It’s one thing to be a class clown
and it’s another to be mean and disruptive.
Do you think you can tell the difference now?
She says this into the mic
I could not
be more
embarrassed.
I nod.
She points to the mic,
I squeak out
Yes.
She nods and clicks off the mic.
Coach Ellison and I have agreed,
along with the detentions,
you may not
try out for
mascot
this year.
What!
Not allowed!
To try out!
For mascot!
AAAAARRGHHH!
Most kids laugh
slap my back
when I walk down the hall.
They
shake their heads
seem impressed
can’t believe I did it
Man’s man! Ladies’ man! Chicken man! Ha!
But Tam.
Tam.
Tam is not impressed.
Tam is not smiling.
Or laughing.
Hey, nerd, I say, trying to smile.
Turd, she mutters,
then says nothing at all.
OW.
The shock throws me back
two steps at least.
Bright white light
explodes
in my
right eye.
Kate looks almost as surprised
as I feel.
What the heck, Kate?!
The sting on my face
burns
like she’s left behind some of her hand
and I’m allergic to it.
She and Tam walk away
with no words
just a pink handprint
saying everything
for them.
Tam—
I call after them,
I was just joking around!
Plus, I said I was sorry!
But she doesn’t hear
because she’s already down the hall
earbuds smashed in her ears.
Come on!
The words out before I feel them.
I only hear them.
Come on!
I swear at the boys staring.
I hit my chest with both gloves
a gorilla
marking territory.
Come on!
I scream it through my mouth guard.
Why am I so mad?
Because I got caught?
Because Kate hit me?
Because Tam won’t talk?
Because I never see Timothy?
Because I’m not the son Dad wants?
Come on!
Come on!
Come on!
So one of the guys, smirking,
climbs in the ring, and
before his feet are set
he’s on his butt
my hook landing square under his jaw.
But he’s up
dancing now
eyes serious now.
Come on!
I hit my chest again.
He swings
he’s fast
but I’m faster
I duck
I dart
I spin
I land three more punches,
he staggers back.
No one’s laughing now.
Coach by the doorway
watching close.
We’re dancing,
this guy and me.
He can’t land one hit.
I am too fast
a tiny gorilla,
mad,
smart,
and now I’m laughing
and Coach steps into the ring.
Enough
he says.
Enough.
But I feel like finally
finally
I’m just getting started.
The kid takes a swing.
This one lands
right in my chest.
I gasp,
feel something caving in.
He hits me again
and I’m on my knees.
Enough, I said!
Coach yells
pulls me to my feet.
I step out of the ring
and things
go a little sideways.
My ears start to ring
as I fall
lights out
knocked out
smashing my head
into the concrete wall.
lights
head
hurts
head
hurts
head
hurts
head
hurts
head
hurts
HEAD
HURTS
where am I?
What were you DOING?
Mom’s hands on my face
her eyes so big
but squinting
confused.
Why were you BOXING?
Not at Chess Club?
Mrs. Rubrick said
you’ve only been to Chess Club
once
all year?!
Levi.
First the mascot thing
and now this?!
What were you DOING?
WHO ARE YOU?
Mom looks at me
like she looks at Dad
when he says something and her brain
just
can’t
compute.
My mouth is so dry,
my head so aching,
I am afraid to say
anything
because I don’t want
to feel like
my brain.
Timothy stands in the doorway
of my hospital room.
looking
looking
looking
at me.
I’m pretending to be
asleep.
He doesn’t move
just leans against
the door
like he isn’t sure
he’s in the right room.
Mom is asleep
her head
on my bed,
her back bent,
her sleeping body
angles in a chair.
Timothy sees I’m awake.
I see his Adam’s apple
go up
then down.
He walks over
tucks Spaceship Blanket under my head
then turns
without a word
and walks away.
Dad is here now.
No one else.
He looks so weird
pale
hand on his beard
hand in his pocket
hand on his beard again.
The room seems smaller
with him standing here.
I don’t really like hospitals
he says
and Duh
who the heck does?
Mom and Timothy went to go get food,
so,
uh,
I’ll just sit here with you.
Cool?
Dad is watching me.
I pretend
I’m not watching him
watch me.
He pretends
he doesn’t see me
watching him
watch me.
Then.
This old thing?
Dad sees Spaceship Blanket
tucked under me.
He laughs,
tries to take it.
I pull it back,
feel my face go slack.
Why would he laugh?
Doesn’t your mom know
you don’t need that?
You’re a boxer!
&
nbsp; Seventh grade!
I can take it.
Give it here.
Dad reaches,
I pull away,
stuff Spaceship Blanket
in between
the bed
and my back.
Boxers don’t need baby blankets.
Come on!
He smiles, laughs, reaches out again
like it’s just a silly joke.
I jump up
even though my head spins,
take Spaceship Blanket
and my IV pole,
making sure to slam
the bathroom door
hard.
K N O C K
K N O C K
K N O C K
My cheeks burn.
He thinks I’m a baby.
Tiny baby Levi
Needs his blankie to sleep.
How about you just zip it?
I shout through the door.
Comb your beard
over your mouth
or something?
Jeez, relax.
Keep the blanket, Levi.
I was kidding
mostly.
My guts are spinning.
