and pull like fishhooks.
Why can’t they like me?
Why don’t they?
Why won’t they?
I WONDER HOW SHE KNOWS?
Door—SLAMMED!
Books dropped,
shoes kicked, one by one,
homework flung.
Stomp! Stomp!
Doorknob—yank.
SLAM!
Bed crash,
pillow smash,
crab-crawling beneath the sheet,
body squeezed into a knot.
Quiet knock,
door squeak,
soft steps,
bed creak,
fingers circling circles on my back,
covers slipped below my head,
a warm face
against my cheek.
Mama’s voice:
“First days are hard, Keet.
Do you want to tell me about it?”
NOTHING TO SAY
I used to be Keet-Keet Parakeet.
I used to talk to anyone.
I used to talk anywhere.
But now at school,
words are peanut-butter sticky
and tight as lids on pickle jars.
I used to talk
from morning till night.
But now at school,
words are pretzel-crooked.
They never come out right.
I used to be Keet-Keet Parakeet.
I used to be.
I used to be.
KIDS SAY
“Grandpa, the kids say I talk funny.
They laugh at my words.
They’re mean, Grandpa. And I don’t like,
I don’t like, I don’t like school at all.
“Can’t let the mosquitoes bother you, Fish Bait,
not if you want to catch a fish.”
“Grandpa, stop talking about fishing.
I’m talking about school.”
“Well, fish swim in schools. Don’t they?”
GRANDPA FRIDAYS
“Grandpa, there’s a girl in my class,
and she doesn’t make fun of me
like the other kids, but she
keeps staring at me and she won’t talk.”
“Let the fish come to you,” Grandpa says.
“Some fish just like to take their time, Fish Bait.”
“Grandpa, she’s not a fish.”
“Notafish?
What kind of fish is that?
Heard of a catfish, a sunfish, a dogfish.
Can’t say I’ve heard of a notafish.”
“Grandpa!”
WHAT DO YOU SAY, GRANDPA?
Keet:
Let’s go fishing, Grandpa.
Grandpa:
With who?
Keet:
With me.
Grandpa:
With you? Where are you going?
Keet:
I’m going fishing.
Grandpa:
You are? Well, why don’t you take me with you?
Keet:
Grandpa, why are you sooooooo silly?
WE’RE GOING AFTER OL’ MUDDY JOE
“Ol’ Muddy Joe is a catfish.
He’s older than mud.
He’s got whiskers as long
as the Mississippi,” Grandpa says.
“Really, Grandpa, really?”
Grandpa says, “Ol’ Muddy Joe
is quick and strong as flood water.
He’s the smartest catfish ever.
He teaches all the other fish in his catfish school
to break fishing line, spit out hooks,
and drive fishermen crazy. Ol’ Muddy Joe
is wily and tricky and sneaky too.”
“Really, Grandpa, really?”
“Ol’ Muddy Joe lies on the river bottom
in his electric catfish suit.
He can taste the water, taste the land.
Taste how humans have changed the taste of things.
He’s listening to me talking right now,
and he’s laughing his old catfish laugh.”
“Really, Grandpa, really?”
“Well, maybe not a laugh.
But he sure is smiling: all catfish smile.
One of these days, I’m going to catch him
and pat him on his big yellow belly.”
“Really, Grandpa, really?”
“Gonna try. He’s fooled me a time or two.
Raced ahead and snagged my line.
He’s slipped off my hook and put a minnow on instead.
But we’ve got an understanding, that old fish and me.
Been talking to one another a real long time.
That fish can tell you all kinds of stories.”
“Really, Grandpa, really?”
MUDDY JOE
We bait our hooks and sit quiet
beside the slow muddy water.
Grandpa lifts his line and flicks it out.
The pole’s red bobbin floats
like a bright berry, and the line hangs
like a spider’s web, like ice-colored string.
We wait and wait,
until waiting feels like
mosquito humming, like
thick gooey mud, like
slow-moving water. I wait
and Grandpa waits.
Sunfish, bluegill, bass, and perch,
but no catfish and no Ol’ Muddy Joe.
“Looks like Ol’ Muddy’s not coming, Grandpa.”
Grandpa lifts his cap and rubs his head.
“No, Ol’ Muddy’s not in a talking mood, I guess.
But we’re not giving up, Fish Bait.
We’re not giving in, are we?”
“No, Grandpa.
We’re not giving up.”
CAN WE CATCH HIM?
Grandpa baits his hook and throws it out.
We wait so long that I fall asleep on Grandpa’s shoulder.
Grandpa gives me a nudge. He points.
Bob
bob
bob.
