We scream till we’re blue!
See? That wasn’t hard.
DAY I DON’T EVEN KNOW ANYMORE
Metamorphosis.
We watched a movie about it in science.
It’s when a caterpillar snuggles up in a chrysalis
like a backward mummy.
Instead of dying and being wrapped up,
it wraps itself up to live.
To become something new,
something with freedom.
Something pretty.
Unless it’s a moth.
A moth still has freedom,
but it’s
Ugly
Gross
Brown
Dusty.
It’s just a dirty moth.
In that case, metamorphosis is kind of sad.
Little caterpillar wraps itself up
like a kid in elementary school
going to sleep
and waking up a pizza-faced middle school weirdo.
Robin is changing, growing wings
every day
in a chrysalis made of my notebook.
A revenge chrysalis.
(Which would be a good name for a band.)
If I squint, I can see his
Ugly
Gross
Dusty
Dirty
moth wings.
His pizza face.
His pale eyes
glowing with greed
at the laughs he gets
at my expense
that Mrs. Smithson ignores.
Just like fake moth eyes on ugly wings
Robin’s eyes
better be hiding
his true self—
that he is still scared of me.
Because he should be.
WEEKEND
Dad asked what was going on.
But he meant it like,
Hey, bro! What’s going on?
Like a dude punching another dude’s shoulder
at the beach.
So I said:
Nothing
Because that’s what he wanted me to say.
If I am made of stone at home
no one can bother me.
If I am made of stone at school
no one can bother me.
Paul says even stones have to crack
to let out steam.
But what he doesn’t understand is that
there is always someone
who wants to stick their head in a crack
and sniff around.
Hahaha.
But seriously.
Paul is so annoying.
DAY 30-something
Hartwick was looking at me
from his office across the hall.
I wanted to say
You can’t look at me like that.
I wanted to say
Hide those beady eyes back under your greasy lids.
I wanted to say
Go away.
But I didn’t say anything
because the nurse was putting antiseptic on my lip
where it busted open
after I fell on it
in the hallway
when Robin tripped me
and said
Poetry boy can’t write sentences
or walk, either.
And Giant John laughed.
It’s a shame, really,
how Mrs. Smithson ignores Robin
as he seeks revenge.
She is depriving him
of the ceiling stain
of Hartwick’s tie-nightmare-of-the-day
of the SHOUTING ABOUT RESPONSIBILITY.
The moth-faced boy flies free.
Again.
My heartbeat in my lip.
Mom pinched her face up tight.
She made sure I didn’t need stitches.
Philip high-fived me
when I said You should’ve seen the other guy.
Petey just rolled his eyes
and Paul sighed real big.
But there was no other guy.
Unless you count Robin
looking innocent
as Mrs. Smithson and Harry
bobbled by.
Robin says it’s time for another Poetry Bandit
thing.
I told him to go rip out a page from the library.
He said no, that I should do it.
Blackmail stinks.
(Another good band name.)
I put it up before I gave it to Robin.
I think he grew three inches just from being mad.
He wanted to get “caught” putting it up,
by me.
I told him to go sign his name if he wants all the credit.
But someone had already thrown it away.
The teachers, they learn fast.
TUESDAY
Mrs. Little looks at me sideways.
I know she wants to say something
but I don’t want to listen
so I pretend I don’t see
her eyes
in the corner of her face
like a hieroglyph.
It’s not like I never had a fat lip.
That’s what I want to say
to her hieroglyph eye.
Every time I look up and see her
she is staring.
And she doesn’t look away.
It’s like she wants me to see.
She’s looking, searching, telling me something
that I can’t hear.
Just like my lip keeps a beat
to a song I can’t hear.
I’m glad for the books today,
heavy in my hands.
They go on the shelves,
one after the other.
I don’t have to think.
I don’t want to think.
Building a fortress
of books
all around me.
I worked for an hour before I realized
today is Tuesday.
The day after
my library detentions ended.
WEDNESDAY
Rocks don’t eat lunch.
Rocks don’t eat at all.
Rocks don’t hide from moth boys
bent on revenge.
But I’m hungry.
Ham sandwich in my backpack.
Left the chips at home.
Too noisy.
If I sit back by the old encyclopedias
Mrs. Little doesn’t see me,
or pretends like she doesn’t see me,
and I can eat in peace.
No one spilling milk on my food
“accidentally.”
No one saying
Roses are red
Violets are purple
Kevin writes poems
Because he’s a girl
That’s a terrible poem
by the way.
Though “girple” would be an awesome word.
Tried to leave the library
but Mrs. Little tapped me on the arm.
Her cat-butt face
was in full force
but her eyes were softer.
Maybe.
I’ve seen what you’ve done to the books,
she whispered.
I’m aware of your little schemes.
She sounded like she was a ghost
from England.
I pulled my arm away and ran
trying to disappear like I was a ghost
from Busted-ville.
The noise again.
Maybe that should be the band’s name.
Just . . .
The Noise.
They make their screeches and whines
like robot animals fighting to the death.
Today I scream with them:
I feel lost all the time
A toy in a shoe
A sock in the trash
What do I do?
The boy who is lost
Tho
ugh they see me right here
I cannot be found
But I can’t disappear.
Until Petey comes to my room
and tells me to shut up.
Your dumb rhymes are ruining the music, he says,
and I want to laugh
but it sticks in my throat
because ruining things
seems to be my new specialty.
THURSDAY
The Poetry Bandit is in trouble.
Mrs. Little knows it’s me.
Robin knows it’s me.
Robin wants it to be him.
So he can be King of the School.
Am I going to be King of the School now?
I highly doubt it.
I don’t think you can be king
if you’re expelled.
