by Tween Hobo
(As another side note: Anderson Cooper looks like the soul of a birch tree.)
It just seems to me that society needs to stop and take stock. I mean, I’m just spitballing here, but maybe—just maybe—we should outlaw schools???!!
Kids should have guns. Teachers should have guns. I should have a falcon. We should live on a desolate, war-torn planet. Eyes should be lasers.
In any case, the mood up here in the Rockies is pretty grim. So a few nights ago, as the last of the media vans were pulling out of town, and the grieving families were beginning to try to figure out what to do with a thousand memorial Beanie Babies, Stumptown Jim and I were frying up some grub. Over the crackle of the flames, unable to get the recent tragedy out of my head, I said in a small, fragile voice, “I’ll never go back to school.” I was about to add, But I wouldn’t shake a stick at a new Trapper Keeper, when Jim cut me off.
“Now wait just a darn minute. I reckon it’s September, ain’t it? I reckon now’s about when you should be startin’ sixth grade.”
I glanced up in alarm. It was like that point on the roller coaster when you get to the tippy-top, and everything slows down, and you know you’re about to go hurtling into oblivion. Like that, except boring, instead of fun. “Oh, no. I knew this day would come,” I said. “Don’t you dare try and homeschool me, Stumptown Jim.”
“Well, you’re pretty far from home. So it wouldn’t be home-schooling, now would it?”
“Homeschool, tutoring, whatever you want to call it—I’m not interested! I already got my edumacation! I know enough to survive on the road, and that’s all I need to know. Plus, you don’t even wanna eff with my learning disabilities. I’m telling you, I have the attention span of a fruit fly. And my Ritalin ran out way back in Truckee.”
“Oh, so you think you’re done learnin’, do ya? Think you know everything?”
“Everything important, yeah.”
“You know geology? You know physics?”
“The earth has one moon, and one Bieber. #Science.”
Jim shook his head, not even acknowledging how cool it was that I had managed to verbally express a hashtag without actually saying the word hashtag.
“At least I’m not illiterate!” I shouted. “Most’a these bums can’t even read a lick’a Lemony Snicket!”
“There’s more to life than Lemony Snicket,” said Jim.
“I’M WELL AWARE OF THAT!” I yelled. “There’s also the great work of Sir J. K. Rowling!”
“I thought she was a woman.”
“She is a woman! But she was knighted by the French government in 2009!”
“Lemme ask you something. If a train leaves Ashtabula going westward at a hundred miles an hour, and another train leaves Cheyenne heading east at ninety, how long will it take—”
“I DON’T CARE!!!!!”
“Hush now,” Jim said. “You keep yellin’ like that and we’re gonna get caught out here. You don’t wanna go to jail, now do ya?”
“I’d just as soon go to jail as go to math class!” I retorted. “Same freaking difference!”
“Well, now,” said Jim in his plodding way. “I s’pose I can relate to that. Never was no good at math myself. But there is one subject I do hold in high regard. Can you guess which one that is?”
“Is it the subject of broken junk?!” I taunted him, then immediately regretted it. “Sorry. Too soon.”
To his credit, he barely flinched. “Now there’s no need to be unkind. The subject I’m referring to is History.”
Almost against my will, I piped down for a second. I actually do like History. Or at least you could say I get a kick out of petticoats. Plus, I mean, slavery?!?! WHAT’S UP WITH THAT?!?!!?!
Jim took advantage of my brief silence to push his agenda even harder. “I propose that you and I take it upon ourselves to improve our minds and widen our intellectual horizons. In order to understand the present, and to be prepared for the future, we must gain a comprehension of the past. That’s why History is important. And though they might be difficult, all those other subjects matter too. Besides, it ain’t right for a kid like you to be runnin’ wild without lookin’ after your mental development. One day, you might need to take the SATs. And before that, most likely, the PSATs. So, kid. Whaddya say?”
“Okay, fine,” I grumbled, giving in—and then a new tactic occurred to me. “But, Jim,” I said innocently, “how are we going to protect ourselves?”
“Protect ourselves? What do you mean?”
