What If

by Anna Russell

  Please visit our website, www.west44books.com. For a free color catalog of all our high-quality books, call toll free 1-800-542-2595 or fax 1-877-542-2596.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Russell, Anna.

  Title: What if / Anna Russell.

  Description: New York : West 44, 2019. | Series: West 44 YA verse Identifiers: ISBN 9781538382578 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781538382585 (library bound) | ISBN 9781538383292 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Children’s poetry, American. | Children’s poetry, English.

  | English poetry.

  Classification: LCC PS586.3 W446 2019 | DDC 811’.60809282--dc23

  First Edition Published in 2019 by Enslow Publishing LLC 101 West 23rd Street, Suite #240 New York, NY 10011

  Copyright © 2019 Enslow Publishing LLC

  Editor: Caitie McAneney Designer: Sam DeMartin

  Photo Credits: cover Michael Hall/Taxi/Getty Images; back cover (drumset) Ksanawo/Shutterstock.com.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer.

  Printed in the United States of America

  CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CS18W44: For further information contact Enslow Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-542-2595. For Ayden

  OFFBEAT: PART ONE

  My thoughts don’t bother me here. Drumsticks resting between middle-finger knuckle and my thumb. Pointer finger r e l a x e d against the wood. I hit the snare. tap tap tap tap tap tap tap Marching band beats. When I’m drumming, things feel right. Like finally fitting a puzzle piece into its spot.

  I AM

  Joshua Baker. Sixteen years old. Future rock star. The biggest rock and roll fan ever to live. Training for perfection.

  OFFBEAT: PART TWO

  I feel the rhythm in my palm. I close my eyes, the song building to the best part: the solo— but I hear a knock at my bedroom door. I feel sweat between my eyebrows. I can’t: speak, lift my hands, press pause. If I don’t finish, The perfect puzzle will fall apart.

  THE MANAGER

  Dad walks in, waving his hands at me. He’s like a manager. Tells me which shows I’m allowed to play. I’m only the star. Doesn’t he get it? I have to finish this song. “Joshua!” he screams. I shake my head. My body m o v e s even though I don’t tell it to. Almost done, I try to say. It has to be perfect, I think. But Dad snatches a stick. The music stops. (My thoughts spiral. Have to finish or Dad will hate me forever. Must be perfect or Dad will make us move again.) “You’re gonna be late for school,” Dad says. Tucks the drumstick into his back pocket. My lips when he leaves: closed. My mind: You have to finish the song—or else. Something bad, bad, bad is going to happen. I guess sometimes my thoughts bother me here.

  my first memory

  I’m three. Mom’s cleaning, as always. Dad plays a Beatles album, which means it’s Sunday. The song is “Blackbird.” I count to 10, over and over. Can’t stop until the song ends. I don’t know why. My sister, Julia, scoops me in her arms. Same blond hair as mine, clear brown eyes like marbles. She makes it better. Now, I’m much taller and we don’t really hug. But Julia might understand the bad thoughts. Maybe Julia will help. (I need to talk to Julia.)

  can you hear me?

  Julia sits at the kitchen table. I can see her from the stairs. Her headphones poof her hair into a crown of pink curls. Her piano fingers mirror whatever she listens to. I watch her pretend-play piano, and imagine what it would be like to form a band. No sound from her fingers. My song, unfinished. From up high, I whisper, “Julia,” as quiet as the music she sends into the air. But somehow, she turns around, smiles. And for a second, I forget I’m 16, that it’s not, you know, cool to be friends with your older sister. But in this second, I want to be.

  a list of new/old things

  New: School. House. Drumsticks. (My lucky ones were lost in the move.) Julia’s pink hair. (Mom promised she could— a reward for moving.) Dad’s new advertising job. (The way he’s stopped talking to me like we’re buds.) We moved closer to the city, and it feels like everything has changed. Except: Mom’s dishrags. Her triple chocolate cake. Daily drum practice. Two hours of lessons. One hour for fun. And the tugging inside my stomach, like being stuck in the heavy mud of a swamp when I can’t control (understand) my thoughts (my worries).

