and doesn’t take the bet, because he knows he’ll lose. Sure enough, Mrs. Parkman has to stop for a second to compose herself.

  “I’ve seen this group grow so much this year, in their willingness to share and be open with their classmates, in the way they’ve taken care of each other and supported each other and helped each other. I couldn’t be any prouder than I am right this minute.”

  She proceeds with awards. Kyla wins the “Most Enthusiastic” award, which she deserves. After she shakes hands with Mrs. Parkman and Mr. Mark, she comes and sits down next to me and squeezes my hand. I let her. Caden receives an award for reading the most books this year, which surprises me. Good for him, though.

  I can tell Mrs. Parkman only has one more award in her hand, and my heart sinks. There are still deserving classmates left. I figured if anyone would give me an award it would be her. But some of my classmates hadn’t been called. What about Duke’s story? That was incredible. Surely he’ll win some kind of writing award.

  I think back to the day I read my story aloud. I decide right then that the standing ovation from my classmates—the whooping and hollering and smiles and Mrs. Parkman’s streaky mascara after I read my story was better than any award I could get.

  I stop listening and turn around to look at Mom. I hope she doesn’t feel like it’s been a waste of time to come today. But she just smiles at me and, the next thing I know, Kyla and Denzel are pushing me up to standing.

  “Go on!” Kyla whispers. “She said your name!”

  It takes me a minute to register that she’s talking to me, but I stand, wobbly because both of my legs have fallen asleep, and walk up to the stage. Mrs. Parkman is smiling so big I’m sure her face hurts. Mr. Mark gives me a cool-guy bro nod as I pass him, and I go stand by Mrs. Parkman.

  “I saved this award for last, because it’s very special. Dragon, you are getting the ‘Distinguished Writer’ award today.”

  I can’t believe it.

  “Now this might not sound like a big deal to those of you who don’t know Dragon. Let’s just say that we had a rocky beginning to the year when it came to writing. But once he found his voice, he couldn’t be stopped.”

  She turns to look at me. “I’m so proud of the way you used your words and stories to make us better. Thank you for sharing your gift with us. In fact,” she says, turning back to the audience, “I submitted Dragon’s last piece he wrote in class to the district, and it was chosen, along with eleven others, out of all the seventh-grade pieces, to be included in the district’s Year-at-a-Glance publication. This is a huge honor.”

  Too shocked to say anything or understand how I feel, I look at my classmates, who have all risen to their feet and are clapping wildly. Mrs. Parkman hands me my award and wraps an arm around my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Ms. Luna comes on my other side and gives me another hug before walking me over to Mr. Mark who has the biggest grin on his face. He gives me the manliest of fist-bumps he can manage and looks me right in the eye as he says, “I’m so proud of you, buddy.”

  Mr. Mark takes the microphone again and is giving his final remarks, but I cannot hear any of them. Denzel and Kyla are clapping me on the back and other kids have turned around to give me high fives and fist bumps. Duke sneaks me a smirk like he knew all along I’d get some kind of writing award. Before I know it, the whole thing is over and kids are getting up to find their parents. It’s mass chaos.

  Mom finds me and wraps me up in a big hug. “I’m so proud of you, getting through seventh grade! And Dragon, I’m so impressed. I think I need to see some of this writing your teacher is talking about.”

  “Soon,” I say. Earlier, Mrs. Parkman gave us our anthologies, so tonight Mom will be able to read the story I wrote. I’m not sure I’m ready for her to see it or if she’s ready to read it, but here we are anyway.

  Mom snaps pictures of me with Denzel, Duke, and Kyla with her new phone. I know they will live on the wall of my room for many years to come. And when she takes one with Mrs. Parkman, it hits me that the year is over. Next year will bring new classmates and a new teacher and, all of a sudden, I’m not ready for it to be over.

  30

  My Last Run-In With The Bully

  I feel a familiar squeeze on my chest and realize I’m about to go into a full-blown Dragon panic, so I give my mom another quick hug and say I need to use the bathroom. I run out of the cafeteria and to the bathrooms farthest away from the crowd of people still mingling in there.

  Relieved to find that I’m alone, I stand in front of the hazy mirror and splash some cold water on my face. Get it together, man. You just need to get through the rest of the day and then it’s summer break. You can do this. It’s just school, anyway. You used to hate school. It’s in the middle of the silent pep talk to myself that I realize I’m not alone in the bathroom after all.

  What starts out as quiet whimpering turns into massive heaving sobs in a matter of seconds. I’m caught off-guard and super confused, thinking I might have come in the girls’ bathroom by accident. But the sobbing is deeper than a girls’ voice.

  No, I’m in the right
place.

  “Uhhh, hello?” I call out. There’s one last loud sob and then a huge sniff and I can tell whoever it is rubs a very snotty nose onto his sleeve.

  I walk toward the last stall, but it busts open before I can get there. And there, standing in front of me, with red eyes and the angriest face I’ve ever seen in my life, is Travis Beaker.

  “What are you doing in here?” he growls at me, his big fists balled up at his sides.

  “Uh, it’s a bathroom.”

  It comes out snarkier than I mean it to.

  “You tell anyone about this and I’ll kill you, you hear me? I mean it, your face won’t even be your face anymore. It’ll be way worse than that scar you already got.”

  Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I put both hands up to show that I’m not here for a fight. Somehow, seeing Travis Beaker like this doesn’t scare me. Uncle Carlos was way scarier, for one. And for another, I think I know why Travis is upset, and something inside me feels a little bit bad for him.

  I know, I think it’s weird, too.

  I don’t know if what I say next is brave or stupid, but I say quietly, “Is it your mom? She’s sick, huh?”

  My words seem to knock the breath right out of Travis, as if I’d actually hit him instead of asked a simple question. His eyes fill up with tears again and he walks backwards until he runs into the wall. He slides down the slick tiles until he’s seated, hugging his knees to his chest. He’s so quiet I think he might’ve forgotten I’m there, but then he whispers, “Yeah. Cancer. It’s real bad.”