by K. A. Holt
like I found her misshelved book.
And maybe she will laugh
with fireworks in her brain.
LATER THURSDAY
FRIDAY
Instead of chasing Kelly
or punching Giant John like pizza dough
I try to be Godzilla
to Robin’s Mothra.
I am bigger
but he is suddenly meaner.
My words, in my notebook
have given him power over me
which isn’t fair.
Paul would say it is kind of fair,
in a karma kind of way.
But never forget
Paul is annoying.
I see the library window from the recess field.
Maybe I could go there
like Godzilla in the ocean.
Regenerate my powers.
But no.
Robin and I shout at each other,
shooting fire from our mouths.
Angry enemies.
He still wants to be the Poetry Bandit.
He still wants all the credit.
When I get close to his face
the fire from my mouth to his ear
burns the truth in his head.
Mrs. Little knows about me and the books.
Hartwick knows about me and the books.
The Poetry Bandit has been discovered.
The Poetry Bandit is done.
Like a moth to flame
I lure Robin in with my tractor beam of words.
I call him all the worst things:
A baby. A jealous nerd. Ugly.
But he is word-proof now, a fireproof moth.
He does not combust.
He expands.
Kevin, Kevin, poetry boy, he yells.
Kevin has 900 brothers who all hate him.
Kevin has no friends.
Robin grows ten times bigger than my Godzilla.
Swollen with angry revenge.
Kelly grabs my hand
in the middle of the shouting fight
with Robin.
My face catches on fire.
She drags me off. She says,
Maybe if you apologize to him, he’ll stop.
And I say,
Bluh, whugh, huh blerf
because she’s still holding my hand.
808.51
Not the poetry section.
Again.
I smile.
There is a note.
A flyer.
I unfold it as if it is a treasure map,
or a secret message from the FBI.
Instead, it is an announcement.
Beatnik’s Brews
Poetry Night
Friday
8 pm
And a handwritten note:
If your parents give permission, I can give you a ride.
I look at the checkout desk
and think about the silver car with a dent
that I sometimes see Mrs. Little climb into
after school.
I wonder if it smells funny in that car.
If the AC works.
What music scrambles from the speakers.
Mrs. Little glances up
over her half-rectangle glasses
and
smiles.
The light catches the diamonds
on the sides of her glasses
or the fake diamonds
or whatever.
Her whole face is sparkly,
and for just a speck of a second
I see what she looked like
when she wasn’t 9,000 years old.
I smile back.
I put my poem in the book,
and put the book on the right shelf
with the other poems.
Maybe Mrs. Little will find it
like I found her folded flyer.
And maybe she’ll smile
at the words I wrote.
LATER FRIDAY
I don’t sing anything myself today.
Instead I slide a paper under the door
and run fast to my room
before Petey can call me a turd.
SATURDAY
Football on TV.
Somehow the whole family is home.
A packed house.
Even Patrick, home from college for the weekend.
Paul and I on the floor,
cheering.
Dad throws chips at us.
He is laughing.
Wrong team! he yells
and we know it
which is why we cheer.
Mom reads a book,
her feet in Dad’s lap.
Petey and Philip call plays
before the announcer says them.
Patrick is in the kitchen
eating all the food.
We are a real family.
Like a TV show,
but a classy one
with a live audience laugh track.
I make it a rule
to not think about school when I’m at home.
But I can’t help wonder
What kind of TV show does Robin live in?
What kind of TV show does Kelly live in?
What kind of TV show does Mrs. Little live in?
Do they have live audience laugh tracks?
A chorus of “awww”s?
I bet Mrs. Little has a funny theme song
running through her show,
that seems simple,
but then busts out with bongos.
Always a surprise.
Mom doesn’t look up from her book.
She says,
Oh yeah, Friday we’re all going to dinner
together
with my boss.
Dad’s eyebrows go up like helium-filled
caterpillars.
Paul says, Everyone?
Everyone.
