Gabby Garcia's Ultimate Playbook

by Iva-Marie Palmer

  I actually didn’t know this. I glanced sideways at Molly, looking for some kind of nod that this was true but she was furiously writing notes into a journal. So, since Katy seemed sure about it, I said, “Yup, poems have to be whatever they want to be.”

  Now Lisa, the magician (who I swear hadn’t been anywhere near us two seconds ago, that’s how good she is at magic!), said, “That’s really, really poetic.” (Side note: this was the first time I’d ever heard her talk. I was pretty sure most of the team didn’t hear her voice that often.)

  Molly tilted her head to the side and looked at me as if she was deciding something very important. Then she said, “You know, I didn’t know there was so much to you, Gabby. Guys, don’t you think she should join us as part of the showcase?”

  Katy rolled her eyes. “Of course Gabby should. We don’t have a poet yet!” Then she looked at me and grinned. “But, yeah, you need to hang out with all of us. We’d love it.”

  As the rest of the team nodded and got excited about me joining them for this hangout, I felt my new poet self beginning to take over. And as I write this now, in the privacy of my room, I’ve decided, yes, I’m going to be a poet. No, actually, I AM a poet.

  I grinned and inspiration struck:

  “You don’t have to ask me twice. That would be super-nice!”

  A WIN! I’M IN!

  WINS: 4

  LOSSES: 8 (but on the verge of a major turnaround!)

  THE POET AND YOU DIDN’T KNOW IT

  Goal: Alongside my new team, win the United States Preteen Talent Showcase.

  Action: Be a poet? (There is no rulebook for this!)

  Post-Day Analysis:

  May 1

  With my new true goal in mind, I suddenly felt better. Poetry was easy, right?

  I went to bed last night thinking so, and woke up charged to write something.

  But, then . . .

  Winning, a Poem by Gabby Garcia

  I like more than anything to win

  It’s always just been who I am

  With winning in mind, is how I begin

  My poetic quest to (PUT RHYME HERE)

  Some people say to win is not the only thing

  Those people are wrong

  Sorry if you don’t agree,

  The thrill of victory is the best

  Losing is the worst

  I can’t think of the rest

  Poetry is hard.

  Okay, very hard.

  The good thing was that I finally felt positive about my direction. I knew where my win would come from: the talent showcase, which my team—no, talent squad—felt confident we could win. And in this case, I wouldn’t have to prove myself with rapport or be the jinx or be the one doing all the work on the field. They had a lot of talent, so now I just needed to develop mine.

  But I also had a lot of catching up to do at school. I still had that C in history. And my grades in English and algebra were veering toward B territory.

  The guidance counselor wanted to meet with me because my grades had dropped from Luther and she wanted to know how I was “adjusting.” That word again. I went to see her and it was awkward. I was trying to make it quick because I had a poetry career to start.

  Me: Hi, Ms. Counselor. It’s nice of you to be concerned but I’m fine!

  Guidance Counselor: Ms. Garcia, you don’t need to be ashamed if this is a hard transition for you. You’ve been through a lot.

  Me: But I think I’ve figured things out. I feel great, honest!

  Guidance Counselor: May I at least give you some pamphlets to help you? And maybe you can visit again when you’re ready to discuss your situation?

  Me: Do you have any pamphlets on how to write poetry?

  Guidance Counselor (with concerned face): What are you trying to express, Ms. Garcia? Do you have some feelings you’d like to explore?

  Me: What feelings do you think you’d vote for, if I wrote about them?

  Guidance Counselor: I’m confused.

  Me: Hmm. It seems like you need some time to think about that. Gotta go!

  And then Johnny made a comment in algebra that bugged me.

  “So how’s field hockey?” he asked.

  “Great! Marvelous! Stupendous!” I was tapping into my entire vocabulary so my poems might be better. “Did you know about all their talents? I’m going to be the team poet.”

  He frowned. “Yeah, I know about them; it’s school tradition. But, poetry, you just decided that?” He looked down at his notebook of numbers like there’d be some explanation there. “Don’t you feel weird to not play baseball? I, um, took a look at your old stats. You were a really good pitcher at Luther. And now you’re just . . . quitting?”

