Whenever I stand near, that’s
how it feels. They’re all so small.
I could be smaller,
I think, if I wanted to,
if I really tried.
I swallow those words with a
tall glass of water, and sleep.
DIET
Breakfast is easy:
a cereal bar with nuts.
I figure that should
patch up my hungry spaces
till it’s time for the apple
I brought for lunch. Wrong.
My stomach’s an angry bowl
of empty. Why’d I
turn down today’s menu of
juicy cheeseburgers and fries?
STEALTHY DRESSER
After a quick lunch,
I hit the boy’s locker room
five minutes early,
jam on my gym uniform
so no one sees me naked.
SECRET
Someone’s at the door,
Dad’s old friend, guitar in hand.
He mentions “the band.”
“No time,” says Dad. “Have fun, though.”
Me, I whisper, “Band? What band?”
I ask him later,
learn the meaning of regret.
Dad’s head snaps around.
“Since when do you listen in
on private conversations?”
I thought I’d ask Mom,
but what if she went to Dad?
He’d only get mad.
So I drop it. In minutes,
the memory slips away.
FUN RUN
That’s what Joe called it,
a sprint down the block and back.
I near cracked a sweat
just contemplating the run.
I huffed, puffed, and crashed halfway.
LIMITS
“You okay, buddy?”
Joe bends over me, all love.
I tuck in my shame
with my shirt, cough up a joke.
“Dang! This was easy on Mars!”
“Well,” I tell myself,
“I’ve got some homework to do.”
I stagger upstairs,
flip on something with a groove,
and sing my way into math.
A SLICE OF TRUTH
Skipped another lunch,
then piled my plate at dinner.
Might as well give up.
Lose one pound, then put on three.
Diets are not helping me.
PHOTO ALBUM
I flip through pictures
of Dad when he was my age,
laughing while Grandpa
held him in a loose headlock,
close as I wish we could be.
“What was Grandpa like?”
I ask Dad after dinner.
He shrugs. “Strong. Silent.”
“Like you, then. Never talking.”
“He talked some,” says Dad. “Football.
Pigskin, the grid iron,
throws, passes, tackles, touchdowns—
I guess you could say
football’s the way Dad and me
knew how to be together.”
Here, I’ve been thinking
Dad pushed me to play football
’cause he thought I was
weird, or some kind of weakling.
I had it wrong, all along.
LUTHER’S SAD SONG, AGAIN
“Dance with My Father”
plays in the kitchen while I
choke on eggs, missing
my right-here dad like Luther
missed his own gone-so-long dad.
MORNING CLASSES
Blue notes, sad as me,
wail their way from a classroom
I’ve never been in.
“Chorus,” says Joe when I ask.
“It’s a new club. You should join.
You’re always singing,
or at least humming out loud.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know.”
“Look,” says Joe, “your voice is choice.
You should let others hear it.”
WHO SAYS?
I know some kids think
chorus is full of sissies.
“Ignore them,” Joe says.
I nod my head but wonder
whether Dad will think that, too.
SECOND THOUGHTS
It may not bring me closer
to my dad, but still,
chorus might be a way to
fill in the puzzle of me.
FEAR
Fear is that flip-flop
in my belly, like when I
tried out for baseball.
All I got for my trouble
was being laughed off the field.
Will this be the same?
What if I open my mouth
and out comes—nothing?
Will kids laugh me out the door?
I can’t take that anymore.
TURTLE
In a week, Joe asks,
“So, have you joined chorus yet?”
I sigh, turtle in.
“May not be for me,” I say.
“In other words, you’re afraid.”
BUSTED
Best thing about friends:
they know you inside and out.
Worst thing about friends:
they know you inside and out.
My turtle shell is useless.
SHIFT
Joe’s head hangs heavy,
warning me he’s got bad news.
“I switched math class, then
the school switched my lunchtime, too.”
For once, I don’t feel hungry.
GETTING IN THE GROOVE
I groove on Luther,
whose music lives at my house.
“Love Won’t Let Me Wait,”
“Endless Love,” “Your Secret Love”—
How many love songs are there?