“You know. In case there’s a school shooting.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s too likely. It’s just gonna be you and me.”
“Yeah.” I scowled. “Exactly.”
* * *
So for the last few days, me and Jim have been doing home-schooling. It’s horrible. He gives me homework and actually expects me to do it. I’m now convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jim and Mr. Brink are related. They say the words pop quiz with exactly the same intonation. Only difference is, Mr. Brink is more of a pushover. Jim actually gets mad when I don’t come to class. And one time, when I sassed him, he made me sit in the corner of the boxcar for ten minutes without my phone. Until today, I thought that was as bad as it could get. But I was wrong. Seems like I’ve had nothin’ but hard luck for a while now. And this morning, things hit a new low.
I showed up at our “classroom” (the burned-out campfire near Boxcar 9) over an hour late because I’d spent the better part of the morning creeping around the now-evacuated elementary school, scoping out the massive makeshift shrine that had accumulated there post-killing-spree. There were hundreds of candles and pictures of the dead kids. They were only a few years younger than me. It was gut-wrenching.
And something else was bugging me. There, on the sidewalk, just aching to be held, were about a planet’s worth of perfectly untouched, fuzzily irresistible stuffed animals. It was a regular FAO Schwarz at that crime zone. To me, it just didn’t seem right. Seemed senseless, in fact. What was the point of letting all those teddy bears sit there, gathering dust, out in the rain? Little angels in heaven can’t play with teddy bears on earth, and besides, they’re in heaven, which undoubtedly means they have toys out the yang. While I’m sitting here with jack squat. I mean, I still have my plush green M&M’s guy, but I dropped him in a filthy puddle by the railroad tracks in Reno and now we’re not speaking to each other. Look—this isn’t even about me. Think of the Beanie Babies! Think of the Elmos, the Cuddlekins, the Care Bears. How do you think they feel, exposed to the elements, witness to so much grief, with nobody there to cuddle or snuggle them?! I’m saying, this is a borderline Velveteen Rabbit situation. They need my help. Which is why I bravely decided to rescue a couple of them.
So that was why I was late, because it took me a while to figure out which of the little fuzzy guys to snatch, and then I had to snatch them, and then I had to hightail it back to hobo camp to hide them with the rest of my stuff under a dirty army blanket. I was feeling heroic, but a little nervous, because I thought I saw a woman take a photo of me on her phone and then walk over to a cop. But we’ll come back to that later, oh, trust me.
I get to class, and Stumptown Jim’s all “Where have you been” and I’m all “Nowhere” and he’s all “Yeah, sure” and I’m all “Don’t you want to hear my report?” And he’s all “Yeah, go ahead.” So I begin to present my History report, which is on something called the Golden Spike.
“The Golden Spike—also known as the Last Spike—is the ceremonial final spike driven by Leland Stanford to join the rails of the First Transcontinental Railroad across the United States connecting the Central Pacific and Union Pacific railroads on May 10, 1869, at Promontory Summit, Utah Territory. The term last spike has been used to refer to one driven at the usually ceremonial completion of any new railroad construction projects, particularly those in which construction is undertaken from two disp—disp—dis-pa—shoot. What the heck is this word?!”
“Stop right there,” co
mmanded Jim. “Just stop. Who do you think you’re fooling!”
“Huh?” I blinked. “Who, me?”
“You didn’t write this history report. You just copied it all down from Wikipedia!”
“Yeah, duh,” I said, honestly confused. “How else would you expect me to do it?”
“I expect you to give it some original thought!” he thundered. “I expect you to care enough to put things in your own words!”
“But why?!” I countered. “What’s the point? Everything’s already on the internet!”
“Listen, and listen hard. You need to get yourself through this life. You can’t let other people do it for you. You need to do your own work and take your own medicine. The only thing you can truly call your own is yourself. And sometimes you can’t even say that much. So be grateful every single day for the mind and the soul and the body you were given. Because that’s all you got. And one day, even that will be taken away!”
“Okay,” I said. “Take it down a notch.”
“You need to learn self-reliance! That’s all I’m tryin’ to teach you! That’s what’s gonna keep you going out here, on the road!”