  I said, in a hushed whisper, “You’re the one who said they needed one good player. And you never mentioned the talent stuff.”

  Johnny’s eyes went wide. “I DID say that, but it was just a hypothetical. I didn’t think someone who loved baseball the way you seem to, and who can play like you can, would actually quit to join FIELD HOCKEY.”

  Oh. I didn’t know what to say to that. Thank goodness Mr. Patler handed out a pop quiz so I didn’t have to think about it. Johnny was right. I wasn’t totally comfortable quitting the sport I’d played my whole life. Not at all. But I hadn’t been comfortable since I got here. And now I felt, well, pretty okay. I did quit the Penguins, but I’d had my reasons. The talent showcase was something I could win this year, and next year I’d be back at Luther and everything would go back to normal. Normal, with me playing baseball and being the Golden Child again and not being called a jinx. Why couldn’t he mind his own business? And also, be more specific and not HYPOTHETICAL!

  Besides, there were already plenty of non-hypothetical positives. At lunch, the field hockey team—um, talent showcase squad?—had called me over to sit with them.

  (I’m still running the Scope, Ditch, and Switch every morning, though. Today, Dad had packed me some kind of double-decker sandwich made from assorted leftovers that might have been okay to eat but even in my lunch pack was leaning to one side like a condemned skyscraper. Oh, that’s a simile!)

  Now that I had a team that wanted me on it, Piper Bell was starting to feel like my school instead of some place I got left because no one else wanted me. I was definitely not a Luther Polluter anymore. The only thing is, until I really get the hang of poetry, I’m still a little lost talking to the talent squad. I don’t exactly have a ton of works in progress to discuss.

  So I decided to keep being mysterious. It was working pretty well. Like this scene from lunch, which we ate in an empty classroom. Molly called it an Inspiration Meet-Up:

  I knew with the right motivation I’d be fine. I just needed a cheerleader to get me on the right path, to tell me to get in the game and write poetry. So I went to my number one fan, Diego. He was at the wonky internet café and the connection for our video call was so bad we had to use an ancient form of communication: instant messaging. It wasn’t very instant, at all. I’m shocked our parents have made it as far as they have.

  Diego260: How was the field hockey game?

  Gabbyrulez: Awful! So awful!!

  Diego260: Ugh. I’m sorry. Did you not like it? How was the team?

  Gabbyrulez: The team might be the worst field hockey players alive.

  Diego260: Hmm. Maybe you can get back on the baseball team?

  Gabbyrulez: Nope. To them I’m a jinx, remember?

  Diego260: I think you’re giving up too easy on them. Why would you want to be on a bad field hockey team when you can be on a good baseball team? You love baseball!

  Gabbyrulez: But the field hockey team is actually a TALENT SQUAD. And with our combined talents, we’re going to win a trip to New York to be on NATIONAL TV.

  Diego260: So is your talent baseball?

  Gabbyrulez: No. Not to them. I’m a poet.

  Diego260: Wait . . . What? Huh?

  Gabbyrulez: Yup. Poetry. Cool, right?

  Diego260: You’ve neve
r written a poem in your life.

  Gabbyrulez: No. But I will. And I sort of did. It’s just a bad poem.

  Diego260: Gabby, I don’t mean to sound unsupportive, but this sounds bad.

  Gabbyrulez: . . .

  Diego260: Don’t be mad. But, poetry?

  Gabbyrulez: I’m sure there’s been a poetic baseball player. One, two, three, tell me!

  Diego260: Uh, I guess Yogi Berra said some poetic things. But he never quit baseball.

  Gabbyrulez: I’m not quitting. It’s a hiatus. When there’s no more asbestos at Luther, I’m back.

  Diego260: I’ll send you some Yogi Berra thoughts. But I still think this is weird.

  Gabbyrulez: So is living among the monkeys of Costa Rica.

  Diego260: That’s not my fault!! My parents feed me and I’m a growing boy. I have to go where they go.

  Gabbyrulez: You’re tall enough.

  Diego260: Be nice, or I won’t send you those Yogi-isms.

