Rhyme Schemer (9 page)

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 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.

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.

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

“wolf”

circled in red.

Like an invitation.

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.

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.