to class.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Mm-hm.” I curl myself
tighter around my books.
Wally keeps looking at me.
“I’m okay now,” I add.
I wipe my lips on my shoulder.
He nods.
“Good.”
Filth at School
No one but Wally,
and the counselor,
and maybe Ms. Dryden,
knows or suspects
my dad left me.
No one suspects
Mr. Paul
did that stuff
to me.
No one says,
“She stinks!”
But I can smell
his breath,
constantly.
Sharpening My Pencil
Did I do anything—
No!
To make Mr. Paul—
No!
Do that to me?
No!
My clothes?
No!
Not wearing a bra?
No!
The way I smiled?
No!
Anything?
No! No! No!
A Moment
My desk and I
are hurtling toward a black hole.
Stars blur and zip past.
I’m falling into an emptiness
where kids disappear,
and dads disappear,
and now I’m going to disappear.
“Essie?”
Ms. Dryden touches my arm
and zaps me back
just in time.
Egyptians
Ms. Dryden shows us
Egyptian stuff.
The pyramids,
the gods,
the paintings,
the land.
What I notice most
are all those eyes
staring at me,
painted on everything.
To Finish
It feels like
Mr. Paul is going to be
around every corner,
looking in every window,
reaching out to grab me
from behind
to finish
hurting me
all the way.
Peeking in the Window
Chris’s dad came in
during recess
to clean out Chris’s desk.
Maybe just so
his stuff wouldn’t be here
alone by itself.
Or maybe because
he wanted everything of Chris’s
around him at home.
It couldn’t be
because he’s giving up.
It doesn’t matter
if he took everything.
That’s still Chris’s desk
whether his stuff is in there
or not.
The whole time
his dad was reaching in
and pulling things out—
Chris’s notebooks,
a yo-yo,
a book—
I wanted to go in and ask,
“Could you be my dad?
Maybe till Chris gets back?
Just for a little while?
You could keep Mr. Paul away.”
But I didn’t go in.
I didn’t ask.
Twirling
“More,” says Wally.
We twirl our swings
as tight as they will go.
The chains
are lumped and bumped
tight over each other.
My hands are red
from the rust.
“Now!” says Wally.
We lift our feet
and spin
super fast.
Then slow
down,
down,
until we are wrapping the chains
the other way.
And unwinding again.
“Whoa, that was great!” says Wally.
“Let’s do it again,”
But I feel
sick
from spinning.
This Mess
The classroom is empty except
for the big roach
with its back legs jacked up
in front of Ms. Dryden’s desk.
I don’t wait a second.
With one step,
I crunch it.
It smashes
under my sneaker.
White eggs
squirt out.
I drag my shoe clean
then go sit.
Someone else
can clean up this mess.
“Gross!” everyone says
as they come in.
“Since you’re late, Jarin,
you can clean that up,” says Ms. Dryden.
I can’t keep
from smiling.
Wanted
Mom drives by that house
where the stuff was by the curb,
and the chair is gone.
Someone took it,
or wanted it,
even if it was
the garbage man.
Same as Mr. Paul
wanting me.
That sicko.
I’m not like that old chair.
“Beautiful and precious,”
I chant in my head
the rest of the way home.
Overheard
I come into the living room.
Mom says
into the phone,
“He’s been our friend for years, Jayni.
I couldn’t even think
of what to do afterward.
What he did to Estele—”
My heart jerks.
She looks at me.
She’s betrayed me
to Mrs. Lyon,
telling what he did.
Saying it out loud
and making it all
happen again
in my head.
“I’ll call you later,” she says.
I race
to the bathroom
to brush my teeth.
I Yell
“You didn’t have to tell!” I yell at Mom.
I spit
into the sink.
“You didn’t have to tell!”
She covers her mouth and nods.
“I’m sorry, Estele,” she says.
“I needed to talk to Mrs. Lyon.
I knew she would help me
decide what to do.
She helped me see that
this wasn’t a mistake between friends.
