I keep my eyes on my boots.
“Everyone wants a future full of possibilities. You don’t want a failing grade your sophomore year to hold you back down the road. Right?”
I’m not gonna answer.
“So it’s time to make some choices. Choices about focus in class. Choices about completing assignments. Choices about friends.”
What?
“The people with whom we associate have a huge effect on our level of success, Sam. You’re choosing to associate with a kid who has made some extremely unfortunate choices.”
“I’m not—”
“Sam, I know all about Luis’s brother, and I know all about him.” He takes a second to scan his grade book. Points his finger on a page of phone numbers. “I should call your parents about your grade. But I’m willing to postpone that conversation. You start turning in your work; you start associating with folks who will increase your chances of success, and I won’t have to make that call. Do we have a deal?”
I look right at him.
I wanna tell him he doesn’t know shit about me.
I wanna tell him it’s none of his business who my friends are—not that Luis is my friend.
I wanna tell him where he can stick it.
But I can’t.
I don’t know why I can’t defend myself.
I just can’t.
So I walk out without a word.
Poetry Unit: THE DIAMANTE
Name Luis
Date / /
Cherished Poets of Room 108,
I know I teach you to be a bunch of rule-breaking rebels who can’t be contained within society’s neat little boxes. So trust me when I tell you that a few restrictions can actually help the creative process. Here’s a type of poem with a fun and easy set of rules. The diamante is a cool way to flip the script on your readers. In just a couple lines, you go from talking about one subject to writing about something totally different. Maybe the totally different part makes a statement about the subject with which you started. Sound confusing? Listen up RIGHT NOW! We’re going to try some examples on the board. When we’re done, write your own diamante below!
Sincerely,
Ms. Cassidy
* * *
1st Line: ONE Noun (THEME A) Mr. McClean
2nd Line: TWO Adjectives (Describing THEME A) Lame, cynical
3rd Line: THREE -ing Words (About THEME A) Nagging, sweating, provoking
4th Line: TWO Nouns (Related to THEME A) Cop, imposter
TWO Nouns (Related to THEME B) Teacher, role-model
5th Line: THREE -ing Words (About THEME B) Glowing, inspiring, guiding
6th Line: TWO Adjectives (Describing THEME B) Awesome, smart
7th Line: ONE Noun (THEME B) Ms. Cassidy!
THE NEW DEAL
CASSIDY DOESN’T WHISPER ANYMORE.
She doesn’t tiptoe around the two quiet loser boys. Now she calls us out repeatedly in front of the class.
Over and over.
Never letting us off the hook.
Luisandsam, are you listening?
Pointing her chalk at us.
Luisandsam, I know you’re thinking.
Tapping our table with her long, press-on fingernails.
Luisandsam, where is your homework?
Glaring at us over her plastic glasses.
Be ready, Luisandsam. I’m coming at you with questions on this.
She says it and she means it. She’s on our case from the second we walk in the room until we walk out the door.
Cassidy’s turned into a rabid pit bull, hell-bent on breaking us, turning us into students.
That’s her new deal.
And she sticks to it.
Every minute.
Every day.
NOT FUNNY
A WEEK AND A HALF INTO CASSIDY’S NEW DEAL, she shows no sign of letting up.
She’s got the energy.
But we’ve got the willpower. We’ve got the Rules.
No matter how much Luisandsam crap she throws our way, we hang in there.
It’s clear she’s frustrated, because she keeps us after class.
She smiles and says, “Have a seat, guys.”
I’m not gonna sit.
But Luis sits.
So I sit.
Then Cassidy throws us a curveball: She’s nice. She offers us a doughnut—from Krispy Kreme.
That particular brand of doughnut is my weakness. But I’m not gonna let her know that. So I don’t accept. In fact, I pretend like the doughnut is the most disgusting thing in the world and it makes me wanna puke.
Luis?
He takes the doughnut.
Cassidy smiles.
He’s an idiot.
She stands up and leans over the desk, looking down at us. “Luisandsam,” she says, “I want to explain why I’m on your case.”
I don’t even have to make my eyes roll. They see the bullshit coming and do it on their own.
“You two are riding the fast train to Loserville. And if you get there someday, I’ll be sad for you. Extremely sad. But I will not feel guilty. I will have no problem looking at myself in the mirror and saying, Cass, you fought for those boys. You fought as hard as you possibly could. So, Luisandsam, as long as you’re in my class, I will not stop fighting for you.”
We don’t say a word.
So she writes us a pass to our next class. But she doesn’t give it to us. She holds it up, so one of us has to take it from her.
“There’s only one thing I hate more than a student giving up on himself. You know what that is, Luisandsam?”
I snatch the note.
“It’s losing. I hate losing.”
I slam the door on the way out.
Luis says nothing as usual. He just leads the way toward geometry.
I’m seething. “My God, she’s a bitch! Right?”
It’s the most words I’ve ever spoken to him, but he doesn’t respond.
I don’t think he heard me, so I repeat it. “Isn’t Cassidy a bitch?”