  Gabbyrulez: You’re the best, Diego.

  And he was the best, but I really needed some poetic insight.

  I needed an expert opinion. Expert meaning “old person.”

  My dad was in the kitchen, with his hands literally in the butt of a chicken. Maybe asking him for advice was a horrible idea.

  It was a dead chicken, a grocery store chicken, not one with feathers. But still, it seemed like he was having some trouble with it because the whole bird kept sliding off his hands into the pan. It didn’t help that he kept looking away from his project to check the score on the baseball game playing on the living room TV.

  “Hey, Gabby, just doing a spice rub on this bird. I’m trying something new: an interior spice rub. Flavor inside and out.” He grinned and dipped his fingers in a bowl of spices, then massaged the top of the chicken very lovingly. I wondered if I should play some romantic music for them.

  “Maybe I should let you get back to work . . . ,” I said, backing out of the kitchen.

  “Nah, what do you need?” Dad washed his hands at the sink and wiped them on his apron, which has a picture of a pig and Cupid on it and says, “Love at First Bite.” The chicken was probably jealous.

  “Just, well, how do you become a poet?” I asked.

  He leaned against the counter and looked thoughtfully around the kitchen. “A poet? I guess you write some poems.”

  “Dad! That’s not helpful!”

  “Well, most hard questions have simple answers that are hard to hear,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Peter piped up from the kitchen counter, where he was supposed to be doing his homework but was actually drawing a large, drooling swamp monster. “Like when Gabby annoys me, I should simply make her go away but it’s not that easy. The truth hurts. Me most of all.”

  “I’ll show you a truth that hurts,” I threw back, not knowing how I’d actually do this.

  My dad held up his hands and said, “Stop! I wanna hear the game.” Hearing sports goings-on is a go-to peacekeeping measure in our house.

  Peter stuck out his tongue out at me and went back to drawing. My dad and I both paused to watch Andre Ethier’s at bat against the Braves. Our pitcher walked him. We shrugged at each other. It could have been worse.

  “So . . . poetry . . . ,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “What can you tell me?”

  I was expecting something good. My dad was a writer, after all.

  But then he shrugged. “It’s not like baseball, Gabs,” he said.

  Not to be disrespectful, but that was a big “no duh.”

  But he went on. “I mean, baseball is very ordered and structured in a way. There are rules and a way of playing, so even when a game has surprises, they still fit into something bigger,” he said. “Poetry has some structure, sometimes, but it’s more like a feeling. It doesn’t always make sense, until it does.”

  “Baseball is kind of like a feeling, sometimes,” I said, and thought how it had been way too long since I’d been on a ball field, even if it had only been about a week. It really stunk. Even filling my brain with poetic thoughts and appreciation for my new friends couldn’t entirely push baseball from my mind. It really was like breathing to me.

  Dad examined his chicken, rubbing more spices here and there like it was a baby who needed rash cream. “Hmm, you’re right,” he said. “Maybe you’re more of a poet than me.”

  “Who’s a poet?” Louie said, coming in the back door and tossing her workbag on the table. She gave Dad a kiss on the cheek and raised an eyebrow at the chicken.

  Dad looked from her to me. “I don’t know . . . Gabby, why the sudden interest in poetry?”

  I’d already told them to give me time to get used to field hockey before they saw me play. And that was more so they could get used to it. I didn’t want to give them another NEW GABBY thing. I’d have to eat the whole chicken to prove I was feeling okay. Better to just become an amazing poet, win the talent show, and then reveal my new plan. Once it had all worked out for me.

  “School project,” I said, because that would put an end to all further questions.

  Except mine.

  Was this a win? A loss? The start of a poem?

  WINS: 4

  LOSSES: 8 (holding steady while things are too close to call)

  POETIC-ISH THINGS YOGI BERRA SAID, ACCORDING TO DIEGO

  •“When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

  •“You can observe a lot just by watching.”

  •“The future ain’t what it used to be.”

  •“It gets late early out there.”

  •“If the world were perfect, it wouldn’t be.”

  •“No one goes there nowadays, it’s too crowded.”

  •“It ain’t over till it’s over.”

