kids.
But heâs always home playing boring games
like chess
with his million kids.
My dad is NEVER home.
He never plays boring games.
Or any games.
He says thatâs just TV,
Dr. Huxtable being home all the time.
But you know what?
I donât care if it sounds stupid.
I wish TV was real.
And I donât even like chess.
Petey locked me in the bathroom
today.
He thought it was hilarious.
Yeah.
Funny.
I had to climb out the window.
And no one even noticed.
Petey and Philip.
Sixteen and seventeen.
Dumb as hammers.
Paul is almost out of here.
He wants to be a psychiatrist.
That means he asks a lot of annoying questions.
Patrick is the oldest.
Heâs in college and only comes home for
laundry.
And food.
That leaves me.
Kevin.
The baby.
The accident.
One college guy.
One senior.
One junior.
One sophomore.
And a seventh grader.
You can see how it might not work.
Paul says it could work.
It
should
work.
If my parents spent less time at work.
Maybe heâs onto something.
Or maybe heâs just annoying.
DAY 15
Give me that!
Petey shouted
this morning in the car
on the way to school.
No
, I said.
But he grabbed for it
swerving the car
just missing a fire hydrant.
NO!
I said again,
but his arms are long
and his car is small.
Thatâs why Iâm writing this
on the back of old homework.
My notebook
is on the street
somewhere
because Petey is a moron
and says poetry is for old ladies.
By the way,
this isnât even poetry.
Itâs just thoughts
on paper
rapid fire
with not as many words
as usual thoughts
and none of those dumb
likes or as-es
or talking about trees
that old ladies like.
These are real thoughts
like a TV scroll
with a flow thatâs like a stream
that just flies out of my brain
like barf
but less gross.
Most of the time.
Wait.
Three
likes
just then.
Oh man.
Maybe this
is
poetry.
But cooler than regular poetry.
Yeah.
Iâll walk home from school today
after detention.
No ride home in Peteyâs cruddy car.
Iâll walk the whole 1.9 miles.
Maybe my notebook will still be in the road.
Or on the sidewalk.
Or in the grass.
Wherever it landed.
I didnât see.
Petey drives way too fast.
DAY 16
No luck.
The notebook is gone.
Or turned invisible.
Iâm going to kill Petey.
When I get bigger than him.
Which might take a while.
Because heâs like King Kong
with zits
and worse breath.
No one gets past me today.
I am a rock.
I am huge.
My face is stone
like those giant statues
from that one island
with giant face statues.
My island today:
the boysâ bathroom
in the hallway outside the library.
No entry for dorks.
Unless they pay a toll
to the giant statue.
Robin in the hall,
so small compared to everyone.
He can sneak between them
unseen
like a bug.
But I see him.
I see what heâs doing.
Freckle-Face Kellyâs face is in flames,
Robinâs hands flipping up her skirt.
She pushes him away
but sheâs too late.
Now everyone sees.
Her white, freckly legs.
Her white, flowery underpants.
And for just a second
I am moving fast.
I scatter the crowd
like a burst of bees exploding
when you hit their nest
with a rock.
Freckle-Face Kelly wipes her face.
Those little red spots donât smear
like you think they should.
She looks at me.
Robin looks at me.
Everyone looks at me.
Freckle-Face Kelly looks away first.
I think she wants to be stone, too.
In one move Robin is under my arm
kicking
yelling
but he canât sting me.
You canât sting stone.
Weenie Robin fits perfectly
under the sinks.
Toll paid.
He snaps right in
between the pipes
like a Lego
like he was made to fit there.
Heâs way noisier than a Lego, though
which is why Mrs. Little came
INTO
the boysâ bathroom.
She is obviously
not a boy.
She is obviously
a librarian.
She is obviously
mad.
I am obviously
in trouble.
Mr. Hartwick is
But heâs always home playing boring games
like chess
with his million kids.
My dad is NEVER home.
He never plays boring games.
Or any games.
He says thatâs just TV,
Dr. Huxtable being home all the time.
But you know what?
I donât care if it sounds stupid.
I wish TV was real.
And I donât even like chess.
Petey locked me in the bathroom
today.
He thought it was hilarious.
Yeah.
Funny.
I had to climb out the window.
And no one even noticed.
Petey and Philip.
Sixteen and seventeen.
Dumb as hammers.
Paul is almost out of here.
He wants to be a psychiatrist.
That means he asks a lot of annoying questions.
Patrick is the oldest.
Heâs in college and only comes home for
laundry.
And food.
That leaves me.
Kevin.
The baby.
The accident.
One college guy.
One senior.
One junior.
One sophomore.
And a seventh grader.
You can see how it might not work.
Paul says it could work.
It
should
work.
If my parents spent less time at work.
Maybe heâs onto something.
Or maybe heâs just annoying.
DAY 15
Give me that!
Petey shouted
this morning in the car
on the way to school.
No
, I said.
But he grabbed for it
swerving the car
just missing a fire hydrant.
NO!
I said again,
but his arms are long
and his car is small.
Thatâs why Iâm writing this
on the back of old homework.
My notebook
is on the street
somewhere
because Petey is a moron
and says poetry is for old ladies.
By the way,
this isnât even poetry.
Itâs just thoughts
on paper
rapid fire
with not as many words
as usual thoughts
and none of those dumb
likes or as-es
or talking about trees
that old ladies like.
These are real thoughts
like a TV scroll
with a flow thatâs like a stream
that just flies out of my brain
like barf
but less gross.
Most of the time.
Wait.
Three
likes
just then.
Oh man.
Maybe this
is
poetry.
But cooler than regular poetry.
Yeah.
Iâll walk home from school today
after detention.
No ride home in Peteyâs cruddy car.
Iâll walk the whole 1.9 miles.
Maybe my notebook will still be in the road.
Or on the sidewalk.
Or in the grass.
Wherever it landed.
I didnât see.
Petey drives way too fast.
DAY 16
No luck.
The notebook is gone.
Or turned invisible.
Iâm going to kill Petey.
When I get bigger than him.
Which might take a while.
Because heâs like King Kong
with zits
and worse breath.
No one gets past me today.
I am a rock.
I am huge.
My face is stone
like those giant statues
from that one island
with giant face statues.
My island today:
the boysâ bathroom
in the hallway outside the library.
No entry for dorks.
Unless they pay a toll
to the giant statue.
Robin in the hall,
so small compared to everyone.
He can sneak between them
unseen
like a bug.
But I see him.
I see what heâs doing.
Freckle-Face Kellyâs face is in flames,
Robinâs hands flipping up her skirt.
She pushes him away
but sheâs too late.
Now everyone sees.
Her white, freckly legs.
Her white, flowery underpants.
And for just a second
I am moving fast.
I scatter the crowd
like a burst of bees exploding
when you hit their nest
with a rock.
Freckle-Face Kelly wipes her face.
Those little red spots donât smear
like you think they should.
She looks at me.
Robin looks at me.
Everyone looks at me.
Freckle-Face Kelly looks away first.
I think she wants to be stone, too.
In one move Robin is under my arm
kicking
yelling
but he canât sting me.
You canât sting stone.
Weenie Robin fits perfectly
under the sinks.
Toll paid.
He snaps right in
between the pipes
like a Lego
like he was made to fit there.
Heâs way noisier than a Lego, though
which is why Mrs. Little came
INTO
the boysâ bathroom.
She is obviously
not a boy.
She is obviously
a librarian.
She is obviously
mad.
I am obviously
in trouble.
Mr. Hartwick is
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