It was a crime.
I needed her input.”
I wipe the toothpaste and tears
onto my sleeve.
“Why don’t you tell her
every single thing about
what Dad did to you
if you want more input!
I never tell anyone your stuff!”
I shove my way out the bathroom door.
Mom doesn’t stop me.
Later
She finds me
in the backyard.
“Come down, Estele Leann,” she begs
from the bottom of the mango tree.
I hug my knees tighter
and squeeze the branch.
“The call wasn’t really about you.
It was about what to do about Mr. Paul
because of what he did to you.”
“Stop!”
I cover my ears.
“Come on, sweetheart.
I just needed someone to help.
I didn’t know what I should do
about
what happened.
I wasn’t trying to hurt you.
Please come down.”
All of a sudden
I feel dizzy,
and it seems like
I’ve climbed too high.
I shimmy down,
not totally wanting to,
>
but my legs
are shaking,
and I’m scared up here
alone.
I drop onto the grass
and let her hug me.
She talked
to Mrs. Lyon
because she loves me.
I can hear it around her words.
It doesn’t make any sense.
But I hear it.
A Few Minutes
“Because it’s the right thing.”
Mom scratches her belly.
“But why?”
I inch closer to her
on the couch.
“Because if we tell
the police
everything,
they can stop Mr. Paul
from hurting anyone else.
“But it’ll be so embarrassing,”
“For a few minutes,” she says.
A few minutes
of feeling like I’m going to die
so that Mr. Paul
won’t ever touch another kid.
It won’t kill
me.
Mom goes on. “How about
I ask the police to come
tomorrow after school?
We can file a report.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
Very Early
The morning sun slices through
the shrubs
and stabs my eyes.
I rip off
a broken palmetto frond.
The sharp brown points
stand out stiff.
With my back to the sun,
I carefully
bend the slats,
and weave them
over and under each other.
They lie flat.
I tuck the last end.
A perfect Peter Pan hat.
I slip it on.
My eyes are shaded.
I stop squinting,
face the sun,
and look at
the beautiful morning.
Zooming
School zooms by
because I know
the police will meet me
at home afterward.
I cram my heels
into the carpet
under my desk.
It doesn’t slow a thing
down.
Last Visit
The counselor leans forward.
“These meetings are for you, Essie.”
I nod.
“This is time for you to talk”
“I’m fine.
I don’t have anything to say is all.”
He glances at the clock.
“Why don’t we just say
you can stop in
whenever you feel like you need to.”
“Okay.”
That’s so way better
than him trying to make me say stuff.
“You can go, Essie.”
“Thanks!”
I give him
the first smile ever,
because I don’t have to come back
next week.
I just don’t like talking
to someone I hardly know.
I’d go to Mom, Wally, or Ms. Dryden first,
if I ever needed to spill my guts.
I walk out of his office.
Three big kids are lined up
to go in next.
Maybe they’ll want to talk
and that’ll make the counselor
feel better.
Again
They’re here.
I cross my braids
over my mouth.
What a freak-out
to have two police officers
across the table.
One man and one woman.
These are different
from the ones I talked to about Chris.
But it feels the same as before.
I’m the dirty bad guy.
The man closes his notebook.
Mom nudges my hand.
My braids drop
against my chest.
“You did great, Essi,”
the woman says.
“Yes, you did,” says the man.
“Thanks,” I answer.
I twist my shirttail.
I had to tell
everything
about Mr. Paul
kissing and touching
me.
Mom pats my shoulder.
At least I told exactly
what he did,
and I knew what he was wearing,
even though they didn’t ask.
Shew.
I did
do a good job.
This time.
“Can I come out now?” calls Dale
from his bedroom.
“Yes,” says Mom.
Under the Mango Tree
Dale lines the grass blade
between his thumbs
and blows.
Eeeeeeeek!
It’s so piercing high,
I cover my ears
till he stops.
“Good one, Doozerdude.”