  worry warts

  At night, Mom used to say, “If you worry so much, you’ll get worry warts.” But I couldn’t stop thinking. Until: 1. I knew how many cracks were in the ceiling, counted them five times. 2. I checked my bedroom window. Unlock, open, close, lock. Check. Unlock, open, close, lock. Check. Repeat. 3. I mumbled all the words to Abbey Road without messing up. After my shower each morning, I check everywhere for warts.

  my mom

  can dance tip-toed, scrubbing away invisible dust, dirt, and mold. Spinning on knees, or pushing the vacuum over rugs. As kids, when Julia and I couldn’t find her, we looked in the basement. Saw her thumbing through pages of past birthday cards and artwork from kindergarten. “Why do you think she saves it?” I asked Julia, during our move. Boxes of our old papers stuffed in the trunk. The two of us waiting in the car for Dad to fill the gas tank and Mom to buy us burgers. Julia thought for a moment. Then said, softly, “I think she wants all the pieces of us— who we used to be.” I looked out the car window, saw Mom walking toward us, sunshine-grin lighting up her face. “Julia?” I asked. “Do you think that means she’s afraid of who we’re going to b e c o m e?” Then, our parents came back in the car and drove us toward change.

  I'm too old

  to wave goodbye to Mom, even though it’s the first day at the new school and I am scared. I get on the bus. And quickly, so none of the other kids can see, I lift my hand, give an awkward twitch. Bye. I can (maybe) stand it if Dad doesn’t like me. (Your fault, your fault, my brain says.) But with Mom, it would be much worse. I look away like the cool, new kid I’m trying to be, but I hope she understands.

  before we start

  “Why’d Dad have your drumstick this morning?” Julia asks, her voice bouncing as the bus hits a pothole. Before I can answer, she says, “You know he just wants you to focus on other things.” But what else matters more than the beat I create? Her question makes my swamp-stomach come back. I swallow a lump down into my core as my brain starts to say, What if something happens? It doesn’t make sense, but my thoughts say, What if Dad gets hurt because he has my drumstick? Like some bad luck charm? What if Julia starts to hate me because I won’t—I can’t— stop playing? I breathe past the nausea and start to hum the end of “Hey Jude” (na, na, na, nananana) under my breath making almost no noise, until the bus pulls into the loop. Then, I fix my hair. Smooth my clothes. Maryville High School. A new start.

  head down

  It’s not the first day for the other kids. They know where to go, who’s who. Julia shrugs, says, “What’s the worst that can happen?” She skips to the 11th grade hall. Gone. And here I am: head down, trying my locker over and over and over again. Three to the left, eleven to the right, all the way around again. I can’t stop. Even when the bell rings. Even when I hear, “That’s the new kid, right?” somewhere behind me. Even when the English teacher calls my name. I run to the bathroom, count to 20, 100 times, and then 300 times. When the door opens, I panic. But a man spots me, says, “Are you Joshua?” I nod, Yes, eyes down, can’t remember how to speak. “Do you like math?” the man asks. And I look up.

  guitar man

  The man has funny glasses, like little horns tilting up from each eye. I find out that he is the 10th grade math teacher. He keeps his hands in his pockets as we walk down the hall. I think if he were in a band, he’d play guitar— but not lead. Not electric, either. No, he’d keep it quiet, soft, plucking no
tes just to himself. He wouldn’t force people to listen to his songs, but they’d want to.

  formula

  My new teacher’s name is Mr. Maxwell— like the Beatles song about the silver hammer. He says, “Joshua, tell us about yourself.” I don’t know what to say. My lips, glued shut. But then, my fingers tap on my new desk and I say the truest thing I know: “I’m a drummer.” I even smile, just a little. Mr. Maxwell nods and smiles back, and when he writes a formula on the chalkboard (numbers, x’s, equal sign) he calls on me, and I know the answer.

