Some days
sad is a word
I can’t swallow.
It swells inside my throat
until it’s stuck.
I hurry home from school
and beat Mom there.
The second she arrives,
I crawl onto her lap
like when I was little.
She holds me, quiet,
and strokes my hair.
I stay there
till the sadness shrinks
and I can breathe again.
Parent-Teacher Talk
I catch Mom
whispering on the phone
to Mr. Spicer.
I hear “new school”
and "hoped,” “daydream”
and “stop.”
Mr. Spicer must say
something like “don’t worry”
because Mom says,
“You’re right.
It doesn’t help to worry,
anyway.”
She hangs up the phone,
turns in my direction.
“Oh!” she says,
then smiles.
It’s a nice smile,
but I still go to bed
feeling like
a problem.
Mom the Nurse
“I think your teacher,
Mr. Spicer,
is too easy on you,”
Mom says the next morning.
I study my breakfast bowl
to keep my thoughts
from flying out the window.
“What would happen
if I started daydreaming
when the doctor tells me
how much medicine to give
a patient, huh?”
“But I don’t want to be a nurse,”
I say.
Mom rolls her eyes.
“I give up!”
I wish.
Wishful Thinking
I’ve figured it out:
Mom wants me to be
less like Dad,
more like she.
Teased
My week
doesn’t get any better.
Jerome,
a bully-boy from my class,
bumps me,
sends my books sailing.
“Oops! Sorry!” he lies.
“Guess you were daydreaming, again.
Next time, watch where you’re going.”
I clench my teeth,
feel fire in my cheeks,
then tears come
to smother the flames.
Stuck in Dreamland
Maybe something
is wrong with me,
all this fancy dancing
in my mind.
Where I see red and purple
and bursts of blue,
everybody else sees
black and white.
Am I wrong?
Are they right?
Too bad
I can’t ask Dad.
I Quit
I pack my daydreams,
kick them to a dark corner.
No more word-journeys for me,
seeing what others don’t see.
Color-blind
On Monday
I shuffle to school,
eyes fixed on my footsteps,
no skipping ahead
on imaginary adventures.
I’m only me,
dodging broken whiskey bottles
in the street,
locked in the real, gray world
of now.
Perfect
I am perfect.
I stare straight
at the blackboard,
catch every single syllable
that falls from
Mr. Spicer’s lips,
pass the pop quiz,
and still have
enough time left
to be bored.
Home Work
Girl robot,
I set the table stiffly,
but in record time.
After grace,
I count the peas on my plate
to keep my attention
on dinner.
For my next trick,
I slowly sip my milk,
avoiding conversation with Mom
who wants to know
how my day was.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she says.
I clear the dishes in answer,
scrub them till the squeak
can be heard on Mars.
“Homework,” I say,
excusing myself
so I can disappear between
the colorless pages
of my workbook.
Correction
Mr. Spicer asks me
to stay after class.
I wait by his desk,
still as stone,
wondering what wrong thing
I’ve done now.
“Gabriella,” he says,
“what happened to my dreamer?
I haven’t seen her in days.”
I shrug.
“She—I—gave up daydreaming
like everybody told me to.
Can I go now?”
Mr. Spicer sighs
and waves me away.
Good. I’ve got
nothing else to say.
Persistent
Teacher keeps an eye on me
all week.
I give him no reason
to call me aside,
but he does.
“Talk to me, Gabby,” he says.
“Tell me what’s wrong.
I can see you’re not happy.”
I’d argue but my sigh
gives me away.
“I miss daydreaming.”
“Then daydream!” says Mr. Spicer,
confusing me.
“But you’re always telling me
to stop daydreaming!
You and my mom.”
Teacher taps his top lip
like a door the right words
are hiding behind.
“Dreams are great things, Gabby,”
he finally says.
“The best thinkers,
writers, inventors in the world
allow their thoughts
to carry them away,
now and then.
Take the Wright brothers.
We wouldn’t have airplanes
if they hadn’t dreamed of them, first.
Still, sometimes you have to
slide your daydreams
in a drawer
and let them wait until later,
like after I’m done
teaching a lesson
you need to learn.
Got it?”
I nod, wondering if
the Wright brothers
knew anything about
bringing daydreams in
for a landing.
Macaroni Memory
In the lunch line,
I take a deep, happy breath
and unlock the drawer
in my mind
where I’d been stuffing
all my daydreams.
“You can come out now,”
I whisper
and throw away the key.
Before I know it,
the word Macaroni
on the lunch menu
sends me to Daddy’s kitchen.
He pours pasta into a pot
of ice-cold water
and I sigh.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re supposed to
boil the water first,” I tell him.
He smacks himself on the head,
switches off the stove,
and says, “Grab your jacket.
It’s pizza time!”
I’m the first one
out the door.
Spring
Say “spring,”
and I am bouncing
on the balls of my fee
t
in a field of wildflowers
while April showers
tickle me
till I am slippery
as a snake
and soaked straight through.
Butterfly
Say “butterfly,”
and I am swimming in sunshine,
sprawled in the grass,
blowing on a blade
to make it whistle,
and eyeing the sky
for small, fluttering things
wearing rainbow wings.
Carousel
Say “carousel,”
and pale painted ponies
gallop past.
I reach for the reins of one,
swing up into the saddle,
and race,
standing still,
wind whipping my braids
as I fly.
Roller Coaster
Say “roller coaster,”
and I squeeze my eyes tight,
dig my fingers into
the safety bar
as we climb six stories,
then speed down again,
faster than my screams
can carry.