  ODE TO A SPICY CHICKEN

  By Gabby Garcia

  Oh, chicken, oh, chicken,

  Fresh from the store,

  I wonder if you knew

  What you were in for

  When you landed in our kitchen.

  Oh, chicken, oh, chicken,

  Did you have any clue

  What would happen to you?

  Forgive my father.

  He is very enthusiastic.

  If you were still alive,

  You would sneeze.

  Do chickens sneeze?

  Is this a poem?

  POETRY IN MOTION

  Goal: Live up to my poetic promise.

  Action: Take on a step-by-step plan to be the best poet I can be. (For all the world to see. On TV! Yes. I’m committed to this.)

  Post-Day Analysis:

  May 5

  No one was really going to help me figure out this poetry thing, I could see. The people most likely to be useful—the field hockey team/talent squad—thought I was already a poet (with amazing field hockey skills), so I needed to sort through this thing myself. I’d have to focus on the poems. In baseball, or any sport really, players can break it down into parts they need to address. Offense, defense, form, speed, agility.

  I needed to look at poetry as parts I could put together in the same way.

  SO, MY STEP-BY-STEP STRATEGY:

  •Read a LOT of poetry. (Okay, read SOME poetry. It takes a long time when you keep falling asleep, but sometimes poetry is really boring.)

  •Dress like a poet. This is harder since poets throughout time have dressed in a lot of ways. But I eliminated ruffled shirts with fancy sleeves (I’m a messy eater and also ruffles seem like a lot of work) and long, flowery dresses. That leaves me with wearing a lot of black—sort of like a uniform—so I’m going with that.

  •Have a poetic disposition. I don’t know—some of these poets were really depressing. Edgar Allan Poe—that guy was spooky. Emily Dickinson never left her house. Lord Byron was always heartbroken, or, you know, breaking hearts. That’s not really my thing. Mysterious but upbeat is going to have to do the trick for me.

  •Master a poetic style. Nope, I don’t know how I’m going to do this, either. Easy rhymes and fre
e verse are my starting points, but I’m not really getting anywhere, even if I had to start somewhere. (Was that poetic?)

  I only had one finished poem so far. The chicken one, I decided, was weird and not finished, but this one was maybe a little better.

  It was about clouds because I kept looking out the window while I wrote it (in algebra class, where I’d been avoiding any and all eye contact with Johnny) and clouds seemed more poem-friendly than the value of X.

  I ended that last line with no rhyme because POETIC LICENSE.

  (There’s this poet, e. e. cummings, who used all kinds of poetic license. He made up his own words and didn’t use capital letters, even in his name. So, if he can do that, I can end my poems however I want. Poetic license would be a fun way to go through life.)

  TIMES IT WOULD BE NICE TO SAY “POETIC LICENSE” AND HAVE IT GET YOU OUT OF THINGS

  •Speeding tickets—“I was driving one hundred in a forty-five because of my poetic license.”

  •Pop quizzes—“I answered all the questions with questions because poetic license.”

  •Dentist appointments—“I’m afraid that’s not a real cavity and just your imagination. Poetic license.”

  •Lackluster report cards—“I liked the way the Bs and Cs looked together because of poetic license.”

  •Trips to weird relatives’ houses—“I have to claim poetic license instead of going to view Uncle Dan’s photos of his mushroom-gathering expedition.”

  I was learning. I could write free verse poems and poems that followed a structure, like limericks or haikus. (Those are both short, too.) And there are poetic devices, like metaphors and similes. We’ve gone over them in English class. (I need to study up on them because I didn’t exactly pay great attention the first time around.)

  There is also alliteration, which is when a set of words starts with the same letter or sound. My name, Gabby Garcia, qualifies! In other words, I probably AM destined for this poetry thing. Gabby Garcia’s got a good grasp of grammar—that’s alliteration. (But really, my grammar isn’t perfect and that’s okay. POETIC LICENSE!)

  I never think much about words—it’s always been my dad’s thing—but maybe it’s in my bones. Maybe the asbestos at Luther had to happen because I’ve been a poet all along. Or at least a poet until I win that trophy and the TV showcase.