by K. A. Holt
I would like to unzip
my lips
rewind
time
flush that pen
down the biggest toilet
I can find
and suck most of those words
back inside.
Timothy leans in the room,
frisbees the notebook
on my bed
and pivots
out again.
His words slice at me
swords
leaving open wounds
that bleed
drips of my heart
but I can’t stop reading:
My sliced-open heart
just
drips
drips
drips.
And now I’m back home.
Doorbell rings
Tam?
But Mom says no.
Brain rest, the doctor said.
No books.
No screens.
No visitors.
No helping Coach.
No thinking.
No anything.
And since
all my lies
are now lying
around me
like rotten apples
fallen from a tree
I guess
I guess
I really do
have nothing to
do.
Brain rest.
Rest brain.
Brain rest.
Rest brain.
No earbuds.
No music.
No anything.
Just my own thoughts.
My own songs
on repeat
again
and
again
and
again.
Except
all of this nothing is
making me think
of everything:
. . . boxing is done
. . . mascot is done
. . . Tam hates me
. . . Dad hates me
. . . Timothy hates me
. . . Mom hates me
. . . now what?
Would anyone notice
if I disappeared?
Went away
found a new school?
New friends
New home?
PART II
KNOCKOUT!
Timothy is right.
I don’t know what house arrest
is really like
but
these days
with no boxing
no mascot
just detentions
bus
school
home
I can maybe understand
what it felt like.
I can maybe understand
the itchiness up your spine
when you know you
built this cage
all on your own.
We’re all set.
Mom hangs up the phone.
Huh?
I haven’t been paying attention
to whatever’s going on.
Cincinnati.
Spring break.
Soon.
Oh. Great
I say
as images of oxygen masks
IVs
recovery rooms
flash in front of my eyes.
Something to look forward to.
Boredom punches my guts.
And the holes it leaves
leak out
so many feelings
about how everyone
everyone
is mad at me.
I can’t have everyone mad at me
so I go to him,
to Timothy’s room.
He’s at his desk,
says no words
when I walk in
walk right up to his journal
open it
and write:
while he watches me.
Timothy takes the pen,
he writes:
I take the pen
and write:
Timothy writes:
I just keep writing:
Timothy takes the pen
wraps his strong arms around me.
I’m sorry.
I’m hiccupping.
I’m crying.
I didn’t know
I really didn’t know
just how much I’ve wanted my big brother’s arms
to be doing this exact hugging
right now.
Lunch.
Alone.
Tam.
With Kate.
Another table.
Far away.
I put in my earbuds
The Band with No Name
screams in my head.
I wish they had more albums
to get me through
these endless days.
I could ride their words
to a new place
with better lunch,
with zero Kates.
Just a quick Internet search . . .
Who knew?
So many other schools!
Private schools
church schools
home school
unschool.
All these choices,
who knew?
Franklin Middle School:
What do I have here?
Chicken head . . . done
Tam . . . gone
detentions . . . always
so why not a change?
Why not climb
a different tree,
see what I can see?
OK, Sport, let’s go.
It’s Dad time now.
No.
You can’t say no.
You’re twelve.
Let’s go.
NO.
I WON’T.
Annie?
Dad looks to Mom
she looks to me.
He can stay
she says.
He can stay with me.
Pretty sure that’s
against the divorce decree
Dad says,
his face turning red.
Levi.
You’re coming with me.
Now.
I shake my head.
You gonna pick me up
with your big strong arms,
carry baby Levi
to your car?
My arms are crossed hard
against my pounding chest.
He squeezes his lips
into a very tight line.
Fine
he says,
throwing his hands in the air.
Fine.
See if I care.
After he leaves
he doesn’t call.
I don’t either.
He doesn’t text.
I don’t either.
An extralong Dad vacation.
A big fat breather.
We eat together now
more often than not,
just me and Mom.
No more rushing home
late to dinner
because of Chess Club
or “Chess Club”
or
““Chess Club””
So we sit
and we don’t say much.
It’s quiet
and kind of nice, actually.
Though I admit
I still miss Timothy.
Always studying now,
never out of his room.
Never eating dinner with us,
never watching TV,
never laughing and joking
and teasing me.
I miss him.
I do.
Another thing
in the missing category . . .
BOXING.
I liked it
so much.
So much.
Now that it’s gone . . .
I feel lost.
It’s
not just that I want to hit people
or that I like to hit people,
really it’s not.
(OK, sometimes it is.)
It’s that I like to feel strong.
I like to feel ten feet tall.
And when I am slap dash fast
when I pop and feint
when I dart and jab
I am so fast
I am so strong
I get in my hits
not because I want to hurt someone
but because
it makes me not hurt
anymore.
I even miss cleaning the gym,
listening to Coach whistle
while he points at gross stuff for me to do.
Who knew
I’d dream of dirty towels
every night
like
they might wrap up all my problems
and make them go away.
Swoosh
B A M
Swoosh
B A M B A M
Online videos are my new best friend.
Boxing videos make our living room my gym.
I copy the moves
pause the footwork
watch their faces
as they sweat
concentrate.
