her special blanket,
but she dabs my bloody lip
with the frayed corner anyway.
You can’t let Tyson
do this to you, Collin.
I want to tell her
it’s hard to argue
against words
you think
might actually
be true.
ONE MORE SECRET
Mr. Wolcott drives me home.
Georgia’s dad is a really nice guy.
I hate lying to him.
But the floor was pretty slippery
after the janitor mopped it clean.
So my slip-and-fall story
isn’t that far-fetched.
The whole ride
he studies me in the rearview mirror,
just like Sharon’s been doing lately.
Georgia acts the opposite of her dad.
She barely looks at me.
I think she’s mad
that I’m making her keep
one more secret.
CLUMSY
There’s something different
about your craniofacial structure today, Dad says at home.
I slipped on the diving board at practice, I lie. Again.
Hmmm. Coach Baker didn’t call me.
I told him not to.
Besides, would you even be able
to find your phone if he did call?
Of course. It’s right here. Somewhere…
He starts sifting through a pile
of clothing and newspapers.
Dad, I’m going to bed.
My head’s throbbing.
Wait! I’ve got just the remedy for that!
SOLVED
Dad flags down our waitress right away.
We need a bag of Pisum sativum in a brumal state,
and a large order of your spiciest number nine! Stat!
I translate the order:
a bag of frozen peas for my face,
chili fries for our stomachs.
The waitress gives us an odd look.
She delivers the peas quickly.
As soon as she’s gone,
Dad slams his palm on the table.
Bud, this is serious.
I’m sure he’s going to make me
fess up
about my
beatdown.
A team of mathematicians from South Africa
claim they solved the Riemann hypothesis!
My mouth forms a gaping
zer0.
Dad leans forward,
gently presses the cold peas
to my swollen cheek.
Then he removes his glasses,
pinches the spot
between his eyes.
I worry
some fissure is forming,
ready to cleave and
break
his brilliant brain,
like Humpty Dumpty falling
down
down.
The waitress returns,
sets a platter of chili fries on the table,
then disappears.
How does that make you feel? I ask,
testing the temperature
of this news.
Dad looks up.
Hungry, of course!
We dig in,
taking turns
spearing wilting fries
with our forks.
Eventually he says,
I feel equal parts
elated and
disappointed.
I stare at the almost-empty
grease-stained basket.
We can always order more.
Oh, bud!
He nudges the last fry
onto my fork with a wink.
What I mean is
there are plenty more
mysteries to solve.
NEW SOLUTION
Dad may give up
the last chili fry,
but I realize he’ll never
give up his dream
of solving the unsolvable.
So why should I?
Maybe there’s a way
to crack the tangled equations
of my life
and find a new solution.
PAYBACK
I’m gonna pummel that fool into a pancake!
Liam declares, jabbing his fists in the air
Don’t even think about it, I say.
You can’t.
News flash: Yes, I can.
Have you seen these puppies? Liam flexes scrawny muscles.
Liam! I shout.
Two more strikes, remember?
If you get sent to summer school,
I will be totally alone.
ALL. SUMMER.
If you want to help me,
stay out of trouble.
Okay?
He slaps a street sign,
elbows a hedge,
roundhouse kicks a lamppost.
Fine. I’ll try, he huffs.
NO FUN PHONE
A few days after my little slip-and-fall incident,
Sharon buys Liam a cell phone.
He calls it a No Fun Phone
because it has
no games, videos, or data plan.
Just in case of an emergency, Sharon says,
handing it to Liam
but looking hard
at me.
* * *
If you need to jump from a moving train, wait for the train to slow as it bends around a curve.
Stuff blankets, straw, or other padding into your clothes.
Pick a landing spot before you jump.
Get low to the floor, bending your knees.
Jump perpendicular to the train, leaping as far from the tracks as possible.
Tuck, cover, roll.
BRACE FOR IMPACT!
GEORGIA VERSUS GRAVITY
At swim practice
Georgia takes the ladder
two rungs at a time.
I watch from below,
glad my own legs are anchored
securely on the pool deck.
She pauses, smiles down at me.
Want to know my favorite part about diving?
Watching my tortured expression
as you climb that thing? I reply, grimacing.
No, Worst-Case Collin.
It’s the moment
after my feet leave the board.
When it’s just me
versus gravity.
But, Gannet, I call up to her,
gravity always wins.
Exactly.
She reaches the top platform,
jumps up and down a few times,
which always makes my heart
flop around in my chest—
anxious, helpless
like a goldfish
spilled from its bowl.
Gravity might always win,
but I’ve got a choice:
fall
or
dive.
And I choose to dive.
She bends her knees.
Preferably with style!
She leaps, twists, splashes.
When her face breaks the surface,
she spits an arc of water in my direction.
So can you, Collin.
T-MINUS 54
The day before spring break,
no one
(not eve
n the teachers)
can possibly pay attention.
Liam passes me a slip of paper
plotting a week’s worth of epic adventures.
In the margins, I doodle
all relevant safety measures
in comic-book form,
adding some highly unlikely scenarios
with dramatic outcomes like
stampeding rhinos,
volcanic eruptions,
and explosive diarrhea,
which crack Liam up, as intended.
In a singsong voice, Ms. Treehorn says,
Spring is the season for fresh starts!
Instead of grammar worksheets,
she asks us to clean out our desks
so the classroom will be in peak learning mode (oh, joy)
when we return from vacation.
Ms. Treehorn inspects my work space,
and calls it Immaculate!
Which is a vocabulary word
we haven’t learned yet.
But I think it’s a compliment,
because she smiles
so wide
all her teeth show,
even the snaggly one on the far left side.
Then she glances out the window
at gray clouds, tumbling.
