with a loud
chattering sound
coming from
his mouth.
Her teeth do that when she gets scared or excited, says
Old Lady Wilson as she
rubs him, and—
Wait, did she just say She?
Consequence (Part One)
Hush now, girl, before you wake up the neighbors, Old Lady Wilson says, giving her a snack from her robe pocket.
So yeah, I’m sorry Mrs.—
Now just hush yourself, Charlie Bell. Those bottles don’t mean nothing to me. My son collects them.
I look at Mom,
wondering
if she’s gonna correct
Old Lady Wilson’s grammar.
She doesn’t.
I will pay you back, I promise.
Nonsense. Keep your money, Charlie Bell. But I could use some help around here.
Anything you want, Mrs. Wilson, Mom says. Just name it.
Well, could he walk Woodrow here?
WHAT!?
He’ll be happy to walk her, Mrs. Wilson.
Anytime is fine by me, long as it’s not in the early evening. That’s when I take my naps.
Things I Think About on the Walk Home
She named her girl dog Woodrow Wilson?
I wonder if Skinny got in trouble.
Why didn’t I put the trash out?
My punishment is walking a dog.
Doesn’t Mom know I’m afraid of dogs?
Old Lady Wilson is not as mean as I thought.
Tomorrow’s the last day of school.
Tomorrow is the first day of summer.
Tomorrow is my first summer without a road trip.
Bomb
The silence is booming.
Mom doesn’t say a word
until we get home.
Then
she detonates.
You want to go to jail, Charlie
because that’s what happens to people
who steal. You want to get locked up?
But I didn’t even do
anything. I was just
there, and I didn’t
even have a choice,
and it was
all his
fault.
Blame
Who is he? she asks,
and I want to
bust on Skinny
for getting me
into all this trouble,
but then
she wouldn’t let me
hang out with him
all summer.
If he got caught
he probably
wouldn’t tell
on me,
so I don’t.
The Last Straw
She says she’s run
out of patience,
thinks I’m headed
down the wrong path,
knows I’m hurting
and maybe I need
the kind of help
she can’t give me.
It was just some boy from around the way. I don’t even really know him, I lie.
Well, you need to remember him, ’cause I don’t know is not good enough, Charlie.
What I need is to get far away from here, I say,
but she doesn’t understand
that I’m talking
about this place of sadness
I’ve been living in
since March ninth,
’cause she starts crying,
then goes into
her room
and slams the door
like she’s given up
on me.
School
is a dreadful blur
’cause CJ’s not here,
Skinny’s in detention
for bouncing his ball
in school,
and I can’t stop thinking
about my mess-up
and how
I’ve never seen
my mom
this mad before.
When I get home
she says hello
without a smile,
then tells me
she’s tired
to bed early
and that
the suitcases
that were in
our attic
are now on
my bed.
After you eat dinner—it’s
in the oven—start packing
all your summer clothes
clean your room
set your alarm
an hour earlier
so you can get up
and walk the dog
before school.
Good night!
Pack for what?
Why I Don’t Like Dogs
When I was six, my dad taught me how
to ride a bike and showed me tricks
like bunny-hopping and slides
and one day I tried to
pop a wheelie when
a dog jumped me
and scared me
and I
CRASHED!
Walking Woodrow
I knock
on the door
then back up
down the stairs
of Old Lady Wilson’s front porch
in case she (the dog)
comes out
too fast
and too big
and too scary.
She’s more afraid of you, Old Lady Wilson says through her screen door. Just come on up here and pet her, like this, she says, rubbing her head. C’mon, try it.
I do, cautiously.
She’s blind as a bat in her left eye, but she can see well enough to walk, and she needs the exercise. I used to take her to the park every day before my nap, but that arthritis is something, I tell ya.
Oh.
Danes don’t like a lot of exercise. Come to think of it, me either, she says, laughing. So just take her around the block once or twice.
Once, I mumble to myself.