No thank you. I’ll pass.
But somewhere Luther V. said
being true matters.
The words weren’t in a song, but
they sound like music to me.
GARVEY’S CHOICE
Ignoring my nerves,
I march into the classroom,
squeak out why I’ve come.
Feeling numb, I take a breath,
tickle that first note, then soar.
My voice skips octaves
like a smooth stone on a lake.
That’s what they tell me.
“Well, class,” says the director.
“Guess we found our new tenor.”
LIGHTER THAN AIR
I would have skipped home,
but I told myself, “Act cool.”
Couldn’t help the grin.
Try wiping it off my face.
Go on! I double dare you!
PACT
I float up our stairs,
breeze into Angela’s room,
forgetting to knock.
My goofy grin short-circuits
her lecture on privacy.
“Okay. What is it?”
“You’ll never guess,” I whisper.
“I just joined chorus!”
Sis bubbles up like soda.
“Great! So why the whispering?”
“You’re the only one
I can tell. Except for Joe.
Don’t want Dad to know.
Or Mom, because she’d tell him.”
Sis bites her locked lips and nods.
FIRST WARM-UPS
Ask me what scales are.
Yesterday, I’d say, “fish skin.”
Now, I push my voice
to climb a new kind of stair:
do, re, mi in F and G.
CHORUS CALAMITY
Paler than skim milk,
a strange boy sits next to me.
I can’t help but stare.
“It’s called albinism,” he
says. The word makes me shiver.
My whispered “sorry”
floats on the air between us.
The pink-eyed boy shrugs.
“This is me. Get over it.”
Sounds like something I should say.
EMMANUEL
Tryouts behind me,
I’m suddenly feeling brave.
“My name is Garvey,”
I tell Pink Eyes next to me.
He sizes me up, then smiles.
“Emmanuel, here,
mostly Manny to my friends.”
I’m quick to accept
his casual invitation.
“Cool. Nice to meet you, Manny.”
“I made a new friend,”
I tell Joe when I see him.
“Good,” he says. “’Bout time
you had you another bud.
Only so much one can do!”
Joe gives me a wink,
making sure I get the joke.
He’s right, though. I need
to spread my friendship around
so it won’t get too heavy.
SATURDAY CATCH-UP
“Well? So how’s chorus?”
asks Joe, and my words burn bright.
“Okay! First, there’s scales!
You climb this mountain of sound,
and your voice reaches higher
than it’s ever been—
sweet! Then we learn a new song,
And our voices meet,
and the teacher mixes these
harmonies like music stew
and it’s delicious!”
“Wow!” says Joe. “So you like it?”
“You would, too,” I say.
“Yeah, but I can’t sing worth spit,”
says Joe. “True,” I say. “Details.”
IT’S MANNY, NOW
Manny sits with me
in the cafeteria,
opens his lunch box
as if it’s a treasure chest,
and he expects to find gold.
Out comes a croissant
crammed with guacamole and
two kinds of cheeses
that are not American.
Manny sees me gawking. “What
are you staring at?”
“Nothing. I’ve just never seen
a sandwich like that.”
“Mmm,” Manny hums between bites.
“You don’t know what you’re missing.
Here. You want a taste?”
he asks, breaking off a piece.
“I made it myself.”
I chew on Gouda and this:
Manny wants to be a chef!
NO WORDS NEEDED
Manny says his dad
thinks that cooking is for girls.
“He doesn’t get me,”
moans Manny. I reach over,
squeeze my new brother’s shoulder.
CAREFUL, NOW
“How’s your new friend?” asks
Joe. I don’t want him thinking
Manny takes his place,
so I wrap my answer in
words dull as dust. “He’s okay.”
Joe presses for more.
“Well, what’s he like, exactly?”
I give him a shrug.
“He’s smart, easy to talk to—
but he can’t play chess like you!”
ELIANA
School lunch is a treat
now that Manny brings extra
eats to share with me.
He says he gets ideas from
some kid named Eliana,
a kid who’s a chef !
Is that even possible?
