“No.”
“And stop him from leaving?”
“No.”
“You did nothing?”
“Yes.”
What I Do Know About Chris
Chris has brown, straight hair
that kinda hangs in his eyes.
His skin is darker
than mine.
He’s a little shorter than me.
He wears jeans and T-shirts.
His backpack is black.
I know because I’m always kicking it
by accident.
He wears tennis shoes.
His voice is soft and low.
He’s pretty quiet.
Doesn’t make fun of anyone.
Jarin thinks he’s cute,
but he doesn’t pay much attention to her.
Chris makes mostly Bs
and plays basketball and baseball.
He almost always ends up being captain
of one of our kickball teams.
He picked me for his team
last game.
And in dodgeball
he doesn’t throw it to hurt you.
I heard someone say
he doesn’t have brothers and sisters.
That’s about everything I know
about Chris Crow.
Crazy Thoughts
“Self-portraits,” Ms. Dryden kind of sings.
She sets out all the paints.
Buffy passes out paper.
“I don’t want to paint,” someone whines.
“I want to!” says Wally.
Want.
At least the kidnapper wanted Chris.
Maybe the person won’t hurt him,
and they’ll have some fun together,
and then the person will bring Chris
back to his family.
Everyone will be happy.
So why couldn’t the kidnapper have picked me,
taken me,
wanted me
with him?
Dad didn’t.
Mess
The paintbrushes
are too big.
The brown I used for my hair
looks like dirt.
At least the red will be good
for my shirt.
A big blob falls off the brush
and plops onto my picture.
Right on my forehead.
“Ugh.”
I smash the bristles
and swirl all the colors
into a big red-brown mess.
“That looks just like you!”
Jarin says and walks past fast.
I glare at her back.
“Try again.”
Ms. Dryden pulls my paper away
and sets down a clean sheet.
I don’t want to try
anymore.
Screwballs
The police cars drive quietly around the school.
Like we don’t notice them?
When the ice cream man pulls up,
and everyone runs to buy a screwball,
the police roll by.
Is the ice cream man
a guy who steals kids?
My hand shakes
when I give him the quarters
I found under our sofa cushions.
Mom said
we have to watch our money
by not using the air-conditioning,
by being careful about which groceries we get.
No more fun food for sure.
I grab the screwball from the ice cream man,
peel the lid off,
and lick before I can give it back.
The cold nudges my guilty, burbly stomach.
The ice cream man drives away.
His little truck dings a song.
Everyone shows what color screwball they got.
“Mine’s green,” says Wally.
“Red!” shouts Jarin.
“This is my favorite!” Buffy says. Her lips are
already turning blueish.
“I got yellow,” I say,
which is always too sour.
We flop on the swings
and slurp.
I get to the bottom.
The thin plastic collapses between my fingers.
There isn’t any gum at the bottom of mine.
I cover it up and ditch the trash.
Everyone else chomps and blows bubbles
before Ms. Dryden calls us in.
The police circle again.
They don’t care that the ice cream man
ripped me off
by not giving me a gumball.
Like they don’t care
about missing dads.
I shouldn’t get gum anyway,
since I stole the money
from my family.
Ms. Dryden Steps Out for a Second
“Maybe the kidnapper offered him a kitten.
“Nah. Chris wouldn’t fall for that.”
“Maybe it was candy.”
“No way.”
“Maybe Chris did run away.”
“Not when basketball season’s started.
He wouldn’t want to miss playing.”
“Besides he seemed totally happy to me.”
“Yeah. And cool.”
“Yeah. Chris was cool—”
“Is!”
Swinging
Wally and I swing,
and it feels good
to rush back and forth.
“Warp speed, Scotty!” he yells
and zooms so high
that the chains slack at the top.
But I fly just high enough,
then soar back down.
The very same thing
over and over.
The warm air swooshing
against my front,
then my back.
The hot black seat
that holds me tight.
The cool rusty chains
that creak, creak, creak.
Swinging
is the best.
Teenage Stuff
I slow to a stop.
“Do you think Chris
could have run away, Wally?”
He drags his feet to slow down.
“He’s only ten, Es.”
“Yeah?”
“It just seems kind of young
for someone to run.