Petey says, Can I bring Lacey?
No.
The game comes back on.
I think no one hears when I say,
But I have plans.
Then Petey and Philip bust out laughing.
Got a hot date?
Got a bank to rob?
Now everyone joins in.
Job interview?
Skydiving?
Bus driving lessons?
They’re hilarious.
Not.
Everyone needs to be there, Kevin.
Mom’s face goes pointy.
This could mean a promotion for me.
Normal hours.
More money.
Everything we all want.
So everyone comes. On their best behavior.
Everyone.
MONDAY
I put it on the shelving cart,
and then I leave.
TUESDAY
Old lady hand on my shoulder.
Veins and wrinkles,
shiny rings,
but when I close my eyes
energy shoots from the veins
like from a superhero
whose power is to say
That’s okay,
but without using words.
There are people who talk
so much
all the time
forever
with words falling from their mouths
like crumbs
from a sandwich.
But then there are people who never talk
hardly ever.
Except with their eyes
and their head-tilts
and their lips that can smile and frown
at the same time.
Mrs. Little says so much
without ever
ever
SHOUTING ABOUT RESPONSIBILITY.
THURSDAY
Do you think Kevin is a stupid loser?
That’s what the note said
in perfect handwriting
though the paper was so wrinkled
it looked like my Easter sh
irt
wadded up at the bottom of my drawer.
Robin tossed it on my chair.
(The note, not my Easter shirt.)
A big box was checked
YES
Everyone signed it. Everyone except Kelly.
Someone even pretended to sign Mrs. Smithson’s name.
At least I’m pretty sure it was fake.
Harry the mole signed it, too.
Eyes on me
is all she says.
Not Don’t pass notes, Robin.
Not See me after class, Robin.
Not Pay attention, Robin.
Eyes on me.
How can eyes NOT be on her
with Harry staring at us like that?
My pillow over my head.
My homework on the floor.
My window painted shut.
My door closed with a chair under the knob.
No one in.
No one out.
I breathe into the pillow, hot breath stinking it up.
Then I hear it.
Muffled.
The pillow hits the floor.
The homework is under my foot.
The window blinds rattle.
The chair goes back to the desk.
I am in the hall.
I am out.
Because I think I heard something.
Something I could not possibly have heard.
But then I hear it again.
Among the robot cat-slaughter sounds.
The days go by so long and so hard
The days go by so slow and so far
The days go by so stretched like a chord
From broken-down, slammed-around electric guitars
My words.
Coming from the guy who looks like the other guys.
They saw my paper.
They’re singing my rhymes.
I am so happy I punch the air.
And it feels better
than punching Giant John
ever did.
FRIDAY
It doesn’t make sense that wearing a necktie
could make a difference
at all
in the world
ever,
but especially when it comes to my mom
getting a promotion.
And yet, I am strangled by blue with small red dots
the same colors my face will be
any minute now.
I didn’t want to see poetry readings anyway.
Fancy people onstage
talking about flowers
and trees and ravens and feelings.
I don’t care
about any of that stuff.
Jagged rocks don’t care about people onstage.
Jagged rocks don’t care about flowers.
Jagged rocks don’t have feelings.
Except maybe they do.
Except maybe I do.
I.
Hate.
This.
Tie.
DINNER
You know how when something bad happens
your ears feel stuffed with socks,
your eyes focus like microscopes,
your cheeks catch on fire,
time slows down,
and no matter how much you
wish
pray
promise
beg
a hole does not open up and swallow you?
Well, none of that changes
when you’re at a fancy restaurant
with your mom’s boss
and your brother
puts Tabasco sauce on your fries
and you don’t notice until it’s too late
so you punch him under the table
while you’re choking and gasping
and spitting French fry chunks
everywhere.
And you knock your drink
into your mom’s boss’s drink
like dominoes
that land in his lap,
but cold and wet
and smelling
like the lady who works at the post office.
FRIDAY NEVER ENDS
Mom is so angry.