And I say it loud enough so I know he hears me.
No response.
He just pushes the door open and flashes a ridiculous smirk.
I’m seriously pissed and he’s smirking?
What’s he smirking at?
Me?
He’s laughing at me?
Just like that, he wipes the grin off his face and walks into math, his stone-serious, scary self.
What a psycho.
I swear, that’s the last time I ask him anything.
Say anything.
No more heys or wazzups from me. That’s it.
I give up.
I’m never gonna talk to him again.
LOSING
I FIGURED CASSIDY’S HATE TO LOSE B.S. WAS JUST A BUNCH OF B.S.
It’s not.
She keeps her word. Each day she comes at us harder than the day before.
Luis and I both stubbornly follow rule number 7. (Listen. Answer when called upon. Blank clueless stare on the follow-up.)
And it stops working.
Because she never stops coming back at us.
Questioning.
Confirming.
Lecturing.
Heckling.
Taunting.
It’s like we’re the only kids in the class. Every stinking question. Every new idea. Every chance she gets, it’s Luisandsam, what do you think? She’s relentless. If either of us gives a half-thought-out answer, she badgers us until we make it whole.
Every day the same thing.
She has us figured out and she knows it.
I hate her.
And I’m not about to forget whose fault this is.
Poetry Unit: THE NONET
Name Luis
Date / /
Esteemed Poets of Room 108,
More rules-driven poetry. “Ah, man!” I hear ya! Quit yer whinin’! This is fun, people. Here’s the deal: If you’re feeling a little bored with your poetry, and you need a littl
e creative pick-me-up, try out this nine-line poem called the nonet! The nonet has nine syllables in the first line. Each line that follows has one fewer syllable, until you get to the final line, which has only one. It may or may not rhyme. That’s up to you. Go crazy, kids! Try one out right now!
Sincerely,
Ms. Cassidy
* * *
9 Cannot think straight right now, Cassidy
8 You got my head spinning crazy
7 This is new territory
6 Could you back off a bit?
5 I just need to breathe
4 Get used to this
3 Attention
2 On me,
1 Please?
UNAFFILIATED
I’M SITTING ON THE METRO BUS, TALKING TO CARLOS FUCKING DÍAZ.
No, Carlos is doing all the talking.
It’s what I get for not walking home.
This bus goes way down to main street Des Moines, down by the water. It takes me home the long way. Takes forever. I just wanted to stay dry on a piss rainy day, that’s all. Just wanted a change of scenery.
But what I got was Carlos planting his ass next to me. And as usual, he’s got Luis on his mind.
And just like everyone else, he acts like Luis and I are buds.
I tell him we’re not.
He doesn’t listen. He just goes off, agitated, real concerned-sounding. Like he’s searching for answers. He tells me all this shit about how Luis’s dad got shot in a drive-by when Luis was little. He says Luis’s brother, Rubén, got jumped in not long after that and he’s been in and out of juvie and real jail ever since. And he’s probably killed a few guys.
Carlos stops talking and looks at raindrops running down the window. “It’s why I can’t figure this shit out. Those old-school dudes and his brother and cousins got Luis surrounded three sixty. Nobody really wants in the life, but man, it’s in the air you breathe. It’s in the water you drink. If you try to escape it … it’s like fighting gravity. You can’t do it. The force is too strong.”
He looks at me as if I might have something to say about all this.
I don’t have a fucking clue.
“Nobody seen Luis runnin’ with nobody. Everybody got their eye on him, but nobody even knows if he got jumped in yet. Nobody knows if he’s affiliated. And he don’t talk to nobody, so…”
“What does that mean?”
“It means if he ain’t affiliated, dude has got to get it done. Callado’s a player from player blood. Everybody wants a piece of him. So if Flaco ain’t got him runnin’ with Sixteenth Street by now, then Deacons, Mafia, MS13, whatever … they all gonna come after him. And when they claim him or jump him in, who knows what insane shit Flaco gonna pull?”
Carlos looks at me like a life depends on what he’s about to say. “I ain’t gonna be in school for a couple days. You tell Luis I got his back. Tell him if he knows what’s good, he gonna get his shit rollin’.”
I don’t know what to say.
“You on that for me?” He reaches up and pulls the cord for the driver to stop.
Carlos mistakes my shaking for a yes. “You okay, you know that?” He holds his fist out for a pound.
The bus comes to a stop and the driver yells, “Hey kid, this your stop, right?”
I want this to be over, so I pound him.
He takes off and I just sit there with my head on the window. I’m shaking like a jackhammer, wondering what Carlos’s deal is. Wondering about Luis. Wondering what the hell is going on.
THREE WORDS
BACK IN CASSIDY’S CLASS.
I glance over at Luis.
He’s looking straight ahead. Ready to take on whatever Cassidy is about to dish out.
I don’t say hey to him.
I think about his psychotic smirking the other day. I think about everything Carlos said about Luis. And what he told me to say to him.
This is Luis’s life. These are his choices. This is his deal. If people start coming after him, like Carlos said they would? That’s on him.