I looked at him skeptically. “Yeah, I guess. But you know, homey, sometimes I think you need to flip the script.”
Jim was startled. “What are you tryin’ to say?”
“I’m saying, maybe you should rely on other people a little more. Reach out to people. Don’t just run away.”
“I’m not running anywhere.” There was that bracelet, tied tight to his wrist.
“Oh, no?” Summoning all my courage, I let the proverbial cat loose on the proverbial keyboard. “Jim. I know who your brother is. He’s my fifth-grade teacher. Jeremy Brink. And he misses you.”
Well, Jim practically fell backward off his log. His face was stunned. And then it was—angry. Angrier than I’d ever seen. He stood up, ramrod straight, and towered over me. His hands were shaking. “You got no business messin’ in my affairs. You got no right to talk to me about my brother.” Then he just turned and started walking away.
I was terrified. “Jim!” I cried. “Stop! Wait! Come back! I didn’t mean it! Jim! Please!” But Jim didn’t stop. And then I felt a vicious tap on my shoulder.
I whipped around to see none other than the woman who had taken the photograph of me down by the elementary school—and standing next to her, a lady cop. The cop said, “I think we found our girl.”
The woman looked around at the campsite, the boxcars, the drunk, old hobos passed out under the trees. “This is unbelievable. She’ll be better off in prison.”
“Uh, what?” I asked.
“You’re under arrest,” said the cop. “You stole two stuffed animals from a public memorial. That’s vandalism. You’re coming with us.” She clapped a pair of handcuffs onto my adorable little wrists.
“Jim!” I screamed, desperate. “Jim! They’re takin’ me down to the big house! Help me! Jim!”
Jim stopped. He turned back and looked at me, over his shoulder. He saw the lady cop dragging me away. All he said was “Save yourself.” He walked off into the distance.
So, the upshot is, I’m in jail now. With no teddy bears. And no Jim. This is not a joke. I’m writing this from my jail cell. Thousands of miles from here, in Charlottesville, Tessa and the rest of the girls are getting started with sixth grade. To paint you a picture of how much jail sucks, I will just say this: I would rather be heading to math class with them.
Are you there, God? It’s me. Tween Hobo. GET ME OUT OF HERE!!!!!!!!
Siri, why’d they throw me in the clink?
Rap Game
In the first lousy jail cell they threw me into, down at City Hall, I met a cool dude named Florida Whitey, who taught me this saying rap game. You use it to indicate the vibe or flavor that you personally are bringing to the contemporary hip-hop arena. Here are some examples:
Rap Game Anne Shirley
Rap Game Nancy Drew
Rap Game Lumière, the Candlestick
Rap Game BFG by Roald Dahl
Rap Game Pippi Longstocking
Rap Game Disney Channel
Rap Game Chloë Moretz
Rap Game Soul Asylum
Rap Game Tavi Gevinson
Rap Game Shirley Temple
Rap Game Woody Guthrie
Rap Game Buzz Lightyear
Rap Game Willow Smith
Rap Game Judy Blume
Rap Game Pizza Emoji
What are some of yours? Tell us here in the comments. (JK, that’s not a thing in books.)
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/4
Nothing tastes as good as hobo feels.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/5
Soon as Hanukkah rolls around, I’ll be flush with chocolate money.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/6
Who you tryin’ to get crazy with, ese? Don’t you know I’m loco(motive)?
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/7
’Bout that soup-bone lyfe.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/8
I malinger at every opportunity.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/9
Mockingbird, do you have to be such a dick about it?
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/10
The Cran•Grapes of Wrath
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/11
I’ll never forget what I was doing on 9/11: just chilling out in my mom’s belly.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/12
I think I have a Friend with Benefits but he might be a Boyfriend with Drawbacks.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/13
In France they call me Le Tween Hobo.
Tween Hobo @TweenHobo
9/14
Hunger Games–theme bat mitzvah activity: electric slide till everybody dies.
