Rhyme Schemer Read Free Page A

have to think.
    I don’t want to think.
    Building a fortress
    of books
    all around me.

    I worked for an hour before I realized
    today is Tuesday.
    The day after
    my library detentions ended.

WEDNESDAY
    Rocks don’t eat lunch.
    Rocks don’t eat at all.
    Rocks don’t hide from moth boys
    bent on revenge.
    But I’m hungry.

    Ham sandwich in my backpack.
    Left the chips at home.
    Too noisy.
    If I sit back by the old encyclopedias
    Mrs. Little doesn’t see me,
    or pretends like she doesn’t see me,
    and I can eat in peace.
    No one spilling milk on my food
    â€œaccidentally.”
    No one saying
    Roses are red
    Violets are purple
    Kevin writes poems
    Because he’s a girl
    That’s a terrible poem
    by the way.
    Though “girple” would be an awesome word.

    Tried to leave the library
    but Mrs. Little tapped me on the arm.
    Her cat-butt face
    was in full force
    but her eyes were softer.
    Maybe.
    I’ve seen what you’ve done to the books
,
    she whispered.
    I’m aware of your little schemes
.
    She sounded like she was a ghost
    from England.
    I pulled my arm away and ran
    trying to disappear like I was a ghost
    from Busted-ville.

    The noise again.
    Maybe that should be the band’s name.
    Just . . .
    The Noise.
    They make their screeches and whines
    like robot animals fighting to the death.
    Today I scream with them:
    I feel lost all the time
    A toy in a shoe
    A sock in the trash
    What do I do?
    The boy who is lost
    Though they see me right here
    I cannot be found
    But I can’t disappear
.
    Until Petey comes to my room
    and tells me to shut up.
    Your dumb rhymes are ruining the music
, he says,
    and I want to laugh
    but it sticks in my throat
    because ruining things
    seems to be my new specialty.

THURSDAY
    The Poetry Bandit is in trouble.
    Mrs. Little knows it’s me.
    Robin knows it’s me.
    Robin wants it to be him.
    So he can be King of the School.
    Am I going to be King of the School now?
    I highly doubt it.
    I don’t think you can be king
    if you’re expelled.

    I put this one on Mrs. Little’s desk.
    So maybe she’ll know
    why I hurt
    the books.

    The intercom buzzed in Social Studies,
    and in front of everyone
    it was announced:
    Please send Kevin Jamison to Mr. Hartwick’s office
.
    Ooooh.
    Giggle.
    Yeeeer in truhhhhbullll.
    Harry the mole bounced at Freckle-Face Kelly and Robin,
    of course,
    to walk me to the office.
    Buddy system.
    Not.

    Water on my pants.
    Well, not just my pants . . .
    my crotchal area.
    Thanks to gum on the water fountain.
    Gum I didn’t see.
    Robin almost passed out from laughing.
    I almost passed out from not punching him.

    Luckily Robin doesn’t know why I was called
    to see Hartwick.
    All his Poetry Bandit dreams
    down the drain.
    I can still hear him laughing
    while I sit in the office.
    Yeah, well,
    we’ll see who laughs last.
    At least Freckle-Face Kelly didn’t laugh.
    I mean,
Kelly
didn’t laugh.

    The stain on the ceiling again,
    in the shape of a cauliflower.
    The stain fills my pupils
    my brain
    my ears
    instead of Hartwick and Mrs. Little’s words
    discussing my fate
    for defacing school property.
    In my defense, I did not remove any faces from
    anything.
    I stare at the stain
    and congratulate it in my head
    for getting bigger since we’ve seen each other last.

    Two more weeks’ detention.
    In the library.
    Not expelled!
    But I’m on THIN ICE
    Hartwick says. His favorite thing to say.
    And I totter, in my head, on the brink
    of a lake paved with icy poems cracking under
    my feet.
    YOUNG MAN
    Purple veins pulse to get my attention.
    LAST CHANCE
    Fingers shake at me.
    OUT OF HERE
    Mrs. Little stands and so I do, too.
    THIN ICE
    Repeated
    Ringing in my ears
    Thin ice
    Thin ice
    Thin ice

    As a side note,
    I have composed an ode
    to Hartwick’s tie:
    [Clearing throat noise here]
    O, Principal’s tie
    You make me want to scream
    Because you are