And as soon as we reach
the end of the ride,
I’m the first to yell,
“Do it again!
Do it again!”
Willow
There’s this one kid, David,
plants himself in
the back of the room,
hair hanging over his desk
like a willow.
He talks even
less than me.
I wonder why.
Closer
One day,
I head in his direction,
pretend I need
to sharpen my pencil.
I manage to drop it
right next to his desk,
an excuse to bend down,
study him up close.
He hardly notices me.
He’s too busy
drawing something
in his notebook.
Then, as I’m about to
grab my pencil and go,
his head pops up.
“Hi!” he says.
“You’re the daydreamer!”
I nod, wait for some
nasty comment.
Instead, he grins golden.
“Cool!” he says.
That’s when I know
I’ve found
another Cheri.
Switch
I use my sweet voice,
ask Mr. Spicer if I
may please change my seat.
Inside Joke
I clench my toes around
an imaginary tightrope,
then leap into
the safety net
just in time to catch
the question
Mr. Spicer throws.
“Gabriella, do you know
the answer?”
Sitting next to David,
I slide as low
as my chair will let me,
whisper, “Sorry,”
and try not to notice
Mr. Spicer
shaking his head.
A few minutes later,
David passes me his notebook.
I look down and see
Mr. Spicer staring back at me,
his hair a riot
of red, green, and purple pencil.
It’s all I can do
to keep from laughing
out loud.
My New Best Friend
At recess,
David and I
swap cookies
and secrets.
He shows me his drawings.
I point to one sketch
of a clown.
“The circus is my
favorite place!” I say.
“Mine too!” says David.
He turns to a blank page
and starts sketching
a lion tamer.
Me? My thoughts trampoline
to the big top!
Stilts
Say “stilts,”
and I am
GABBY
THE
GREAT,
a mystifying
master
juggler,
rising
high above
the circus
crowd,
marching
alongside
the elegant
elephants,
and anxious
as anyone
to watch
the trapeze
artists
sail
on air.
Dragon
Say “dragon,”
and I raise my shield,
fend off the fire
of his mighty breath.
Then, when he’s not looking,
I scramble onto his back,
grab a handful of scale,
and ride him across the sky
till the sun dives
into the sea.
Camp Dreams
The last snow just melted
and already
David is talking about
going to camp.
I ask Mom
if I can go, too.
Her “No” smacks me
in the ear.
“We have to count
our pennies,” she says.
“Maybe next year.”
I shrug, glad that the camp
in my memory
is free.
Tent
Say “tent,”
and I run my fingers
over the velvety moss
near my sleeping bag,
and I feel
the cool night air
ripple the hair
on my arms,
and I hear
the cricket chorus
while my cousins and I
melt marshmallows
and scarf down s’mores
round a campfire,
stuffing ourselves
with gooey goodness
under the stars.
Planetarium
David’s mom
to the planetarium.
I know because
I get to go!
We lean back in our seats,
feel the dark wrap round us
like Saturn’s rings,
and hold our breaths,
staring up at a night sky
speckled with starlight
and bigger than
all our dreams
slung together.
Can’t wait to see
what drawings
David will do.
Me, I gather new words
like moon rocks,
souvenirs I get to keep
long after we leave.
Comet
Say “comet,”
and I am weightless,
playing ping-pong
with small planets,
dodging asteroids,
and skipping through space
in slow motion.
Two skips,
and I’m on the moon.
Two more,
and Mars
is my playground.
Teacher
Poor Mr. Spicer,
not sure what to do with this
dream/drawing duet.
Practice, Practice
I try to do what
Mr. Spicer said—
switch off my daydreams
during class,
save them for recess—
but my thoughts
have a mind
of their own.
Besides, the weather’s
getting warmer,
and the trees
are whispering,
and who can concentrate
when the music
of the ice-cream truck
is
right outside
the window?
Firefly
Say “firefly,”
and I close my eyes,
watch one wink
on and off,
an SOS
to gather its brothers.
Together, they rise and pulse
till I sweep them
into a jelly jar.
I tap the lid and grin
at my summer
night-light.
Sand
Say “sand,”
and I am running
along the beach,
snatching up shells
for my memory box,
Dad right beside me.
He oohs and ahhs
when I find
a beauty
and keeps his own eyes open
for sand dollars.
At the end
of the afternoon,
we trade treasures.
I smile and blink myself
back to the classroom.
For once, I write down
my daydream.
“I’ll take that,” says Mr. Spicer,
snatching the memory
right out of my hand.
Uh-oh
I.
David and I trade looks.
I wait for my punishment.
Mr. Spicer carries my paper
to his desk,
orders the class to
open their workbooks
while he reads
in silence.
A million moments later,
he looks up at me
with a smile.
I quit holding my breath,
but can’t help
wondering why
he’s not mad.
The lunch bell rings before
I can figure it out.
II.
David and I
worry together
over peanut butter
and jelly.
We share a cream-filled cookie
and I wash my half down
with a trickle of fear
and a cold carton
of milk.
Later
Mr. Spicer still hasn’t
mentioned a thing
about my paper.
Even so, I make sure
to start the afternoon
eyes fixed on the blackboard.
I’m doing just fine till
the numbers begin to spin,
and the chalk draws
hopscotch lines
on the sidewalk,
inviting me to hop
from box to box,
balancing on one leg
like a ballerina
in sneakers,