Looking for X by Deborah Ellis

behind the building,” Tammy said. “You can go there, and nowhere else.”
    I hated taking the twins to that playground. It was small, with just a jungle-gym in a sand pit. There was no fence around it, and it was right next to a parking lot, so I was always afraid they would get hit by a car. I love my brothers, but spending four hours a day with them in that tiny playground got a little boring.
    The week dragged on. “No radio, no books except school books,” Tammy decreed.
    â€œWhat about Monkees records?” I asked.
    She didn’t think that was funny.
    I even had to turn over my atlases to her.
    Then, finally, it was over. Friday night appeared.
    Just before going to bed, I went into the kitchen, where Juba and Mom were having a cup of tea. Since they’ve known each other, Juba and Mom must have drunk an ocean of tea at that table. Sometimes they go to Juba’s, but with the boys, it’s easier when Juba comes to our place. Besides, Juba’s apartment is really tiny. She likes to get out of it as much as she can, she says, so the walls don’t close in on her.
    Juba used to babysit me when I was too young and stupid to look after myself. She was a thousand years old then, and must be almost two thousand years old now, but she has a soft lap, one that’s almost as good as Tammy’s. When I was little and had a fight with Tammy, I’d go crying to Juba. She’d take me onto her lap, rock me, let me cry it out, then dry my tears and say, “It’s time for you to bring a little sunshine into the world.” It sounds crazy, but by the time she said that, I wouldn’t be mad at Mom anymore.
    All my friends are dependable. Juba is always kind, Valerie is always rude, and X is always frightened.
    I put my stack of homework down in front of Tammy. “All done. Spelling checked, math checked, everything checked.”
    Mom thumbed through the pages of school work. “This looks nice and neat.”
    As if I’d waste my time bringing her schoolwork that wasn’t tidy.
    â€œLet’s hear the poem.”
    For extra English homework, Tammy gave me a poem to learn out of a big book of poetry she found at the Goodwill years ago. Memorizing stuff is easy. You just say it over and over until it becomes as much a part of you as your name.
    I’ve learned a lot of poetry over the years. Lewis Carroll is my overall favorite. Tammy would find a new poem for me to learn whenever I got in her hair. She said she’d do anything that would keep me quiet for more than two minutes at a time.
    I talk a lot because I have a lot to say. People who don’t talk a lot also might have a lot to say. They just don’t know how to get to it.
    What I hate most are people who talk a lot and have nothing to say. They think they have a lot to say, so they keep talking and talking, but when you listen to them, they really aren’t saying anything.
    The poem Tammy gave me to learn during my punishment week was called “The Buried Life” by Matthew Arnold. That’s what I was living that week — a buried life, buried in work.
    The poem is a long one, with twenty verses. It’s about how we live on the surface of ourselves, andrarely get a chance to know what we’re really made of. The day-to-day junk of work or school and chores and doing what you’re supposed to do to be a good citizen doesn’t leave much time to find out how to be a good human being.
    My favorite verse goes like this:
    But often, in the world’s most crowded streets,
    But often, in the din of strife,
    There rises an unspeakable desire
    After the knowledge of our buried life.
    I think it means that in the middle of being busy doing stuff, you can suddenly wonder, “Who am I? What am I doing here?” I’m glad somebody put that into a poem, because it’s happened to me. I guess everybody loses track of where they are sometimes.
    I recited the poem, and