September 15
* * *
Denver County Freaking Jail #smh
Welp, it’s been a pretty sucky fortnight. A fortnight is two weeks and that’s how long it’s been since I got locked up in the penitentiary, aka the slammer. I’m writing this now from my cold, ugly cell, which I share with three other female hooligans under the age of sixteen. I was lucky enough to get incarcerated with some of the cooler, more popular inmates at this juvenile detention facility, who quickly recognized me as one of their own and accepted me into their badass clique. So as far as my social life goes, things are actually kind of great. But as far as me not being in jail goes—things are about as amazing as bird poop. Before I tell you more about my cellmates, though, let me take you through my legal process.
Let’s start with my Reese Witherspoon moment. That’s when the cop arrested me and dragged me down to City Hall and I was like, “Do you KNOW who I AM?!?!” And they were like, “Uh, no, we don’t, and please give us your name and age and Social Security number and contact information for your parents right away.” And that was when I realized I better think up a good story, fast, because the last thing I wanted was for my zombie parents to get a phone call from this lady cop, which would only provoke their undead need to prove how “on top of stuff” they are and would probably result in their flying out here immediately to “get involved” with my judicial situation. No, I did not want that. So I had to think up a fake name, on the fly, and for whatever reason the name that came out was “Clementine Obama.” For that I received a lot of strange looks, and the cop pointed out that she had never heard of a white person with the last name Obama, and I retorted that it was an Irish name, and that she had left out the apostrophe, so that it was actually Clementine O’Bama. After that I demanded a lawyer and kept my mouth shut, so she just sighed and wrote Clementine O’Bama down on the form, and I tried so hard not to laugh that tears literally sprang up in my nose.
The next big to-do was my detention hearing. The judge presiding was a tired-looking, mom-haired woman who was obviously not buying any of m
y testimony but also did not want to be outsmarted by an eleven-(and-nine-tenths!)-year-old kid in her own courtroom. And I was slinging some serious hash. I probably won the Guinness World Record for most random lies told in one afternoon. My story made less sense than a Miley Cyrus video. I said my name was Clementine O’Bama, that I was from New Orleans, that I was an orphan, that I was raised by wolves, that I possibly had magic powers, that my favorite color was orange (yeah right!?!), and that my favorite dinosaur was the stegosaurus (it’s actually the pterodactyl). At a certain point the judge basically rolled her eyes, rapped her gavel, and said, “This is a waste of my time. This child is possibly guilty of theft and is certainly guilty of truancy as well as contempt. Hold her in County until she’s prepared to provide us with a single verifiable fact. Next case.”
So, yeah! I’m in jail, peeps. I’ve served fourteen days of my maximum fifteen-day sentence. Tomorrow they have to haul me into court again to see if I’m ready to talk. Which means I’ve got twenty-four hours to straighten out the backstory of Clementine O’Bama or else give in and fess up. Because I gotta get outta here. News flash: jail is the worst! The guards treat us like dogs, the other inmates are mainly scum and/or lunatics, and at snack time all we get are a couple off-brand Nilla wafers. I swear I’d cut my right pigtail off for a Snickers. Luckily my cellmates have a pretty phenomenal licorice stash.
As I mentioned, the girls I hang with are legit. Our ringleader is a beautiful fourteen-year-old with a chipped front tooth who goes by the name X-Box Mary. Word is she killed a man trying to get into Best Buy last year on Black Friday. Then there’s Hot Pockets, a slightly grizzled seventh-grader who got busted for cracking open those plastic safes at Rite Aid where they keep the fancy shampoo. (In her words, she “cracked ’em open like ripe watermelons.”) X-Box Mary and Hot Pockets bunk together, and over on my side I share a bed with Li’l Nikki, aka Dirty Nickels, aka La Femme Nikita. We don’t exactly know what Li’l Nikki did, but she’s sentenced to life (which is unusual for a ten-year-old), and I would not be surprised if eventually she works out some kind of deal with the government wherein she becomes a secret, ruthless assassin. Her eyes are pale, pale blue, and totally expressionless. She never smiles. She barely ever talks. She is the coolest bunkmate ever, and if we had a Jail Yearbook, I would write in it to her, O.M.G., K.I.T., Luv 4-Eva, Never Change!!!!!