by K. A. Holt
Talk to me, Levi.
Tell me about . . . things.
Mom plops on the couch,
her head snuggles my shoulder.
We could talk about Dad.
We could talk about Tam.
We could talk about Timothy.
Or . . . we could just . . . be.
I have a joke, I offer.
Her hair smells like outside
and fajitas
and shampoo.
Okay, she says. Shoot.
What’s brown and sticky?
I pause for dramatic effect.
I don’t know. What?
A stick.
Timothy slides in next to us,
stealing my punchline,
his big body making the couch sag
into a smile.
That’s a terrible joke
Mom laughs.
And we all sit together
trying to out-bad-joke each other
laughing and laughing
until the oven dings
and it’s time to eat.
At dinner it happens.
My head gets light
the air
it seems stuck
like trying to suck
glue through a straw.
Breathin’ easy, Levi?
Timothy sees it first.
I nod.
I want to be OK.
But the air can’t find a way
into my lungs.
Get his inhaler.
Mom says this to Timothy
as if I weren’t right here,
as if I couldn’t stand up and find it
myself.
They are in Sick Levi Mode,
three seconds flat.
Timothy has my puffer,
is down on his knees
beside me,
dinner forgotten.
Should I get the Os?
I take two puffs.
I take two more.
The air flows better
but still not great.
No oxygen
I say.
But really
I have no say.
Mom has her purse already.
Off to the ER we go.
Oxygen
Steroids
Nebulizer
Oxygen
Steroids
Nebulizer
By the time I can breathe again
my heart rate is one million
my head is full of bees
my hands are shaking
my palms damp
my face sweaty
but the air sings in my lungs
fills every tiny crevice
and I feel like a balloon
like I might float to the ceiling
stay there a while.
The doctor says it’s just a bad cold.
She says we can go home.
No supersonic jets to Cincinnati
today.
Mom seems relieved.
Timothy does, too.
But do either of them think
we could have just fixed me up
at home
instead?
We have everything we need
and maybe they could trust me
to say how I’m feeling
without always packing up
and running
to the hospital.
Home sick today.
No school.
It’s a couch potato
nebulizer
puffer
kind of day.
Timothy stayed home.
No class for him
either.
One of my earliest memories . . .
I was feeling kind of sick
and Timothy
brought me my Spaceship Blanket,
tucked it around me
made me feel safe.
So when he finds it today
and tucks it under my cheek
I have this deep deep feeling
of calm.
And even though Spaceship Blanket
is a baby blanket
for once, I don’t feel like a baby
at all.
What’s that?
He points to the right
and I turn to look
while he grabs my wrist
puts a stethoscope over my shirt.
Is that a pterodactyl?
A dragon?
A princess?
This little game of distraction
is silly now
but I can’t remember a time
when we haven’t played it.
I see an angry burrito.
I see a turtle car.
I see galaxies swirl.
The stethoscope is as old
as me
and over the years
Timothy’s gotten as good
as a doctor
in hearing weird things
crackling up
from my lungs.
I see a spaceship.
I see a knight
who talks with his hands.
Timothy distracts me
making sure I’m still breathing easy,
making sure the oxygen tanks
can stay
in the closet.
It’s like he’s a doctor
already . . .
Like Dr. Sawyer
but with more
hair.
I ate soup.
He ate some, too.
We watched bad TV.
(ESPN 5!)
(No chess.)
We talked about school.
I told him
about Tam and Kate
(but not about boxing)
(and not about the chicken head)
but I did
mention
maybe doing
mascot tryouts.
He laughed,
said that sounded fun.
He listened,
he told me about Isa calling.
He told me about José
in Afghanistan
still.
We talked more
and ate more soup.
And I wonder
why does Timothy
only seem to know me
really (or take time to know me?)
when I’m not breathing easy?
Breathin’ easy?
Tam pops through my window
plops on the floor
grabs a pillow
props up her head.
Does your mom know you’re here?
Sneaking into a boy’s room?
We both make horror show faces
and laugh.
Just heading home from the game.
No chicken tonight.
So Kate was happy.
I try not to frown.
Five seconds in and already
Kate
is somehow here, too.
Isn’t there anywhere
she isn’t?
Did we win?
I don’t even know!
She laughs again.
Feeling better?
Yeah, but Mom thinks I’m dying.
Again?
I half-smile.
She half-smiles back.
You’re like a zombie, Levi,
all that almost dying and coming back.
Zombies have to actually die
and then come back.
You did that, too.
Shut up.
She hands me a candy bar
two bites missing.
You look alive to me.
No zombies here.
I take a double shot from my inhaler
shrug.
I feel at least one-quarter human,
three-quarters zombie.
Well, I’ll take it.
She stares at the ceiling.
I stare at the ceiling.
And I try my best
to actually breathe easy.
I have
so much to tell Tam that
I can’t find the words
to say anything.
This morning
my alarm
my blanket pulled over
my head
my eyes
won’t open
too early
too early
but school
but school
always school
sit up
look out the window
face the day
and I see it
on my desk
Timothy’s notebook
weird.
Mom must have messed up,
given it to me instead of him.
I should return it.
I shouldn’t open it.
But the mermaids sing
and there I am
in my pajamas
Timothy’s notebook on my lap
open.
How did that happen?
Timothy wrote that
under my Hi, Mom!
A page is folded down.
It wasn’t folded before.