I have nothing to do with it.
So I’m sticking to my plan. I’m not gonna say a word.
I turn toward Cassidy and sit up to show her I’m paying attention.
She says, “Listen up, y’alls. This is big. Poetry is written to be performed, so on March 8—three Fridays from now—we’ll be turning the classroom into a bohemian café, and everyone—Do you hear this, Luisandsam?—everyone will be performing their brilliant work in the class poetry slam.”
Does she seriously think we’d write a stupid poem for her?
I feel a tap on my shoulder.
It’s Luis.
He hands me a tiny scrap of paper with writing on it.
It says We’re doing this.
I look at him.
He doesn’t look back. He stays in position.
I look at the note again.
We’re doing this?
We’re, as in we’re both doing this separately? Or we’re, as in we’re doing this together? I look at him again. He nods in a way that says he wants to do this project with me.
I’m getting sick. I’m boiling over.
We’re doing this?
I’m not doing this.
If I could speak right now, I’d tell Luis, You scare the shit out of me. There is no fucking way. Why aren’t you a normal gangbanger—the kind that wouldn’t be caught dead doing a fucking poetry slam? Why do you think I’d speak in front of this class? I hate these people. I can’t stand Cassidy. And what about all that shit McClean and Carlos say about you? What would make you think I’d want anything to do with you?
The bell rings. I fly out of there.
I puke in the nurse’s office and she sends me home.
BIG FAT STUPID JOKE
IT’S MONDAY. I have a plan. I’m gonna go to school. I’m gonna hold my shit together and not show Luis my fear. I’ll tell him thanks, but no thanks. I’ll be firm, but polite. And that will be the end of that.
The second I see him in class, I get a new plan. Ignore Luis and hope the whole thing goes away.
When I sit, he says hey. But he doesn’t say one word about the slam.
Tuesday, I come to class shaking. I know this is it. He’s gonna say something.
Nothing.
Wednesday.
He says hey again, just like any other day. No mention of poetry.
Thursday.
Nothing.
I finally figure out what that note from Luis had been: a joke.
Luis’s idea of a joke.
I’m a dumbass for ever thinking he’d want to do anything in school, let alone recite some fairy poetry.
I’m relieved as hell.
I quit worrying about getting shot in a drive-by … or worse, having McClean call my grandparents.
Thank God.
THE ONLY WAY
FRIDAY I HEAD TO CLASS knowing I can forget about Luis’s we’re doing this bullshit and focus on bracing myself against Cassidy and her Luisandsam crap.
I take my seat. He’s already there, in statue mode.
He gives the classroom a quick scan.
Then he leans in to me—dead serious—and he whispers, “Meet me after school. We’ll walk over to my place and write the poem there. We’ll have the weekend to get it on paper and two weeks to rehearse. The only way I’m doing this is if we completely kick ass on the eighth. It’s the only way.”
“Okay.”
Okay?
As soon as the word tumbles out, blood rushes to my head and I’m squeezing a dry heave.
“You all right?” he asks.
I hold my stomach and lean my head on my desk. I barely get out an “uh-huh.”
“I’ll see you after school then,” he says.
SCARED
I DO IT.
I meet him after school.
I go because I’m too scared not to.
But being scared is only 99 percent of the reason why I join Luis after school.
Th
e other 1 percent doesn’t have much to do with fear at all.
The 1 percent is made up of the following:
a) I’m bored.
b) Too many old people.
c) Curiosity.
Let’s take these in order:
For starters, I’m so bored I can’t stand it. I gotta do something! This is the first time I’ve felt like doing anything in forever. And that’s huge, because my level of boredom has been unprecedented. I’ve been so bored I don’t feel like anything can be not boring. Eating, watching TV, going fishing … even listening to Nirvana.
I know there’s more to life than this pile of blah and sometimes I convince myself to get out there and look for it. But I just can’t make the move. I can’t start.
I can’t begin to start trying.
Until now.
I don’t know why. I don’t know what it is, but there’s this little piece of me that wants to do something about it.
To try and get my ass moving.
The next part of the 1 percent: I’m spending too much time with too many old people. No offense to Ginny and Bill, but I’d like to hang out with someone who doesn’t have her hair dyed bluish, or someone who doesn’t have more hair growing out of his ears and nose than the top of his head. And it’d be nice to have a conversation with someone who doesn’t start sentences with “I remember when I was your age,” followed by a firsthand account of plowing the fields behind a mule or joining Pa to take up arms against the British in the fucking Revolutionary War!
The third and final portion of the 1 percent is curiosity.
I’m curious about Luis.
I wanna know what Luis is like. I mean, I thought I knew what he was like. I thought he was someone who wouldn’t write a poem for stupid Cassidy. I don’t know why, but I wanna know. And I’m curious to see where a kid like him lives. How he lives.
The fear of what Luis would do to me if I don’t meet him is so big that this 1 percent of stuff doesn’t even matter. I’d be meeting Luis if the 1 percent didn’t exist.
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