Free Rhyme Schemer by K.A. Holt Page A

kids.
    But he’s 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 that’s just TV,
    Dr. Huxtable being home all the time.
    But you know what?
    I don’t care if it sounds stupid.
    I wish TV was real.
    And I don’t 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.
    He’s 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 he’s onto something.
    Or maybe he’s 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.
    That’s why I’m 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 isn’t even poetry.
    It’s 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 that’s 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.

    I’ll walk home from school today
    after detention.
    No ride home in Petey’s cruddy car.
    I’ll 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 didn’t see.
    Petey drives way too fast.

DAY 16
    No luck.
    The notebook is gone.
    Or turned invisible.
    I’m going to kill Petey.
    When I get bigger than him.
    Which might take a while.
    Because he’s 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 boys’ 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 he’s doing.
    Freckle-Face Kelly’s face is in flames,
    Robin’s hands flipping up her skirt.
    She pushes him away
    but she’s 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 don’t 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 can’t sting me.
    You can’t 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.
    He’s way noisier than a Lego, though
    which is why Mrs. Little came
    INTO
    the boys’ bathroom.
    She is obviously
    not a boy.
    She is obviously
    a librarian.
    She is obviously
    mad.
    I am obviously
    in trouble.

    Mr. Hartwick is