Unleashed
Woodrow walks
beside me
like we’re friends.
We’re not.
When we get
to the Millers’
she plays
in their sprinkler
and starts wagging
her tail
in a circular motion
like a propeller.
I almost laugh
until I remember
the last time
I was here.
The Last Day of School
On the bus ride
Skinny listens
to his music,
twirls his ball
on his finger.
CJ can’t stop talking
about the pizza
in New York City,
the weird people
in Times Square,
and all the smart students
she met
at Columbia University.
I stare
out the window,
yawning,
wondering why
I have to pack
and hope it’s not
for Disney World
or worse
some whack
summer camp
for kids with
grief.
Well, somebody’s tired, CJ says, nudging me.
I had to wake up way early, I say.
Why?
To walk Old Lady Wilson’s dog.
TO WHAT!?! she and Skinny say in unison.
I tell them
I got in trouble
for doing something
really, REALLY stupid.
I’m sorry, CJ adds.
Yeah, that’s messed up, Charlie, Skinny says, clueless. What’d you do?
Why are you always so nosy? CJ says, rolling her eyes at him.
Why are you so ring-around-the-rosy, he says, laughing and high-fiving me, like he just got her good.
Why are you so vexatious? CJ counters.
Huh?
I took something that didn’t belong to me, I say, and Skinny’s eyes get all big.
That doesn’t even sound like you, Charlie Bell.
Was it just you, or did anyone else get in trouble? Skinny asks, all frantic-like.
I shouldn’t have done it, but I owned up to it, and now I gotta walk Old Lady Wilson’s dog every morning.
Dang, that kinda sucks. I’d help, but I’m allergic to dogs.
You’re allergic to work, Skinny, CJ says. I can help you, if you want, Charlie.
Thanks, but her dog is kinda scary.
Dogs are more afraid of us, she says.
Forget about the dog. What I wanna know is, is Old Lady Wilson scary? Skinny asks.
The dog
is white, huge,
bigger than
Old Lady Wilson,
with patches of black,
and she named her
after the twenty-eighth president
of the United States, I say,
but all Skinny wants
to know
is what
Old Lady Wilson looks like
and if it’s true
she keeps
her husband’s
casket
in the basement.
She named her Abraham Lincoln?
He then asks.
No, stupid, Woodrow Wilson, corrects CJ, who’s
probably gonna be
a teacher when she grows up
’cause her brain
already knows stuff
most adults don’t.
Why would she name a girl dog after a guy president? Skinny asks.
Yeah, I was wondering the same thing.
Probably because he supported the Nineteenth Amendment, which gave women the right to vote.
Probably not, Skinny says, shaking his head.
Yeah, I doubt that’s the reason, I say, but he sounds like a cool guy.
He also thought slavery and segregation were good things.
Not cool, I say.
Can we not talk about slavery please? It kinda creeps me out, Skinny says.
How do you know so much stuff, CJ? I ask.
I’m a genius, Charlie. I thought you knew that, she says,
with a smile
and a punch
to my stomach
that hurts
in a good
kind of way.
Sorry you got in trouble. I’ll help you walk Woodrow Wilson, though.
Okay.
Friday
We have parties
in most of our classes
and in the rest,
the teachers
just tell us
to look busy,
so I read comics
while Skinny
talks my head off
about
how he hopes
his mom gets
a better job
so they can move out
and he can get
his own bedroom,
and about
how he thinks
that CJ might like me,
and about how
he’s sorry
he got me
in trouble.
It’s okay, I tell him.
AW, MAN, he yells, startling the whole class.
What?
I left my ball on the bus this morning.
Saturday
We sit
inches from each other
at the breakfast table
but it feels like
we’re in different countries,
our treaty disappearing
with each forkful
of French toast
and each spoonful
of grits,
our distance
growing further
and further
with each
wordless
moment.
The clink
of the knife
slicing bread
is the only sound
between us.