I don’t mean like a little kid
packing a suitcase and pretending.”
“Right.”
“Running is more like teenage stuff.
Usually. I don’t think he ran,” he says.
“Me either, Wally.”
Second Try
“Finished,” I tell Ms. Dryden.
“That’s lovely, Essie.
Are you sure you’re done?”
I check my painting.
Even with the ugly brown for my hair
it looks a lot like me.
“Yeah,” I say.
Ms. Dryden stares at me.
“Essie, you forgot a mouth.”
“No-”
I did.
I quick grab a paintbrush
with a bit of red on the end
and stab it at my paper.
It looks like a big sore,
but that’s better
than nothing.
“Now I’m done.”
“Good job trying again.”
Ms. Dryden squeezes my shoulder.
Making an Effort
“Hello,” calls Mom
to the neighbor, Ms. Ruthie.
The woman switches her hose
to her other hand and waves back.
That’s weird.
Mom’s never said hi that I remember.
“How are you doing?” the woman asks.
“Pretty good.” Mom smiles. “Have a good day.”
“You too,” Ms. Ruthie answers.
Wow.
All that
from just saying h
ello for once.
Errand
“I have to run
to the store
for bread and milk,” says Mom.
“Lock the door,
and don’t let anyone in. Anyone.”
“What about Daddy?” asks Dale.
“He’s not coming,” I say.
“And if he ever did,” Mom says,
“he’d wait out in the car
until I got back.”
Why would Dad
have to wait outside in his car?
Wow.
Would he have to
because Mom thinks
he’d steal us from her?
I have heard
about dads kidnapping their own kids.
But ours wouldn’t.
He left us.
He doesn’t want us,
but I’m not telling Mom.
I put my arm
around Dale’s shoulders.
He doesn’t shrug me off.
Dad should
have to wait
out in the car.
Commercial
“That’s Chris!” I yelp
and stop in front of the TV.
There Chris is
on our TV!
“And join us for our special report: Boy was kidnapped last week. Complete news coverage at five.”
I knew he didn’t run!
But why would anyone
kidnap Chris?
Where have they taken him?
Will they give him back?
Ever?
Not
Dale grabs my arm.
“Whoa, Es! Another kid was kidnapped!”
“No, that’s the same one.” I tug away.
“You mean the same one from your class?
The one that used to sit in front of you?
The one who was your friend? Huh, Es, huh?”
“Yes, that’s the kid from my class.”
My stomach gushes with guilt
over not
knowing Chris better,
over not
being his friend.
The Message
The info keeps looping
at the bottom of the TV screen.
Stuff about Chris.
What he looks like
and the truck he was last seen in.
It keeps running at the bottom
letting everyone
know.
Five O’clock News
The suspect is a white male, about forty years old, who perpetrated the crime after the boy exited the school bus. The mother says her son did not reach home following school.
Today, a fellow student reported that he saw the victim enter a blue Ford pickup truck with the suspect. The victim appeared reluctant and struggled, but once in the cab, he waved at the student. The student did not report the incident until questioned today. Quote: “Chris seemed okay with the guy after he was in the truck. I thought everything was cool. Chris can handle himself. Man, I didn’t know it was a kidnapper. Of course I would have told.” The student was unable to describe the suspect, whose face was shadowed by a Marlins baseball cap.
The parents are offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for help in locating their son.
Today’s weather was hot and humid …
Jabs
“Take that!”
Dale jabs the TV
with the cardboard sword
he made a couple days ago.
He tugs the lamp shade
down onto his head
and looks through the eye slits
he cut.
He’s got his armor on,
and he’s looking pretty fierce
for a seven-year-old wearing a shade
and fighting with cardboard.
“You’ll never get me, kidnapper!”
he yells at the TV.
“You’ll never get me
or my sister!”
Setting the Table
So who saw Chris
get in the truck?
Man, why wasn’t it me?
Why didn’t I get to see
and be helpful
and maybe even
get the reward?
I would have told
right away.
My reflection wobbles in the plate.
Chris’s parents would have
loved me for it.
Both his mom
and
his dad.
Victim
What makes a victim?
They are calling Chris one.
I guess it’s like when someone
does a bad thing to you.
Like Jarin
and her stupid party invitations.