I put this one on Mrs. Little’s desk.
So maybe she’ll know
why I hurt
the books.
The intercom buzzed in Social Studies,
and in front of everyone
it was announced:
Please send Kevin Jamison to Mr. Hartwick’s office.
Ooooh.
Giggle.
Yeeeer in truhhhhbullll.
Harry the mole bounced at Freckle-Face Kelly and Robin,
of course,
to walk me to the office.
Buddy system.
Not.
Water on my pants.
Well, not just my pants . . .
my crotchal area.
Thanks to gum on the water fountain.
Gum I didn’t see.
Robin almost passed out from laughing.
I almost passed out from not punching him.
Luckily Robin doesn’t know why I was called
to see Hartwick.
All his Poetry Bandit dreams
down the drain.
I can still hear him laughing
while I sit in the office.
Yeah, well,
we’ll see who laughs last.
At least Freckle-Face Kelly didn’t laugh.
I mean, Kelly didn’t laugh.
The stain on the ceiling again,
in the shape of a cauliflower.
The stain fills my pupils
my brain
my ears
instead of Hartwick and Mrs. Little’s words
discussing my fate
for defacing school property.
In my defense, I did not remove any faces from
anything.
I stare at the stain
and congratulate it in my head
for getting bigger since we’ve seen each other last.
Two more weeks’ detention.
In the library.
Not expelled!
But I’m on THIN ICE
Hartwick says. His favorite thing to say.
And I totter, in my head, on the brink
of a lake paved with icy poems cracking under
my feet.
YOUNG MAN
Purple veins pulse to get my attention.
LAST CHANCE
Fingers shake at me.
OUT OF HERE
Mrs. Little stands and so I do, too.
THIN ICE
Repeated
Ringing in my ears
Thin ice
Thin ice
Thin ice
As a side note,
I have composed an ode
to Hartwick’s tie:
[Clearing throat noise here]
O, Principal’s tie
You make me want to scream
Because you are the color of
Puked-up Neapolitan ice cream
Why did Mrs. Little have to tell?
Her eyes seem to like me.
Her ears seem to hear me.
Why would she want me in trouble?
Maybe she’s lonely
in the big library
all by herself.
Maybe she needs company.
I don’t really mind being here, though.
Even if she stares at me
with her hieroglyph eye.
There are no sabotaged water fountains
in the library.
FRIDAY
I tried to explain better
about everything.
It will probably backfire
again.
I ripped this one out of a book
from home.
She makes me explain what I meant.
So I do.
You’ve got yourself in a bind, then.
She looks at me over her glasses.
I nod.
Just tell him you’ve been caught, Kevin.
His Poetry Bandit machinations can go no further.
I don’t know what that means.
Except that she still doesn’t understand.
My hand on the door,
it vibrates with the robot murder noises.
The KEEP OUT sign shakes a little, too.
Today I yell into my invisible microphone:
Rumbling, stumbling, fumbling, crumbling
but there is nowhere to go.
I’ve become easy prey
and there is nowhere to go.
Go! Go! Go! Go!
Go! Go! Go! Go!
But I’ve become easy prey
and there is nowhere to go—
The door yanks open, Petey is sweaty,
Get away from my door
you creeper.
Hey man,
the one friend says,
the guy who looks like all the rest of them.
His rhymes are kind of maybe not half bad.
Petey’s hand goes to the middle of my chest,
his palm against my shirt.
He pushes.
I stumble back.
Get out of here, turd!
And he slams the door.
But I smile.
Because I’m kind of maybe not half bad.
MONDAY
398 GR
This is the section for fairy tales.
Not the section for a random photocopied page
flittering around
making a mess.
I take the loose page to the trash,
but then I see
the page has the word
“wolf”
circled in red.
Like an invitation.
LATER MONDAY
I put my poem on a shelf
with the poetry books.
Hopefully Mrs. Little will find it there.
Properly shelved.
And maybe she will understand.
TUESDAY
I
On my desk this morning,
a familiar page
copied from a familiar notebook
about a familiar topic
having to do with a familiar mole
on a familiar teacher’s face.
II
ON EVERY DESK,
a familiar page
copied from a familiar notebook
about a familiar topic
having to do with a familiar mole
on a familiar teacher’s face.
III
On Robin’s moth face,
a familiar look
copied from a familiar face
I used to see in a familiar mirror
when I was stuffing a familiar someone
under the familiar sinks.
IV
Stolen a page from your own book, hmm?
That was Mrs. Smithson.
She actually said it.
In her familiar voice.
Out loud.
Before she grabbed most of the papers
and recycled them.
I am not a stone.
I am not a rock.
I am not giant and unblinking and cold.
There is an earthquake.
In my guts.
Shaking and quaking.
Quaking and shaking.
Cracking and jagged.
Jagged and cracking.
Breaking everything into sharp points,
poking my insides
until I want to scream.
But instead, I put my head on my desk
and close my eyes slowly
and wonder how the earthquake in my guts
isn’t shaking the whole classroom.
Kelly looks at me.
Her head is on her desk, too.
Those freckles are the same color as the desk,
like the desk has splashed a little on her face.
She blinks.
I blink.
She slides the paper into her lap,
the paper with my Harry poem.
She crumples it and drops it on the floor.
She smiles.
I stare.
One side of my mouth twitches up.
It’s hard to smile with so many
jagged places.
THURSDAY
001.94
Not the poetry section,
the mystery section.
But there’s a book misshelved.
A book with poems and quotes
short and funny
that go off like firecrackers in my brain
surprising me
until I laugh and laugh
for the first time in days and days.
And I see her smile,
Mrs. Little behind the checkout desk,
not looking up.
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