  at home

  Julia talks and talks about her day: books, friends, classes. Dad says, “Josh, what about you?” I wonder if he knows that I didn’t make it to any classes but math. I wonder if he knows what goes on in my mind. I wonder if we’d have to move again if he ever found out.

  making friends

  Ringo, from the Beatles, was my imaginary friend in grade school. Dad would tell me he was nobody’s favorite: Beatle, songwriter, drummer. But I thought he was a good listener. Together, Ringo and I learned beats, songs, uneven rhythms of jazz. I think, if he wasn’t imaginary, Ringo would help me find peace at Maryville High. Maybe he’d help me to like it a little bit better.

  not everything can be solved like a math problem

  Every day that week, Julia and I take the bus, then go separate ways. I think I hear some of the kids whispering about me. But they can’t know that I’m different. That I worry if I don’t do what my thoughts tell me, the people I love might get hurt. They can’t tell. Right? I look at my feet, don’t say a word to anybody. Who would like a freak like me anyway? I feel better during math, that just right feeling. But after, I have English, then social studies, gym, science. And I don’t think I can do this.

  sheet music

  On Thursdays, I go to music class. At this school, there’s no marching band. No music room full of drums to play on. Just: cymbals, metal triangles, one snare drum. We all take turns playing. The instructor, Ms. Lions, sends me home with sheet music for the winter concert. “What about a full drum set?” I ask. She puts both hands on her hips. Her gray bangs cover her eyes. She tells me that only seniors, the oldest students, can play the full set. She packs a mini-xylophone into its case, tells me to try that first. Here’s the thing, though: I’m going to go crazy if I can’t play.

  more than nervous

  The guidance counselor, Miss Jones, sends a note to my homeroom, asking to see me in her office. “Joshua,” she says when I sit. “Everybody gets nervous about going to a new school.” I’m more than nervous, I want to say. “’Kay,” I actually say. “You have to try to get to all of your classes on time, yes?” she says. I want to tell her that I can only leave my locker after opening and closing the lock 10 times. I want to tell her that I can only talk in Mr. Maxwell’s class. I want to tell her that I can only do what my thoughts tell me. But I look at her, and I say, “Okay.”

  no noise Fridays

  At the end of the second week at Maryville High School, Julia finds me on the bus and pulls me to sit with her. “They’re going to call Mom and Dad,” she says. My palms start to sweat. “Miss Jones told me to check on you. Josh, do you understand? You have to go to all of your classes. Or else.” I don’t want to think about before. But Julia looks angry, like she still blames me for having to move. She’s right. But I know she won’t tell Mom and Dad. Instead of fighting, I ask her to practice with me— something we haven’t done since we were kids. It’s the only way I can talk to her: our silent band, her invisible piano, my no-sound drums. She sighs, but we play through the entire quiet of The White Album, part one. We don’t say much, but after part one’s over, I hope Julia knows I’m sorry.

  IT'S magic

  I’m 362 seconds late. It keeps happening: I have to, have to, have to— turn my lock and count to 100 at the same time. My thoughts don’t make sense. When I open the door for English class, everybody has a partner. I sit, I hide my head in my arms. I don’t want to, but I start to count. (My heart slows.) But then. But then. “Joshua?” a voice says, right by my elbow. I lift my head. “Need a partner?” The voice belongs to a girl, hair tight in braids, deep brown skin, sparkles on her lips. “I’m Mage,” she says. “I’m new, too.” When I open my mouth, I realize I’m smiling around my words: “Um, yeah,” I say. She has a dimple on each cheek and blue braces. I feel something change when she sits by my desk and says, “Magical.”

  today's good thing

  In English, we’re the perfect pair. We finish our questions. Mage knows all the answers because she read Hamlet at her last school (and she is the smartest person I’ve ever met). She shows me her drawings. Cartoons, anime, portraits of her dad and old friends from Florida. “We had to move,” she says. “After Mom. Cancer.” I keep my eyes down, mumble, “Sorry.” “Yeah,” Mage says. “Are you okay?” I ask. “Are you?” she asks. And we both sort of sit there, staying in that moment, where we know the truth. How not okay things can be.