Manny serves up a
cold dish of truth: a cookbook
with her name on the cover!
Eliana Cooks!
Recipes for Creative
Kids. “This will be me,”
says Manny. “One day. Just wait.”
I smile, tasting his success.
WHERE’D THAT COME FROM?
The change bell always
sinks fear into me like teeth.
Ugly name-calling
leaves me with bloody bite marks:
lard butt, fatso, Mister Tubs.
“Your mama!” rests on
the tip of my tongue, today,
though I don’t say it.
But when I hear, “Yo, Two-Ton!”
the words, “Yo, No-Brain!” slip out.
ADVICE
Later, when chorus
is done, I hang with Manny,
join him on the bus.
“Got something on your mind, G?”
I like when he calls me that.
“I was wondering
how you stand kids teasing you.”
“I’m honest,” he says.
“I’ve got albinism. Fact.
I look strange. No changing that.
Is there more to me?
Sure. Kids yell ‘albino boy.’
I don’t turn around.
Choose the name you answer to.
No one can do that but you.”
HIS WORDS
Manny tells me he
was made in God’s own image.
“God is beautiful,”
he says. “So what’s that make you
and me? Do you get it, G?”
I carry his words
in the pocket of my mind.
A few times a day,
they remind me to ignore
the kids who don’t know my name.
COME TO THINK OF IT
Why let Angela
call me something that I’m not?
Or let her tease me?
Bad enough the kids at school
kick my heart around for fun.
NAME GAME
Sis falls through the door,
juggles backpack and groceries.
“Hey there, Chocolate Chunk.
“How ’bout giving me a hand?”
Call me that one more time and …
The terrible sound
of teeth grinding fills my ears.
Tears aren’t far behind.
I bite my lip and whisper,
“My name is Garvey. Got it?”
Angela withers.
“I’m sorry, Garvey,” she says.
“I was just teasing.”
“Yeah? So why am I bleeding?”
Pow! Maybe she gets it now.
PERKS
Manny waves to me
’cross the cafeteria.
I pocket my coins.
Sharing Manny’s scrumptious lunch
means more money for music!
WEEKEND WONDER: MANNY’S SPICY PORTOBELLO BURGER SUPREME
Grilled portobello
with roasted peppers, onions,
sliced jalapeños,
topped with melted Havarti
makes my taste buds want to dance.
REHEARSAL
I count the hours
until chorus meets again.
Now “fat boy” insults
glide right off me like raindrops.
I dance in the pool they make.
THREE BEARS
It doesn’t matter
how wide I am when I sing.
Like Goldilocks, I
have finally found what fits:
my high tenor is just right.
NATASHA BEDINGFIELD SINGS MY SONG
I’m just beginning
to learn what I am made of,
to pay attention
to the kid in my own eyes,
starting to like what I see.
I feel unwritten
like that song says, in chorus,
my story untold.
I can’t wait to sing the song,
croon my own untold story.
WHEN I SING
When I sing, my heart
floats full and light, as if I’m
a ba
lloon of song,
rising with every lyric,
reaching the edges of space.
A SPOONFUL OF SONG
My chocolate stash
is lasting me much longer.
These days, nothing tastes
sweet as four-part harmony.
Somehow, music makes me full.
HIGH SCHOOL HALF DAY
Angela crashes
chorus practice, hears me sing.
After my solo,
her eyes are wet pools of pride.
“Dad needs to hear you, Garvey.
You. Have. To. Tell. Him.”
Angela insists. Her words
grind my doubt to dust.
She’s right. This isn’t football,
but here, I’m the quarterback.
ANNOUNCEMENT
That night, I announce
that I sing in the chorus,
have my own solo,
say it like it’s no big deal,
then leap inside when Dad smiles.
MANNY’S TURN TO BE BRAVE
“You should audition
for that television show:
MasterChef Junior.”
“Yeah?” asks Manny. “I don’t know.”
He shrugs, so I let it go.
PRACTICE
“Practice makes perfect,”
the chorus teacher tells me.
My voice won’t listen.
Why can’t I hit the high note?
I sigh, start the song again.