And on this one video
I see a kid my age
wearing a shirt that says
Xaviers
and the gym wall also says
Xaviers
and so I pause the video.
I search for
Xaviers
and . . .
Oh.
Whoa.
I feel the hairs on my neck
stand up tall.
Xaviers.
I click and read
click and read
click and read.
It starts in eighth grade!
And goes all the way through high school!
And there’s a boxing team!
(What!)
And it’s a boarding school!
((Extra what!))
And it’s only a few hours away!
And I want to go!
I really, really want to go.
How did I not know
schools like this
exist?
I want this to be MY school.
I want it to be my school now.
Xaviers.
Sounds like a knockout punch,
a winner supreme.
Of course
there is the small fact
that
ALL TRUST HAS BEEN LOST, LEVI.
So how exactly do I show this to Mom
to Timothy
(to Dad)?
How exactly
might that work?
Hmmm.
Speaking of not working,
my puffer has gone kaput.
I mean, it works
but the medicine doesn’t.
I feel like my breath
is coming through Mom’s coffee straws.
Not all the time,
but more often than not.
I don’t want to tell Mom
but I should probably tell her
except I also want to tell her
about Xaviers
and that’s not great timing, is it?
She’s going to be like
Yes! Awesome! Go to a new school!
Oh wait,
you can’t breathe, Levi.
You won’t be safe, Levi.
I can’t trust you, Levi.
What a dumb idea, Levi.
Ugh.
A knock on my door.
You wanna go for a walk?
Timothy.
Don’t tell me
you’re starting law school now?
And veterinarian school?
And trying out for NASA?
Har. Har.
He sounds serious.
Just come on,
let’s talk, OK?
So I say, OK.
I know the perfect place.
I don’t know why,
but I suddenly
more than anything
want to show him my tree.
I wonder if my tree
notices I’m not there.
I wonder if it misses me.
I guess not.
It’s just a tree.
But still,
maybe it notices a difference
in its leaves.
Timothy looks up into the leaves,
eyebrows high on his forehead.
You climb this thing?
He looks surprised.
It feels weird to see him here
like he’s somehow inside
my mind.
It makes me feel
shy
so
so
so
I climb.
Levi! What—
My feet hit the bark
and I fly up the trunk
fast
an animal.
I know just how to do it,
just where to place
every step, every grasp.
I don’t have to think,
the leaves wrap me up
they say hello
old friend
hello
where have you been?
(I swear
I can tell
they did miss me.)
And Timothy yells up
Levi! Be careful!
And he doesn’t know
how full of care
I feel right now
for the world
I’m on top of
again.
I don’t stay up there very long.
Soon the branches tug,
saying good-bye
as I climb my way down
and smile
at Timothy’s surprise.
My arms fling out
when my feet hit the ground,
a magician’s trick complete,
a gymnast’s final leap.
And Timothy claps.
Wow, he says,
look at you.
You think this is cool?
You should see me box!
We sit in the shade
quietly for a while
drinking sodas
thinking thoughts
then Timothy pulls a different notebook
from his bag.
It’s blue, too,
but old, scribbled on
scratched up.
It says Timothy Davidson
in fading black letters
on the top.
My journal from when I was your age.
He hands it to me.
You don’t have to read it
but,
and now he’s the one who looks shy,
you can.
I take the notebook,
a blue time machine
in my hand.
I didn’t know any of this!
I flip through the pages.
You stole a wallet?!
Timothy nods.
You stole a car?!
He nods again.
You never told me
you went to juvie
to save my life.
Why did no one tell me that?
You could have told me
I say,
holding the journal.
You didn’t have to lie.
We didn’t lie.
You just didn’t need to know.
But why?
Levi.
Why?
I thought
you would have thought
it was all your fault.
Timothy puts his hand on my shoulder.
But none of it was your fault
that’s what I was telling you
by not telling you.
You were a baby.
You were sick.
Now you’re better.
Now you’re big.
A
nd if I had to,
I’d do it all over
again.
The end.
But is it
the end
now that I’ve learned
these things?
What else is in this journal?
What else don’t I know?
Enchiladas
borracho beans
rice
Mom
Timothy
Me
All of us at the table
for the first time
in a long time
and so what do I do?
Do I say, Oh, hey
by the way
I can’t breathe anymore?
Or do I say, Oh hey
check out this cooler than cool school
called Xaviers.
I mean,
which would YOU choose?
It looks great
Mom says
and I can tell
from her dark sad eyes
there’s going to be
a very big
but
and yep
here it is
BUT
BUT
BUT
even if I felt comfortable
sending you off on your own
(which I don’t)
we don’t have the money
for a school like this
there is no way we could afford it,
Levi.
Don’t steal a wallet!
Timothy shouts from the kitchen
while he scoops ice cream
and Mom smiles
for just a second
then goes back to her
sad eyes.
I am so tired
of Mom’s sad eyes.
Why do you have to always say no?
I ask
trying not to shout.
Would it hurt to ever say maybe?
To just try that out?
To see how it feels
inside?
To feel the way
opens like a parachute
instead of closes
like the ground
smashing your face?