  visible

  After English, Mage and I walk to our lockers. Her homeroom is just down the hall from mine. (Was she one of the kids who whispered about me?) She has science next and I have social studies. But we still walk together, us, new friends. At least, that’s what I think we could be. We stop at her locker first. Mage unlocks her lock with three quick moves. She doesn’t get stuck the way I do. I don’t want her to see me at my locker, in case my need to spin my lock and count makes me look crazy. My chest feels itchy. The way she looks at me is like I’ve just taken off an invisibility cloak and she can see through every part of me. “Josh?” Mage asks, touches my shoulder. “I gotta go,” I tell her. She looks hurt, eyebrows pinched tight. I’m not who she thought I was. “Where?” she asks. “You can’t just leave.” Her science teacher hears her loud voice. He starts to walk toward us. Toward me. The other kids look at me, laughing into their hands. I think about what they would say if they knew who I was— if they knew exactly how different I am. My body tenses until there’s only one thing I can do: I run.

  away, away

  When I lived in the country, every corner was a hiding place. Our neighbor had cows, horses, and a sheepdog. Trees lined the space between our backyards like a toothy smile. Space was unlimited, i n f i n i t e. When the swamp-stomach, and the thoughts, and the worry warts were just too much, I’d sneak past the wood’s grin to a special tree with a knot tucked in its bark. Time stopped. It was away from everything. Like I was away from myself.

  now, in the city

  all the trees are bare. I don’t know where to go when everything is too much. So I walk and walk and walk.

  the move

  Last school year, I messed up. My grades dove into the ground and didn’t come back. To be fair, Dad warned me, said, “Joshua, there will be consequences if you don’t improve your schoolwork.” I didn’t think it’d go this far. Dad was offered a fancy marketing job in the city, but he couldn’t decide: should we leave everything just for his career? What about us, his kids? Then, he got a call from the school. Josh is failing his freshman year, the principal explained to my parents. He’ll have to repeat a grade if he’s going to stay at this school. And my father— who was the first in his family to graduate from college, the first to manage a company, the first to be able to teach his children what success meant to him, what he expected from us— packed us away. I helped make his decision all too easy. Because of me, our family will never be the same.

  julia, the teller

  I knew I’d be in trouble. I mean, I sprinted from school. Left through the front door. I was ready to be grounded, I was ready to hear Dad yell. But I wasn’t ready to see Julia standing there, pointing right at my chest, saying, “There he is. There he is.”

  found

  I didn’t get too far this time, just looped around our neighborhood a few times— 702 steps. When my parents find me, they take me home in our white sedan. I’m in the backseat with Julia, but I sit as far away as possible. She’s on their side now? She called them
. She told my secrets. She told them everything.

  behind glass

  You know how when you go to a museum, they have animals, polar bears and mountain lions and the smallest of birds stuffed and propped? You’ll stare at them, maybe just a little afraid that if you blink, they’ll come to life again. That’s sort of what it’s like at school the next day. I’m the animal, frozen. Everybody— even the teachers— watches me, unblinking, to see if I’ll thaw, come undone and start to move. They know they can’t stop me if I do.

  to be seen

  Before English class, (before I have to see Mage again) I have a meeting with Mom, Dad, and Miss Jones. We sit at Miss Jones’s table and she asks me what happened. I look at Dad and I don’t want to say anything about my thoughts. But when I look at Mom, I think that maybe she’ll get it. Maybe? “Sometimes,” I say. “I can’t control my thoughts.” The adults look at each other. I swallow past a lump in my throat, and then I confess everything: the counting, the songs, the worrying. Nobody speaks for a long time. Not until Miss Jones asks me if I would step out into the hallway. When I slink out the door, press my back to the wall, I can just hear them talking to one another. Dad asks, “What does this mean?” Mom asks, “Is he okay?” I imagine Miss Jones takes a breath, before she says, “I think Joshua needs to be seen by a specialist.”