I try to hold the anger in,
but when it’s trapped inside
too long, it all rushes out.
Raging. Screeching. Erupting.
Sometimes I can smell it coming.
It stinks like cigarettes.
It has to escape.
When I blow, at first it feels
great, like how a giant fart
makes your stomachache
go away. All that pressure,
pfft! But then I see how
it just looks like I’m crazy.
I know I need help then.
I glance over at Mr. Love,
who’s at his desk. He’s decent.
The principal at my last school
had no patience for “peculiarities.”
That’s what he called my weirdness.
He also said I was a pain.
And, at least once, a freak.
I guess I should be used
to that by now. But when
a kid spits a mean name,
it’s like a fly buzzing around.
Mostly annoying. When an adult,
especially one who’s supposed
to help, spits one my way?
Stings like a scorpion.
FACT OR FICTION:
I’ve Been Stung by a Scorpion
Answer: Yep, true.
I grew up in Arizona,
where scorpions
were regular visitors.
Not only to our little backyard,
but also, from time to time,
they hitchhiked inside,
attached to a shoe or pant leg.
If you research Arizona
scorpions, you’ll find four
main types. None are deadly,
unless you’re really old,
already sick, or a baby.
Or you might be allergic.
I’m not. But that doesn’t mean
their stings didn’t welt up
and throb like crazy.
Mom had a cure.
Baking soda paste
will fix it for you.
Baking soda, moistened
and applied like a bandage.
Which, by the way, is a poultice.
Mom made me look up the word.
She wanted me to know stuff.
I know her poultice worked.
Now I’m thinking about Mom.
I try really hard not to,
but she pops into my head
at the strangest times,
like along with scorpions.
I miss her so much.
I had her for nine years.
She’s been gone three.
Today, Mom’s still three-fourths
of my life. Ten years from now . . .
Will I even remember
her heart-shaped face
or that her eyes
reminded me of amber?
Will I forget how her hair
smelled like coconut
and her skin smelled like rain
when I sat on her lap?
How long until
these memories fade
to nothing?
I push all that away, go
back to my assignment:
Write a Happy Memory.
Interesting timing.
I’m not going to write
about amber eyes
or poultices.
Those memories are personal.
All mine, and nobody else’s.
So I guess I’ll just make
something up.
I’m finishing my totally
fictional story when the school
counselor sticks her head
through the door.
Heard you had a little
trouble today.
I shrug. “Nothing major.”
Let’s discuss it anyway.
Bring your stuff and come on.
I don’t really mind talking
to Ms. Crowell as long as
I get to pick the subject.
I wave goodbye to Mr. Love,
follow Ms. C to her office.
FACT OR FICTION:
I Know Show Tunes
Answer: Keep reading.
Ms. C plops down in her rocking
chair, motions for me to sit
on the beanbag and give her
the lowdown on what happened
outside. It doesn’t take long.
Okay, that was uncalled-for.
I’ll talk to Vic and Bradley.
But what about your response?
Do you think it was an overreaction?
Sure. Sure. Blame the victim.
“I try not to react at all, but
when it feels like I’m cornered,
I need to protect myself.”
Question: What could
you have done differently?
It’s a worn-out question, and
I have to fight a hot flush
of anger, find something like
a sense of humor. “Let me think.
Oh, I know. Sing a show tune?”
Ms. C smiles. Do you know
any show tunes, Cal?
I hum a few lines of “Tomorrow”
from Annie, then move into “Ease
on Down the Road” from The Wiz.
Her grin grows. I’m impressed.
I take it you like musicals?
“My mom loved them, so
we watched them together.
She liked all kinds of movies.
Everything from Walt Disney
to Alfred Hitchcock.”
Now her eyes go wide.
She let you watch Hitchcock?
“Some of them. She made me
close my eyes in the scary
parts, but sometimes I peeked.”