The bobbin dips down and up, down and up.
“Shhhhh,” Grandpa whispers.
I hold my breath.
Grandpa yanks on the fishing pole.
The tip of the pole curls downward.
The fishing line reeeeeeeeels out.
A huge catfish beats and thrashes
against the water.
“Is it Ol’ Muddy Joe? Is it Ol’ Muddy?”
“Sure is, Fish Bait. It sure is!”
“Pull, Grandpa, pull!”
I grab Grandpa’s waist and try to help him pull.
Grandpa leans back and the fish rises
from the muddy deep, up, up, up,
and rolls, and splashes back again.
“Come on, you ol’ rascal,” Grandpa shouts.
“Come on, Muddy Joe,” I shout.
ZZZZZZZ the line reels out, out, out—
and then: Snap!
Splash!
Plonk!
Gone!
JUST US
No worries.
No itchy, buzzy
school troubles.
Why can’t we
always be this way?
NOSE TROUBLE
“Go away, Nose.”
“No.”
“Nose, go away,” I say.
“No.”
“Nose, leave me alone!”
“No.”
“Stop acting silly, Nose.”
“Silly, silly,” Nose says.
“And get out of my room,” I say.
“Read to me, Keet-y.”
“Nose, go away.”
Nose scurries away and then comes back
with his stuffed chicken and his favorite book,
Where the Wild Things Are.
“No, Nose.”
“Yes!”
“No, Nose.”
“Yes!”
Nose wrinkles up his nose.
He sniffles,
he s
nuffles,
and then he starts to whimper.
He throws himself
on the carpet to cry.
“Keet, what’s wrong with Noah?”
Mama calls.
“Nothing, he just wants a book.”
“Can you read him one, Keet?
I’m trying to get the laundry done.”
Nose looks at me.
He smiles and holds up his book.
“Keet?” Mama calls again.
I look at Nose.
“You’re nothing but trouble,” I say.
Nose smiles.
“I’m a wild thing,” he says. “Grrrrrrr.”
THINGS TO DO WITH A BABY BROTHER
1.Eat him for supper on buttered toast.
2.Ship him to Siberia, parcel post.
3.Sell him at a lemonade stand.
4.Leave him for the garbage man.
5.Wrap him in newspaper and seal him with tape.
6.Put him in the zoo with a big hairy ape.
7.Roll him up like a jelly roll.
8.Hide him away in a deep deep hole.
9.Go fishing for tuna and use him for bait,
10. or mix him in the batter for his birthday cake.
THE YELLOW KITE
The park buzzes
with mamas and daddies,
with brothers and sisters,
with babies,
with picnics,
with dog walkers,
with long-legged bicyclists
and huff-puffy joggers.
The park shines
with kite flyers
and all kinds of kites:
box-shaped,
diamond-shaped,
caterpillar-shaped,
kites shaped
like dragonflies,
and kites with long,
snaky tails.
Nose and I have a kite too.
I made it from yellow paper,
and tape, and drinking straws.
I made it in school.
It has a long, long string
wrapped around a popsicle stick.
It’s not a big kite.
It’s not a fancy kite.
It’s not a store-bought kite.
It isn’t shaped like a dragon, or a fish, or a butterfly.
Nose looks at our little kite.
He looks at the fancy kites.
He looks at the wide, high sky.
“Will it fly?”
“Yes,” I say. “I made a good kite.”
I hold the kite above my head.
I run, run, run. The kite jumps. It spins.
It spins around, around, and then it
drops.
Our kite looks like melted butter in the grass.
Maybe it wasn’t a good kite.
Maybe it can’t fly.
“Try again,” Nose says.
We climb to the top of the hill and wait.
We watch the other kites.
Then I feel the air stroke my cheek.
I feel the wind tug my braids.
I hold the kite high above my head.
I run and toss the kite even higher.
“Run!” Nose shouts. “Run fast!”
I run fast, fast, fast until I feel the wind
snatch the kite and steal it away.
The wind plays tug-of-war with me.
The wind rolls my kite across the sky
like a yellow crayon.
“It’s flying! It’s flying!
Let me hold it! Let me hold it!”
I hold the string for a long while
because I am the big sister,
and it’s my kite.
Then I give it to Nose.
I let him run with it.
I let him circle it around and around.
Our kite flies as high
as the fancy kites (almost),
as high as the big kites (almost).
Our kite flies and plays with us
until the wind softens,
and sighs,
and whispers away.
Then our kite falls
like a flashing comet,
like a splash of lemonade.
The yellow paper rips.
The kite won’t fly anymore.
“It was a good kite,” Nose says.
“Make another one.”