As if the mermaids want me to say something,
I grab Timothy’s pen from my desk
and I write:
I slide the journal under his door
just before
I leave for the bus.
Feeling better?
Dad asks this
when I get into the car
toss my backpack
on the floor.
I nod.
Think you’re up for some boxing?
I shrug.
I’m TOTALLY up for boxing.
Totally up for feeling the beat
in my feet.
Totally up for dancing
with my fists.
But I still feel weird about telling Dad.
For some reason
this “who discovered boxing first” fight
is a fight I want to win.
What’s Timothy up to these days?
He sneaks that one in.
I could say
Studying for doctor school.
I could say
Driving me crazy.
I could say
Making sure I do my homework,
leaving me his journal,
keeping me breathing easy.
But I just shrug.
I figure Dad can ask Timothy.
I’m no informant,
I’m no spy.
He’ll have to break down the wall
or climb over it
to catch Timothy’s eye.
I see the dudes laughing
huddled up
watching me
not even pretending not to.
It’s not like I don’t know
my arms are skinny
my legs are skinnier.
It’s not like I don’t know
my head is
my chest so thin
you can count all the ribs.
It doesn’t mean I don’t try hard.
It doesn’t mean I don’t hit harder
like my muscles
are huge and dangerous
able to kill turds like those guys
with a single hit.
So I just punch the bag
hard
harder
hardest
and pretend I don’t see.
The bag is every dude here
the bag is Dad
the bag is Kate
the bag is Timothy
the bag is Tam
the bag is me
Bet you fifty bucks
you can’t hit my face
says a boxing guy
with a nose the size of Cleveland.
He smiles at the others
and I just sigh.
Have these guys
seen any movies,
ever?
Can’t they see how clichéd they are?
Jeez.
I try to walk away
but the guy jumps in front of me
points to his nose
Fifty—
but he doesn’t finish
because I surprise him
W H A M
right into the slant
of his giant schnoz.
Blood explodes
the guys all yell
WHOA
and HOLY#$%^^*!, BRO
and the guy staggers back
dripping surprise.
I wasn’t wearing a glove
my fingers hurt
but I don’t want it to show.
You said fifty bucks
I shake my fist
but my voice is strong.
The guy goes to his locker
pulls out a bill
wads it up
throws it at me
I catch it
smile.
How was practice?
Fine.
I think of the hit
of the money in my pocket.
Great, actually.
And I smile.
In fact,
Dad,
I was wondering . . .
can I go to more practices?
Maybe a couple of times a week?
Dad bites his lip
looks at me
then back at the road.
Don’t think I can afford that, kiddo.
It’s not like you’re trying out for the Olympic team
or something.
But I’m glad you’re having fun!
Wait.
What?
But Dad.
You wanted me to do this.
You want me to box,
to be a man,
to be the fly-fly-flyweight
champion of the world.
I don’t have the cash, Levi.
I am low on moola, benjamins, smackers.
But.
But.
I can’t think of a response.
He wanted me to do this.
And now I want to do this.
He’s created this monster
and he doesn’t want to feed it?
Its blue cover
familiar now
I don’t even care that
it isn’t mine.
I sit at his desk
and I use his pen,
the one I stole:
I close it.
Leave it on his desk.
Find a sport, Sport!
Be more sporty, Sport!
Oh, you found a sport, Sport?
Good job, Sport!
Wait, your sport costs money?
Well, sorry, Sport.
I wanted to encourage you, Sport,
but I didn’t think you’d actually do it,
Sport.
So.
Here I am
in the leaves
of my tree
mind churning
fists clenching
breathing
thinking
breathing
thinking
and then it comes to me
and I climb out of my tree.
He made me start boxing
now let’s see him stop me.
Hey, Levi.
Hey, Coach.
Whatcha doing here?
Uh . . . boxing, silly.
Yeah, well, your dad
only signed you up
for two classes a month.
It’s OK. I’ll stay. He’ll pay.
Side-eye.
No, really,
it’s fine.
All right, then,
get in there.
I smile.
Dad won’t mind
right?
By the time he finds out
I’ve added extra practices
he’ll be superproud
that I love to fight.
Right?
See, you need to guess:
What
is
he
t
hinking?
Coach points at the kid in the ring
across from me.
Get in his head.
Trick him with your moves.
But don’t let him trick you
with his.
I nod
bite hard
on my mouth guard.
And then
We dance
back and forth
to and fro
our feet hopping
sliding
to music only
we can hear.
The beat
beat
beat.
The drum
drum
drum.
The hum
hum
hum
of two heartbeats
becoming one.
My fist connects.
His does, too.
Pain explodes
in fireworks
in sparkles
in blazes
I suck in
deep breaths
more energy
to ignite
for him
sparkles in his nose
blazes setting fire
to his raw flank.
I move from minute to minute,
hour to hour,
a hop skip jump
from one second
to the next,
and my earbuds scream
The Band With No Name,
a soundtrack
moving me along,
giving me big beats
like ellipses . . .
connecting me to the moments
strewn about my days.
Cheerleader practice.
Mascot practice.
If I walk to the boxing gym
I get to watch everything
as I go past.
It’s different than in my tree
watching tiny people
scatter around.
From up close I see the routines
hear Coach Ellison
see Kate
and how hard she works.
Tips and tricks for me
and the chicken head.
It’s nice to get my blood pumping