“Here. You try,”
He hands me a wide piece.
“Tine it up right,” he says.
I do
and blow
till spit mists my thumbs.
Nothing.
“I can never do it.”
I toss the blade
and wipe off my hands.
“Watch me again.” Dale tears out
another piece.
Eeeeeeeek!
“This is a good thing to know,”
Dale says, looking at me,
“in case you ever get in trouble.
Maybe you should practice some more,
Es.”
Gone
“What?”
Mom grips the kitchen counter
with one hand
and the phone with her other one.
“No, he’s lived there for years.”
Mom squeezes her forehead.
I stop loading the dishwasher.
“But are we …
is
she
safe?”
I drop the plate
into the sink.
Crash.
We jump.
“Yes,”
She hangs up the phone.
“What, Mom?”
“Mr. Paul is gone”
“What?” my voice squeaks.
“When the police
went to question him, Estele,
the apartment was cleaned out.”
“Gone where?”
“No one knows.”
Mom picks up
the plate pieces
and slams them into the garbage.
“I should have reported it to the police
Friday night.
Why did I wait?
Why?
What was I thinking?
Well, that he was our friend for so long.
And I never dreamed
he’d run.
But he has. And now
he’s gotten away.”
She grabs a shard of plate
and squeezes it.
Blood squirts up from a cut.
“Mom!”
She drops it
and looks at the blood.
I wrap a napkin around her palm.
“Oh, Estele,” she whispers
and hugs me.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
I start to cry.
And she does too.
“I didn’t call soon enough.
I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s all right, Mom.
I wasn’t ready to talk about it before.
Okay?”
She just holds me tighter.
Finally,
she sniffles,
takes a deep breath, and says,
“We have to believe
it’ll be okay, Estele.
/> You’re all right.
Mr. Paul won’t hurt you again.
We can trust the police
to find him
and take care of everything.
Can we?
They haven’t found Chris.
Mom’s belly
bulges against my ribs.
I feel sick.
Another Prayer Request
Since Mr. Paul got away, God,
please don’t let him hurt another kid
or come back and get me.
Maybe
just
go ahead
and kill him.
Tucking Me In
I pull back my sheets.
“I want you to remember
you did nothing
to make Mr. Paul hurt you,” Mom says.
My head pounds
even though I took a pill.
“Like I did nothing to make Dad leave” I say.
“Of course you didn’t, Estele”
“Some men are just bad sometimes
aren’t they?” I ask.
“Some are.” She picks up my pillow
and punches it, ignoring her Band-Aid.
I take my pillow back
and climb into bed.
“Like Chris’s kidnapper” I say.
“Yes.”
“It seems like all men are rotten.”
“Sometimes it does.
But there are good men” she says,
“like Pastor Lyon.”
“Right.” I remember him
squeezing my hand.
That was good and okay.
The thought
holds me up
from sinking way too deep
under sadness
and hate.
In Bed
I breathe in
and blow out.
Wally’s breathing exercises
from drama class
help
sometimes.
In.
Out.
But the goopy blob of hate
is still stuck in my stomach,
twisting knots
and holding on tight.
Packing Up for School
“Mom says you’re upset
and not to talk to you about it” says Dale.
“Right,” I say.
“She says someone hurt you.”
“Yeah” I say.
“Since you can’t whistle with grass,
I’ll let you borrow my sword, Es.”
“Thanks.”
Driving to School
If what Mr. Paul did to me
is really kissing,
then forget it.
It’s mean and gross
and disgusting.
If Wally ever tried to do that to me,
I’d wallop
his freckly face.
And I could, too,
since we are the same size.
But that can’t be
like for real kissing
because Wally would
never be mean like that
to me.
I never ever saw
Dad kiss Mom like that.
Maybe one day
I’ll be brave enough to find out
about real kissing.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
One Fine Job
I use the red marker
to color from edge to edge.
It stains through
the paper
and leaves splotches
on my desktop.
Hold Me Tight Page 13