That could make me a victim.
Or Dad leaving
could make me a victim.
So who wants to be a victim?
No way Chris does.
Me either.
I’m not going
to be one.
Irritating
I finish setting the table perfectly.
Dale grabs my napkin
and runs.
“Give it back!”
I chase him.
His T-shirt tugs out of my fingertips.
“Give it, Doozerdude!”
“Make me! Make me!” He laughs.
“Urgh!” I shove my chair against the table.
Water slops in our glasses.
“Make me, Es,” Dale whimpers.
I stomp to my room
and slam my door.
Watching Our Money
Mom serves up the beanie weanies.
We eat our helpings gone.
“Mom,” says Dale, “I’m still hungry.”
I grab the serving dish before he can.
“This bite is mine.”
I scrape the last bit of hot dog out.
“You had a bigger serving than me.”
Dale snatches the food
right off my spoon
with his grubby fingers
and crams it in his mouth.
Before I can say anything,
he swallows and smiles.
“Pig!” I mutter.
“Come here, Estele,” says Mom.
She hugs me close.
I put my head down on her round belly
and find a cold bean stuck to her shirt.
I nibble it in with my lips.
I got seconds after all.
Mom’s Belly
The baby rolls
under my ear.
I flinch and stand up.
“It’s the baby,” Mom says,
sitting there
looking so happy.
She pulls my hand
back to the spot.
I feel a heel or an elbow,
a head or a bottom,
pressing up against me.
“Hello, sweet baby,” I whisper
deep inside
that doesn’t know
its father has
left.
After Dinner
“Going out to play!” yells Dale.
The screen door slams.
“Stay in the yard,” Mom calls.
“Okay!”
“I mean it. Stay close.
I want to look out
and be able to see you
every second.”
“Yup!” calls Doozerdude.
I clear the table,
fill the sink with soapy water,
scrub the pots,
and load the dishwasher.
We’re ready for our next meal.
Totally ready,
and we are already
hungry.
Reward
How much did the TV say the reward was?
Ten thousand?
Wow.
That is a huge amount of money.
We could buy food
for a really long time.
And Chris would be
found.
I jump on my bike
and peddle out of the neighborhood
before Mom sees and says no.
I look up and down streets.
I zoom through the new development
with its powder-puff colors.
I skid to a stop on the edge of the glades.
No Chris
anywhere.
The grass stretches to the horizon.
An egret skims the clouds.
I cup my hands and yell “Chris!”
Only the frogs answer back.
I turn
and go home.
How stupid
to think for a second
that I
could find Chris.
Flipping Out
I roll up to the garage
and flick my kickstand.
Mom appears,
grips my arm,
and tugs me off my bike.
“Do not ever
ride out of my sight again.”
Mom huffs. She’s trembling.
“Do I make myself clear,
young lady?”
“Yeah. But I stayed in the boundary, Mom.”
“That boundary was before—”
“Okay, okay.”
I knew she’d freak.
But I just had to check for myself.
Stupid or not.
Jacks
My hand brushes the cement
and gathers the nubby metal jacks.
They poke out between my fingers.
I wave to Mom
at the window
checking on us again.
She waves back.
The jacks clink and roll
out of my sweaty palm.
I toss the rubber bouncy ball
and scoop up threesies.
Why is there no one
my age to play with in our neighborhood?
Dale gallops by on a stick.
His three friends
race after him.
I finish threesies
and toss the jacks for foursies.
It usually doesn’t bother me
that I don’t have friends around here.
Books are just as good.
But now
it might be nice
to have a friend close by.
I’d like
someone to get mad at Dad with.
Maybe I will tell Wally
sometime.
I miss a foursie,
leaving a jack behind.
The Look
“Time to come in.
You need to do your homework.
Wednesday is a school night.”
No duh, Mom.
I swat a fat, loaded mosquito
on my arm.
Blood bursts out
of the smooshed black lump.
“Come on,” calls Mom.
“I am.”
I wipe the mess up onto my fingers
and smear it in the grass.
There. Clean.
I cram my jacks into their red velvet bag and trudge across the lawn.
Dale barrels past
and knocks into me.
I stumble and reach to shove him.
He scootches by Mom in time.
She gives me
the look,
of course.