Maybe angrier than ever before.
I can see it in her face.
The way her eyes don’t match the curl of her lips.
The way her eyes suck in all the energy of the room.
The way her eyes are a vortex
trying to swallow me whole.
FRIDAY NEVER ENDS, THE OUTSIDE OF THE RESTAURANT EDITION
The bench is hard and the metal hurts my back
but it’s better out here than inside
listening to Mom apologize for me.
Always the mistake.
Always ruining things.
I kick a rock out from under the bench.
It hits a trash can, and with a BANG,
it breaks in half.
Good.
I sit in the night for a long time,
watching cars go by.
It stinks to live in a really small town,
because tonight I know all the cars.
Everyone seeing me on the bench,
a statue formerly known as Kevin.
Cars stop and go at the red light.
Customers come and go from the restaurant.
I shoot laser eyes at everyone.
Stop and go. ZAP.
Come and go. ZAP.
They’re not trapped.
Like me.
Zap.
One car stops at the light even though it’s green.
Two cars honk,
but it doesn’t move.
I zap it with my laser eyes.
It still doesn’t move.
It is an old car.
Beat up.
Silver.
With rust on the bottom.
Do I know this car, too?
In jerks, the passenger window opens
like the jerks I feel when I fall asleep,
only now I’m waking up
more and more
with each jerk of the window.
Kevin? Is that you?
The voice doesn’t belong in the nighttime
or in the road
or between the honks
of other angry drivers.
I stand, my statue legs breaking free.
She has leaned across the seat to open the window,
her silver hair around her shoulders,
shining in the streetlights.
Shadows darken her wrinkles.
I walk to the sidewalk.
Hold up my hand
to wave hi
or say Stop, please?
What’s the matter, then?
Her voice belongs in The Sound of Music
or on PBS
not in the parking lot of Chez Whatever.
It turns out I’ve been crying.
Who knew?
Her face is soft with sympathy. So soft I feel sick.
She puts her hand on my shoulder.
It makes me jump.
Kevin.
How can I help?
I hiccup. Wipe my face.
Where are your parents?
FRIDAY RESCUE
Wind on my face.
Seat belt on.
Tie off.
I am free.
For now.
She just walked in, like a queen.
Introduced herself,
apologized for interrupting,
asked if she could borrow me.
Dad couldn’t say anything.
Mom tried to say no.
Mrs. Little wouldn’t listen, though.
She called me talented.
A poet.
Paul ruffled my hair and smiled.
Philip and Petey snickered but Mom’s boss gave them
LASER EYES
and they stopped.
She called me
A schemer, no doubt.
But also?
> Smart.
Funny.
Fragile.
Dad’s mouth stayed open
catching flies
if Chez Whatever
had flies.
Certainly, he should go,
Mom’s boss said, standing, shaking Mrs. Little’s hand,
his pants still wet.
You must be so proud,
he said to Mom, smiling.
Her face turned pink from the neck up,
a crawling warmth, climbing behind her ears
until she said with bright eyes,
Yes.
Yes, I am.
What?
She’s giving me the hieroglyph eye as she drives.
What? she asks again.
I am giving her the hieroglyph eye back.
The words she just said in there . . .
so many
at one time.
More than I’ve ever heard her say.
And they were all about me.
And they were nice.
They didn’t fall from her mouth.
They flew.
Like flaming arrows.
Flaming arrows keeping everyone away.
But keeping me warm.
What? She asks one more time,
Her hieroglyph eye shining in the dark.
Nothing, I say.
I hope my hieroglyph eye is shining, too.
OPEN MIC
How old is this guy?
His glasses say old,
but his shorts say young.
His words say old,
but his smile says young.
He talks in the microphone like he’s telling a secret,
but we can all hear.
I drink a hot cup of decaf coffee.
It tastes like my dad’s breath on Sundays.
Mrs. Little says
You can’t watch an open mic without coffee.
but she smiles when I push mine away,