Rhyme Schemer Read Free Page B

the color of
    Puked-up Neapolitan ice cream

    Why did Mrs. Little have to tell?
    Her eyes seem to like me.
    Her ears seem to hear me.
    Why would she want me in trouble?
    Maybe she’s lonely
    in the big library
    all by herself.
    Maybe she needs company.
    I don’t really mind being here, though.
    Even if she stares at me
    with her hieroglyph eye.
    There are no sabotaged water fountains
    in the library.

FRIDAY
    I tried to explain better
    about everything.
    It will probably backfire
    again.
    I ripped this one out of a book
    from home.

    She makes me explain what I meant.
    So I do.
    You’ve got yourself in a bind, then
.
    She looks at me over her glasses.
    I nod.
    Just tell him you’ve been caught, Kevin
.
    His Poetry Bandit machinations can go no further
.
    I don’t know what that means.
    Except that she still doesn’t understand.

    My hand on the door,
    it vibrates with the robot murder noises.
    The KEEP OUT sign shakes a little, too.
    Today I yell into my invisible microphone:
    Rumbling, stumbling, fumbling, crumbling
    but there is nowhere to go
.
    I’ve become easy prey
    and there is nowhere to go
.
    Go! Go! Go! Go!
    Go! Go! Go! Go!
    But I’ve become easy prey
    and there is nowhere to go
—
    The door yanks open, Petey is sweaty,
    his eyes black arrows, stabbing at my face.
    Get away from my door
    you creeper
.
    Hey man
,
    the one friend says,
    the guy who looks like all the rest of them.
    His rhymes are kind of maybe not half bad
.
    Petey’s hand goes to the middle of my chest,
    his palm against my shirt.
    He pushes.
    I stumble back.
    Get out of here, turd!
    And he slams the door.
    But I smile.
    Because I’m kind of maybe not half bad.

MONDAY
    398 GR
    This is the section for fairy tales.
    Not the section for a random photocopied page
    flittering around
    making a mess.
    I take the loose page to the trash,
    but then I see
    the page has the word
    â€œwolf”
    circled in red.
    Like an invitation.

LATER MONDAY
    I put my poem on a shelf
    with the poetry books.
    Hopefully Mrs. Little will find it there.
    Properly shelved.
    And maybe she will understand.

TUESDAY
    I
    On my desk this morning,
    a familiar page
    copied from a familiar notebook
    about a familiar topic
    having to do with a familiar mole
    on a familiar teacher’s face.
    II
    ON EVERY DESK,
    a familiar page
    copied from a familiar notebook
    about a familiar topic
    having to do with a familiar mole
    on a familiar teacher’s face.
    III
    On Robin’s moth face,
    a familiar look
    copied from a familiar face
    I used to see in a familiar mirror
    when I was stuffing a familiar someone
    under the familiar sinks.
    IV
    Stolen a page from your own book, hmm?
    That was Mrs. Smithson.
    She actually said it.
    In her familiar voice.
    Out loud.
    Before she grabbed most of the papers
    and recycled them.

    I am not a stone.
    I am not a rock.
    I am not giant and unblinking and cold.
    There is an earthquake.
    In my guts.
    Shaking and quaking.
    Quaking and shaking.
    Cracking and jagged.
    Jagged and cracking.
    Breaking everything into sharp points,
    poking my insides
    until I want to scream.
    But instead, I put my head on my desk
    and close my eyes slowly
    and wonder how the earthquake in my guts
    isn’t shaking the whole classroom.

    Kelly looks at me.
    Her head is on her desk, too.
    Those freckles are the same color as the desk,
    like the desk has splashed a little on her face.
    She blinks.
    I blink.
    She slides the paper into her lap,
    the paper with my Harry poem.
    She crumples it and drops it on the floor.
    She smiles.
    I stare.
    One side of my mouth twitches up.
    It’s hard to smile with so many
    jagged places.

THURSDAY
    001.94
    Not the poetry section,
    the mystery section.
    But there’s a book misshelved.
    A book with poems and quotes
    short and funny
    that go off like firecrackers in my brain
    surprising me
    until I laugh and laugh
    for the first time in days and days.
    And I see her smile,
    Mrs. Little behind the