Rhyme Schemer (12 page)

I kick a rock out from under the bench.

It hits a trash can, and with a
BANG
,

it breaks in half.

Good.

I sit in the night for a long time,

watching cars go by.

It stinks to live in a really small town,

because tonight I know all the cars.

Everyone seeing me on the bench,

a statue formerly known as Kevin.

Cars stop and go at the red light.

Customers come and go from the restaurant.

I shoot laser eyes at everyone.

Stop and go.
ZAP
.

Come and go.
ZAP
.

They're not trapped.

Like me.

Zap
.

One car stops at the light even though it's green.

Two cars honk,

but it doesn't move.

I zap it with my laser eyes.

It still doesn't move.

It is an old car.

Beat up.

Silver.

With rust on the bottom.

Do I know this car, too?

In jerks, the passenger window opens

like the jerks I feel when I fall asleep,

only now I'm waking up

more and more

with each jerk of the window.

Kevin? Is that you?

The voice doesn't belong in the nighttime

or in the road

or between the honks

of other angry drivers.

I stand, my statue legs breaking free.

She has leaned across the seat to open the window,

her silver hair around her shoulders,

shining in the streetlights.

Shadows darken her wrinkles.

I walk to the sidewalk.

Hold up my hand

to wave hi

or say
Stop, please?

What's the matter, then?

Her voice belongs in
The Sound of Music

or on PBS

not in the parking lot of Chez Whatever.

It turns out I've been crying.

Who knew?

Her face is soft with sympathy. So soft I feel sick.

She puts her hand on my shoulder.

It makes me jump.

Kevin
.

How can I help?

I hiccup. Wipe my face.

Where are your parents?

Wind on my face.

Seat belt on.

Tie off.

I am free.

For now.

She just walked in, like a queen.

Introduced herself,

apologized for interrupting,

asked if she could borrow me.

Dad couldn't say anything.

Mom tried to say no.

Mrs. Little wouldn't listen, though.

She called me talented.

A poet.

Paul ruffled my hair and smiled.

Philip and Petey snickered but Mom's boss gave them

LASER EYES

and they stopped.

She called me

A schemer, no doubt.

But also?

Smart.

Funny.

Fragile.

Dad's mouth stayed open

catching flies

if Chez Whatever

had flies.

Certainly, he should go
,

Mom's boss said, standing, shaking Mrs. Little's hand,

his pants still wet.

You must be so proud
,

he said to Mom, smiling.

Her face turned pink from the neck up,

a crawling warmth, climbing behind her ears

until she said with bright eyes,

Yes
.

Yes, I am
.

What?

She's giving me the hieroglyph eye as she drives.

What?
she asks again.

I am giving her the hieroglyph eye back.

The words she just said in there . . .

so many

at one time.

More than I've ever heard her say.

And they were all about me.

And they were nice.

They didn't fall from her mouth.

They flew.

Like flaming arrows.

Flaming arrows keeping everyone away.

But keeping me warm.

What?
She asks one more time,

Her hieroglyph eye shining in the dark.

Nothing
, I say.

I hope my hieroglyph eye is shining, too.

How old is this guy?

His glasses say old,

but his shorts say young.

His words say old,

but his smile says young.

He talks in the microphone like he's telling a secret,

but we can all hear.

I drink a hot cup of decaf coffee.

It tastes like my dad's breath on Sundays.

Mrs. Little says

You can't watch an open mic without coffee
.

but she smiles when I push mine away,

and she buys me a Coke

in a real glass bottle.