TOGETHER
“Can you take another one
for supper?” Grandpa asks.
“Only if it’s you,” Mama says.
“We’re eating elephant spaghetti,” Nose says.
“We’re eating snail rumps,” I say.
“Is that all?” Grandpa says.
“Snail rumps are pretty small.”
“Noooo, Grandpa,” I say.
“We’re also having—
monkey toes and pigweed,
cowboy boots boiled in butter,
elbow pudding, goose teeth,
fishhead scramble, worm meat,
bedbug biscuits, frog-juice jelly,
and Mama’s baking all of us in a pie.”
“Sounds good,” Grandpa says, “and it smells
so sweet your mama must have stuck
her toe in it. If you bring me a big bowlful
of that fishhead scramble, Noah, I’ll stay
for breakfast in the morning.”
“We don’t have any fishheads!” Nose giggles.
“Well, some of that pie then, with all of us in it.
I’m sure that will be just as good.”
And it was good,
Mama, Daddy, Grandpa, Nose, and Me,
a family pie, an all-of-us-together pie.
THE BEDTIME BELL
“Another one! Another one!”
Nose shouts.
Grandpa gives Nose
another piggyback ride
and carries him down
the hall to Nose’s room.
Grandpa swoops Nose up
and flops him dowwwn into bed.
“Good night, sleep tight.
Don’t let those fishes bite,”
Grandpa says, wiggling
Nose’s pudgy fat toe.
“Ready, Fish Bait?”
“Ready, Grandpa.”
Grandpa and I march to my room.
When he hugs me, I feel
his rough whiskers. I smell
the coffee on his breath.
He cups my head in his hands.
My grandpa’s hands are soft,
but he has a scar where a fishhook
caught him once.
His eyes are like muddy water.
“Good night, sleep tight.
Don’t let those fishes bite,”
Grandpa says, wobbling my nose.
“Grand-ba! Let go by doze!”
He laughs and kisses me, again.
Grandpa’s laugh is like a bell.
I hear it ringing in my sleep.
Chapter 3
SECOND WEEK: NEW-GIRL BLUES
NEW-GIRL BLUES
I got the New-Girl blues.
I got those back-to-school and don’t-want-to,
do-I-have-to-Mama? do-I-have-to? blues.
Blues in my thinking, blues
in my walk. Blue and lonely lonely
because of my New-Girl talk.
I got the New-Girl,
don’t-want-to-go,
don’t-make-me-go blues.
SPELLING ON M-O-N-D-A-Y
In spelling, we line up to play baseball.
The teacher divides us into four teams
and pairs one team against another.
Each pair of teams takes a turn
while the teacher pitches words.
My team doesn’t do so well.
Chloe smirks when I spell p-e-n-c-i-l.
“I’m surprised you can spell it,” she whispers.
“You don’t even know how to say it.
It’s pencil, ’Bama Mouth, not pancil.”
I ignore her
, but I strike out anyway,
when I can’t spell w-e-i-r-d.
John Royale sticks his tongue out at me.
Allegra rolls her eyes at him.
Then only two teams are left.
John Royale’s team is good.
But they strike out until he
is the only one left.
Then John Royale stumbles on astronauts.
He says, “a-s-t-r-o-n-o-t-s.”
Next Allegra’s team is up.
“A-s-t-r-o-n-a-u-t-s,” Allegra says,
and she moves to first base.
The teacher keeps pitching words.
John Royale’s team is ahead on points.
Allegra’s team needs two more runs.
But two of her teammates strike out.
Only four kids are left.
After Sonya spells p-r-a-i-r-i-e,
and Hudson spells I-l-l-i-n-o-i-s,
and Mark spells n-e-i-g-h-b-o-r-h-o-o-d,
the score is tied!
The bases are loaded.
Allegra’s team whoops and cheers.
John Royale groans.
“Batter up!” Ms. Harner says.
It’s Allegra’s turn again.
She looks unstoppable.
She looks like she can’t possibly lose.
Sonya and Gabby say
“Come on, Allegra!”
John Royale’s team leans in close.
John Royale whispers miss, miss, miss.
His team puts on You’ll-Never-Beat-Us faces.
Ms. Harner runs her finger down the page.
She picks a word, a hard word,
a word that no one wants to spell.
“Entwined,” Ms. Harner says.
“I entwined two pieces of string to make a rope.”
“Entwined? Entwined?” we all think.
“Entwined,” Allegra says.
E
Are you sure it’s not I?
N
Yes, definitely N.
T
No, another N.
W
W, there’s a W?
I
Okay, I.
N
Now another N.
Catching a Storyfish Page 3