I want to say something
but the words
get in the way.
I take my last bite,
mumble “Thank you,”
get up
to go shower,
then walk
our twenty-eighth president.
Consequence (Part Two)
You’re welcome, she says.
I did say thank you.
Anything else you have to say?
. . .
Because even though you don’t want me to be here, I just made your favorite breakfast, and—
I didn’t really mean what I said.
Well, it sure sounded like you meant it. That was hurtful, Charlie. And stealing? That’s not you.
I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to.
Look, it’s been a tough time for both of us, and I know you miss your father. We need a change.
What kind of change?
We need to get away.
I don’t want to go to Disney World.
I heard you.
Or camp.
I’ve got something else in mind.
Like what?
I thought we could visit Grandma and Granddaddy.
Why?
They miss you.
For how long?
I have to work Saturday night, so I would drop you off next Sunday.
NEXT SUNDAY? That’s like in a week. And, what do you mean, drop me off?
I want you to spend some time alone with your grandparents.
So you’re leaving me there?
It’ll be good for both of us.
That’s not fair.
I think it would be good for you. And them.
How long do I have to stay there?
The whole summer.
. . .
I almost drop my
plate on the floor when she decides to
ruin my brand-new day with her
cruel and unreasonable
decision to send her
only son away,
but right before
my STORM, the
doorbell
rings.
Three-Way Conversation
Hello, Crystal. What a nice surprise.
What are you doing here, CJ?
Is that the way we talk to guests, Charlie?
It’s okay, Mrs. Bell, I’m used to Charlie being cantankerous. He’s dealing with a lot.
Come on in.
How are things at the hospital, Mrs. Bell?
Long hours, but things are good, Crystal.
I might want to be a nurse when I grow up too. Or a scientist. Or a teacher.
Or a talker, I say, laughing by myself.
Or a dog walker, she comes back with, quickly. I came to help you walk Woodrow Wilson, but maybe I should reconsider.
. . .
That’s very nice of you, Crystal. Well, I’ll leave you two to it. Charlie, come straight back home afterward.
Yeah, okay.
Are you coming to our skating contest on Friday, Mrs. Bell?
I’m afraid Charlie will not be able to participate.
MOM! Why not! That’s just not fair.
Charlie, we can discuss this later.
That’s a shame, Mrs. Bell. I understand, but it’s certainly disappointing. We’ve been practicing our routine for months, and we have a chance to win the finals, and Skinny’s grounded because he got a D in English but his mother is letting him skate because if one of us doesn’t come we won’t be able to compete, and my parents are coming, and—
Okay, thank you, Crystal. Is this true, Charlie?
Yeah.
. . .
I mean, yes.
Well, we will see. Maybe I’ll make an exception.
Thank you
, Mrs. Bell. Thank you so much.
Tell your parents I said hello, Crystal.
C’mon, let’s go, CJ whispers, pulling my arm out the door. Before she changes her mind.
Reprieve
. . .
What?
I just got you off punishment. That deserves some acknowledgment, don’t you think?
Oh yeah, thanks for that.
That’s disingenuous.
Huh?
Insincere. As in, you don’t really mean it. Your gratitude is disingenuous.
But I’m still on punishment.
But you get to skate in the contest on Friday.
Yeah, but I have to leave next Sunday.
Leave? Where are you going?
To stay with my grandparents for the whole summer.
Why?
Because my mom wants to get rid of me.
I’m sorry, Charlie.
Yeah, me too.
You’re still hurting, aren’t you?
What do you mean?
You don’t ever really talk about your dad. I think that’s probably unhealthy.
There’s nothing to even talk about.
My mom says my dad doesn’t talk about how he feels about stuff either. I’ve never seen him cry.
So what?
So, he has ulcers in his stomach.
Oh.
You can talk to me, Charlie, she says, grabbing my hand and rubbing my palm like she’s somebody’s mother. Or you could write about it.