I hope they’re thick enough
to protect me.
I lift up rocks,
check nooks and crannies
until I find
what I’m looking for.
I have to be
absolutely certain
I make
the right
choice.
Everything in my brain
says STOP!
This is insanity.
Do not actively seek danger.
Abort mission! NOW!
But I’m learning that anger
is stronger than fear.
If Tyson thinks
he can keep messing with me
then I might just become
Tyson’s very own
worst-case scenario.
SURPRISE
The next morning
Ms. Treehorn announces
a surprise desk check
to see if we’ve kept our work spaces organized.
Her timing could not be
worse.
My heart is not a dainty little hummingbird.
It’s a woodpecker,
rap-a-tap-tapping!
Rap-a-tap-rap-a-tap-tapping!
And my face looks weird.
I know this because Georgia says,
Collin, your face looks weird.
I am seriously second-guessing
my plan for revenge.
Dude, you’ve got nothing
to worry about, Liam says,
oblivious to what I’ve done.
Your desk is spotless.
Just as the rap-a-tap-tapping
slows,
rap-a-tap
tap,
we hear
the scream.
When Tyson pulls his hand
out of his desk,
it looks like he’s wearing a baseball mitt
made of flesh
(which is as gross as it sounds).
CONVERSATIONS
I can’t believe those scorpions stung Tyson!
He deserved it.
I didn’t know he was allergic.
No one did!
How’d they get in his desk?
Who knows?
I can’t believe he cried like a little baby
in front of everyone.
I’d cry, too,
if my hand looked like that!
I can’t believe Collin
called an ambulance.
I can’t believe the EMTs stabbed him.
They didn’t stab him. They saved him.
That was an EpiPen.
An eponym?
An EpiPen, you knucklehead!
I’ve never seen anybody move so fast.
Who? Ms. Treehorn?
Or the EMTs?
No. Collin.
SCORPIONS
They were just supposed to send
a message:
Leave
my tree house,
my friends,
me
alone.
I only meant
to scare him.
That’s all.
TAKE BACK
I take back
all the times
I teased you
about that orange book, Georgia says.
Tyson’s never been
very nice to us
but still…
I’m really glad
you knew
what to do.
∞ ∞ ∞
No one suspects it was me.
Instead, everyone’s treating me
like a hero,
which makes me feel
like the most terrible
phoniest
fake.
T-MINUS 24
I revert to my old ways
and make up totally pathetic excuses
about why we can’t finish
the tree house today.
The truth is
I need some space
to breathe
and think.
At the vacant lot
I wander and explore
and forget
to look up.
When I finally do,
the sky is plum-colored.
In the distance
a chorus of coyotes sings,
hungry for supper.
∞ ∞ ∞
I don’t have lights
on my bike.
It’s not safe
to ride
in the dark.
I should’ve left
sooner.
I pedal as fast as I can.
My muscles are jittery.
When I finally reach
a ribbon of familiar sidewalk
splashed with light,
I’m dripping with sweat.
A barking dog startles me.
At least it’s not a coyote.
I veer left
and skid to a stop,
nearly wiping out.
A stocky boy
in ripped jeans
blocks my path.
Where’re you going, freak?
It’s Tyson’s stepbrother, Jax.
Nowhere, I say, barely above a whisper.
You got that right.
Tyson appears next to Jax.
One hand bulges, bandaged.
The other tightens into a
mean knot.
Get lost, Jax.
Leave him to me, Tyson says.
Jax chuckles,
spits on the sidewalk.
Suit yourself, baby bro.
I grip the handlebars.
My feet find the pedals.
As soon as Jax turns to go,
and before Tyson moves any closer,
I jam my knees down,
pump my legs.
The chain clicks.
I burst away,
wheels spinning.
I make it half a block
at top speed
before my tires meet
a nasty patch of sand.
I’m careening
out of control.
Hurtling over handlebars,
landing on concrete.
I lay on the ground,
looking up at bright, bright lights
wondering if I’m dead.
I wiggle my toes,
check my vitals.
I’m alive.
For now.
I tuck my body
into a crescent,
protecting my head and stomach.
I’m an easy target,
waiting
for Tyson’s blue sneakers
to appear.
∞ ∞ ∞
I brace for the first kick.
The first stinging
slap.
Nothing happens.
I look up.
Tyson’s staring down at me.
The streetlamp is so bright overhead.
It’s hard to read his face.
For a minute
I think he’s wearing an expression
of pity. Or maybe even
worry.
Not possible. No way.
He’s looking me up and down
like a bobcat stalking its prey.
That must be it.
Except his unbandaged hand is there,
open
hanging
in the air,
waiting.
He reaches out.
He pulls me to my feet.
We stand face-to-face.
I could have died from anaphylactic shock, he says.
Does he know I’m the one
who put the scorpions in his desk?
I steady myself. Fight or flight?
Which will it be?
I guess I owe you one, he says quietly,
looking down at his shoes.
Huh? I must’ve hit my head HARD.
Surely I’m hearing things…
The doctor said I should thank you
for calling the paramedics so quickly, he explains.
In the distance, Jax shouts for him to hurry up.
Gotta go.
Hey! I call after him.
Why were you spying on me
from that tree in the park?
He stops, rubs the back of his neck
with his good hand.
I wasn’t spying. That’s my spot.
I climb up there to get away.
From what? I ask.
Jax. My stepdad.
The fighting. All of it.
Before I can ask him more,
he disappears into the darkness.
Maybe I’m not the only one
with secrets
at home.
LOST AND FOUND
I fall into bed,
grateful to have made it back
mostly unscathed.
I wake up in the middle of the night.