She promises extra recess
if we finish our tasks quickly,
before the storm hits.
RAIN
In the doorway
Georgia reaches
up.
welcoming
each
wet
rare
raindrop.
∞ ∞ ∞
Of course Ms. Treehorn manages
to turn extra recess into
a learning moment.
Bullhead City’s annual average rainfall is only six inches.
This kind of precipitation is extremely unusual!
We’re not in an orderly line
listening like we should be.
Our class has become
a noisy pack of desert coyotes,
yipping, nipping,
pawing the ground.
Waiting to be released
into the wild.
Ms. Treehorn sighs. Go ahead!
No one minds
getting soaked.
The air is warm and thick.
I’m grateful
for this unexpected shower.
I think the parched earth
is grateful, too.
We spin. We sing.
We stomp,
dashing water
from shallow, muddy puddles.
Tyson sings in the loudest
most obnoxious voice,
It’s raining!
It’s pouring!
The drugged-up driver
is snoring!
My body stills.
Something about those lyrics
feels too close for comfort.
Tyson sings louder,
Went to sleep,
crashed his jeep—
I cover my ears,
because this stupid song
dredges up
images
better left
submerged:
Black rubber scars
seared
across gray asphalt.
A metal guardrail, crumpled.
A weak fence, clinging.
A car
sinking.
Liam takes one look at me—
at the red creeping up my neck and face—
and he understands.
Before I can say a word
or try to stop him,
Liam socks Tyson
square in the face.
Like a comic-book character,
his fist goes
ker-POW!
Tyson reels,
staggers,
slips,
falls
backward.
His legs fly
UP!
His mud-splattered sneakers
have bright blue soles
I’ve never noticed before.
A bunch of kids gathers round.
Tyson whines and bellows,
covering his bloody nose.
At least he’s not singing anymore.
I can’t deny
that my skin prickles
with a fleeting spark
of satisfaction.
But this fades quickly
as reality sets in.
Ms. Treehorn rushes over
with one of the recess monitors.
I turn to Liam
before the teachers
escort him
to the principal’s office.
We exchange
a small nod.
Sometimes
that’s all
friends like us
need
to say.
STRIKE TWO
Worst-Case Scenarios, Spring Break Edition:
Liam, grounded for breaking Tyson’s nose.
Georgia, three hours away visiting her grandmother.
Collin, miserable at home with the Hoard.
What the heck am I going to do all week?
OCOTILLO
The following afternoon
I bike to the vacant lot
to clear my head
and devise a new plan.
I spot a clump of ocotillo
growing along the chain-link fence.
After the fluky rain,
swaying stalks
sprout oval leaves
and tufts of fiery flowers.
A hummingbird zips past,
pausing midair,
its so-fast wings
blur-buzzing,
its thin beak
nectar-sipping
from red blossoms.
I watch until
it flies away,
wishing
I could do the same.
∞ ∞ ∞
When I get back home,
Liam is waiting
on my front steps,
his bike propped against the garage.
My heart feels like a grape
squished beneath a sneaker.
Did I remember to lock the door?
Did Liam go inside?
Did he see the Hoard?
Dude! Where have you been?
Just riding my bike, I say, trying to be chill.
Aren’t you grounded?
Not anymore! It’s a Christmas miracle!
Liam, it’s March.
Right. Whatever.
When I explained to my mom
that I punched that dirtbag
because he sang a song
about what happened to your mom,
she got these sad puppy eyes
and said she doesn’t condone violence—
whatever that means—
but she understands why I did it.
Okay. I swallow hard,
trying not to think about that song,
wondering if Tyson really did sing it
to hurt me.
I’m still in trouble with Principal Rodriguez,
but Mom said you shouldn’t be punished
for my stupidity. Liam snorts. Which is a rude thing
for a mother to say, in my opinion. But anyway,
you can stay over if you want.
Cool, I say with a shrug,
like it’s no big dea
l.
I don’t want to appear too desperate
even though I totally am.
Let’s go! Liam says.
Umm. First I have to finish a few chores.
Chores? Really? He groans.
I promised my dad, I lie,
stalling,
to keep him
from coming inside.
As soon as I’m done,
I’ll pack a bag
and come over.
Okay. You need help?
No, no. I shake my head.
Thanks, though.
Fine. But hurry!
He hops back on his bike.
I head into the house,
stuff my toothbrush and some clothes
into a duffel bag,
then close my bedroom door tightly
to keep the Hoard out.
Before leaving,
I write Dad a note
telling him where I’ll be
for the next few days.
I tape it to the cupboard
so it won’t get lost
among the disorganized heaps
of paper and utensils and dishes
covering the counters.
I pause on my way out,
wondering
if he’ll miss me.
THE BEST WEEK
Liam and I have the best week.
We visit Miguel’s to see who can eat the most churros (Liam).
We have a dance-off to decide who has the best moves (me).
We construct a contraption called a snot-rocket
to test whose boogers fly farther (it’s a tie).
I help out around their house a little, too,
clearing the plates after dinner,
and offering to fold laundry with Sharon.
She pretends to take my temperature to see if
I’ve contracted some make-believe “laundrosis” virus.
But I know she appreciates my help.
And I enjoy her mom-ish company.
Plus, I actually like cleaning up,
which Liam thinks is ten times weirder
than building a snot-propulsion system
out of straws, rubber bands, and Popsicle sticks.
(This prompts Sharon to take his temperature, declaring that
he’s most definitely suffering from
an incurable case of “brain-boogeritis.”)
∞ ∞ ∞
Day by day
laughter replaces worry.
Distracted by silliness, warmth, and
just being a kid,
I temporarily forget
about the Hoard.