Boxing
Chicken head
I feel it all
crumble away
because
he’s right
I am a baby.
One big punch
one fall
and here I am
a helpless little kid
who can’t do anything.
And then a thought like a worm
slithers into my pounding head.
Is that why Tam
likes Kate instead?
You did this to him!
Mom shouts it
like we are on some reality TV show.
Dad shakes his head.
She grabs his arm
drags him
out of the room.
In and out.
Dreams and blackness.
Blurry walls
blurry sounds
in and out
day by day
or maybe it hasn’t been that long?
Everything is upside down.
I don’t really remember
getting smashed in the head.
They say I stumbled forward,
my head glanced the wall.
Just a glance
but enough
to knock me down
and out.
A boxing match
with a wall . . .
Can’t train
for that.
Trust can’t really be explained
because it’s a feeling
like love.
But it’s kind of more than that
because trust has long arms
and an open face
and it believes the words
you say.
Love can’t be lost
when it comes to moms
but trust can
curl back its arms
close off its face
and disappear
a puff of smoke
a memory
nothing left for you to hold on to.
Nothing left for you to do.
You lied to me.
Mom says this as she holds up a cup,
puts the straw in my mouth
as if my hands
have concussions, too.
These were your chess moves?
Your strategies against me?
Lies upon lies?
Levi!
Look at me!
I’m sorry.
My words slip around the straw.
And I can’t find any more of them
because I’m sorry I lied
but I’m not sorry I did any of this.
I like being fast
I like keeping guys on the move
in the ring
and at school
fists or wits.
I like all of it
all of it
and Mom doesn’t understand
and I don’t have the words
to make her get how
all of this stuff makes me ME
and not the tiny baby
she took care of
way back when.
All trust has been lost, Levi.
Her words settle in my chest
like they are a ball of dust
and I can’t swallow the fact that
my choices seem to be:
Keep Mom’s trust or
keep being me.
How many doctors can you fit in one room?
This is crazy.
Am I dying?
My heart starts to beat fast
the monitor snitches on me
with its beepbeepbeepbeeps.
When I cracked my head
I must have really knocked something loose.
I don’t feel bad, though
just sore
and dumb
and sad.
One doctor flips open a laptop,
clicks on some X-rays.
Another clears her throat.
Mom holds my hand.
I don’t like this.
I don’t like it at all.
With Levi’s history,
we gave him a full upper body scan,
the doctor says.
His concussion will heal
but there are other
nonrelated
areas of concern.
Mom’s face goes white.
I’m not overly concerned,
the doctor says, holding up her hand,
I just want to err on the side of caution.
She points to pictures
of my lungs
blown up huge.
She taps a couple of buttons
and my throat
takes my lungs’ place
on the screen.
And again
Considering his history
it looks okay.
Except for here
and
here
and
here.
When did you say you were going back?
To Cincinnati, I mean?
This summer
Mom and I say
at the same time.
Maybe think about going sooner
the doctor says.
Don’t panic, but go sooner.
Her smile says
I AM NICE
BUT I AM WORRIED.
So it wasn’t just me
whacking my head?
This is something different
wrong with me?
Not wrong, exactly,
the doctor says,
just needing to be further explored.
Further explored.
Like I am an unknown land.
A lost planet.
Have you been having trouble breathing, Levi?
She looks at my chart.
I see you’ve been using your inhaler . . .
a lot.
I nod.
Too much activity
Mom says.
This mascot thing.
Boxing.
Too much, Levi.
It’s too much.
No!
I shout.
This was all happening
way before that!
Then I realize what I’ve said.
What I just admitted.
Yet another secret
I’ve been keeping from her,
and . . .
Mom’s face.
Mom’s face.
Mom’s face.
Go ahead and get it checked out, OK?
the doctor interrupts.
And since you have a team
in Cincinnati . . .
they should probably take it from here.
I’ll give them a call as soon as we get home.
Mom gives me a look
but squeezes my
knee
and I feel all the anger leave the room.
I wish my breath would fill it up instead.
Why
why
why
is this kind of thing
always happening?
I hate all this.
I hate it so much.
Why can’t I be Timothy?
Why can’t I be Kate?
Why can’t I be
that guy I punched?
A regular kid doing regular things?
Why am I small
and always wrong?
Why is something always broken
and never the way it should be?
Is Timothy here?
or not here?
I sleep
and I wake
but sometimes the two
are confused.
Did I hear him say
it’s his fault
or did I dream that?
Did he say he hasn’t been around
or did I make that up?
Is he sad?
Or mad?
I can’t tell what’s real
what’s a dream.
Is Timothy here at all?
Or is he still
just studying?
I know one thing that’s real.
Tam hasn’t come to visit.
Not once.
Not even in a dream
or a fake dream
or anything.
Mom
of course
is here.
Mom is always here.
Also always here now?
Something burning
in my chest
a red-hot ball
of feelings
trying to get out
and the more Timothy is not here
the more Dad is not here
the more Tam is not here
the redder
and hotter
my burning chest
gets.
A blue notebook
on my hospital side table.
My head is still swimmy
but that doesn’t mean I can’t write:
I fall asleep.
All my anger in the notebook
instead of
in my head.
When I wake up
the notebook
is gone.
Did I just dream that,
or . . .
Oh, no.
What did I say again?