I have to pee.
Can’t wait until morning.
The house is so dark.
I’m so tired.
My muscles ache from my fall.
I’m not my usual careful self.
Halfway to the bathroom,
I find that can opener I’ve been looking for
with my bare foot.
It takes a few seconds
for the pain to set in.
I reach down,
grab my heel,
gushing warm, wet.
Even in the darkness,
I know
this isn’t good.
I limp to the bathroom,
knock something over
with a crash.
Two bulbs flicker groggily.
I grip the edge of the sink,
slowly lift my foot,
pulsing with pain.
The gash is deep.
My blood, red.
My voice is a coyote’s howl.
I want my mom!
I call for my dad.
I hear him clambering in my direction.
It’s hard to navigate
the Hoard’s dark maze.
What happened? He gasps.
I had to pee.
That’s not how you pee, Collin!
Do you need an anatomy lesson?
No, Dad!
And I don’t need some stupid lecture right now.
He stares at me.
DAD! I’m losing blood by the bucketful!
Enough with the hyperbole, Collin.
Enough with the vocabulary, Dad.
Please! Do something!
Okay, bud. Okay.
Let me take a closer look.
It’s bad.
I think I need stitches.
Hurry.
Apply pressure to stop the bleeding.
He grabs a towel,
starts wrapping my foot.
I grit my teeth.
Let’s get you to the emergency room, bud.
I’ll carry you to the car.
I feel like I’m going to faint, Dad.
We should call an ambulance.
No, Collin!
Dad…
No one needs to come in here!
Dad, please.
That can opener is old.
It’s rusty.
I might have tetanus.
Call an ambulance.
Calm down, he says.
You’re fine.
Everything’s fine.
Nothing’s fine!
Get me out of this house.
He hoists me over his shoulder,
carries me
toward the front door.
My tears wet his pajamas.
My blood soaks through the towel.
6
Six is the number of stitches
zigzagging across my foot.
I lie and tell everyone
I accidentally stepped on a tool
near the tree house.
Georgia squints at me.
You were walking around
a construction site barefoot?
I nod, realizing what a lousy cover-up it is.
Doesn’t your book advise against that sort of thing?
she prods.
Thankfully Liam interrupts, saying,
I can’t believe you actually came to school today.
Any smart kid would’ve milked an injury like that
for days.
Georgia studies me a minute more.
She exhales, then reaches over
and pretends to tie
make-believe shoelaces
into a nice, tight double knot
over my bandages.
Thanks, I say.
She nods, picks up my crutches,
and helps me
get back on my feet.
T-MINUS 17
I hobble down the corridors at school.
Surprisingly
Tyson doesn’t try to trip me once,
even though I’m the easiest prey ever.
The doctor said
my mangled foot
will take a few weeks
to heal.
But it’s my heart
that hurts
more.
How long will that take?
∞ ∞ ∞
Georgia passes me a note in class.
She never does that.
I unfold it.
It says:
T-minus 29
I look up and frown.
According to Liam’s end-of-year calendar
there are only seventeen school days left.
When Ms. Treehorn turns her back,
Georgia makes a swimming motion.
Ohhh. She leaves for Camp Barracuda
in twenty-nine days.
Now I get it.
I smile at her
because I know she’s excited and
it’s a big deal to be chosen for the team.
Instead of smiling back,
she shrugs.
Then she looks me straight in the eyeballs
and mouths the words,
I’ll miss you.
Either that,
or she says,
Kalamazoo.
Which is probably way more likely.
Yes, she definitely said
Kalamazoo.
LETTER TO MOM
I always thought
I’d miss you most
during hard times,
when I needed someone
to comfort me,
to help me
worry less, and
wonder more.
But that’s not the case.
I miss you most
when good things happen, like
spotting a shooting star,
hearing our favorite song on the radio,
watching someone special say the word Kalamazoo.
These moments
are the best
and also
the h
ardest
because I can’t run home
and tell you all about them
and see how happy
they make you, too.
WAKE-UP CALL
I hold on
to a tiny seed
of weird, confusing
hope.
Maybe
this incident with my foot
will give Dad
a much-needed
wake-up call.
Nope. Scratch that.
Instead of acknowledging that
the Hoard is hurting me,
Dad continues feeding
the beast.
Now he’s obsessed
with collecting medical supplies.
How do I tell him?
Not even a million Band-Aids
or miles of gauze and tape
could fix the fissure forming
between him
and reality.
Between
us.
LEFT BEHIND
I sit in the backyard
with my foot up,
watching my friends
work on our tree house,
my mind wandering, worrying.
What would’ve happened if Dad had called
an ambulance?
What if the paramedics or police had come
inside our house?
What if they had seen the Hoard?
Would that be a good thing, or a bad thing?
Would Dad be in trouble? Would I?
That’s when it hits me
like a patch of nasty sand
that sends me flying
over the handlebars again:
I’m less afraid
of being taken away.
I’m more afraid of what
might happen if
Dad is left behind
again.
MESSAGE
When Liam’s not looking,
I borrow his No Fun Phone,
and hobble across the yard,
out of earshot. I dial but
Aunt Lydia doesn’t pick up.
I’m actually relieved.
I know she would try
to change my mind,
to persuade me
to spend summer vacation with her
like we planned.
To be a normal kid
for just a few weeks.
Carefree.
I leave a message
telling Aunt Lydia I have to stay
in Bullhead City this summer
with my dad.
EXCUSES
I call back a minute later,
leave another message.
I know she’ll want an explanation.
Lies and excuses dribble out of my mouth:
A really great summer job
Worst-Case Collin Page 14
