by Melody Dodds
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Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Dodds, Melody.
Title: Little pills / Melody Dodds.
Description: New York: West 44, 2019. | Series: West 44 YA verse
Identifiers: ISBN 9781538382813 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781538382820 (library
bound) | ISBN 9781538383414 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Children’s poetry, American. | Children’s poetry, English. |
English poetry.
Classification: LCC PS586.3 L588 2019 | DDC 811’.60809282--dc23
First Edition
Published in 2019 by
Enslow Publishing LLC
101 West 23rd Street, Suite #240
New York, NY 10011
Copyright © 2019 Enslow Publishing LLC
Editor: Caitie McAneney
Designer: Sam DeMartin
Photo Credits: Cover BSIP/UIG/Universal Images Group/Getty Images.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer.
Printed in the United States of America
CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CS18W44: For further information contact Enslow Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-542-2595.
FOR THE TOUGH KIDS, AND THE LONELY KIDS, AND ESPECIALLY FOR THOSE WHO ARE BOTH.
THE SCULPTOR
They say
meth
is the Monster.
Well.
Oxy is
an artist who
sculpts
the monster
out of
you.
ESCAPE
The bathroom
is the only place in this house
where I am *guaranteed*
privacy.
So I tend
to spend a
L
O
N
G
time in here.
Let’s be clear: I mean “house” in the sense of home.
House really means apartment.
Three bedrooms, one bath.
Five people…no, wait.
Four.
Still—
do the math.
Let’s be clear: I mean “privacy” in the sense of walls.
Privacy barely means
solitude.
Someone always needs to use it.
Stay in too long
and they lose it.
But here I am.
No pounding yet
from my mother or
her husband, Rupert.
And no threats
from my sister, Isabella,
who is younger
but whose hunger
to hurt me
is a thing I can’t forget.
So I escape.
SAFE
Looking at the mirror
but really
through it.
Messing with my hair
but thinking
of a boy.
Glossing my lips
(for the same boy)
but waiting for
changing leaves
flannel shirts
pumpkins
cider
fires
HALLOWEEN!
candy
and
bam bam bam
GET OUTTA THERE!
(My sister.)
THE COOLEST GIRL SHE’S EVER SEEN
I make myself
MEAN.
I
squint.
I
scowl.
I throw open the bathroom door
and growl
words I should not say.
(But Mom’s away.)
Surprise!
Outside the door
is not my sister anymore.
Instead
some other girl her age.
Still,
I fill with rage,
and stomp away.
But
as I do
I hear this stranger say,
Your sister
is
soooo…
*pretty.*
She’s,
like,
the
coolest
girl
I’ve
ever
seen.
ISABELLA DISAGREES
Cool?!?!?
How about:
rude
mean
selfish
nasty
cruel.
Monster tomboy who:
lies
steals
sneaks around
does things she’s told
not to.
She’s failing school!
She’s horrible. She’s SCARY!
If you lived with her,
you’d see.
You can’t think
my sister’s
cool
and still be friends with me.
MY BROTHER’S ROOM
My older brother,
Leopold.
My brother
who is
gone.
Not like my mother,
who just works too much.
Leo’s physically
moved on.
He doesn’t live here
anymore.
But all his stuff
still does.
Which makes me sad
but
sometimes
happy.
Because:
he locked his room
before he left
but left
his window cracked
enough that I can sneak in.
Like some big,
yellow-haired
rat.
But I don’t want
anyone else
to know.
So
I say
I’m going out
then break
back in
to
my own home.
Slip through that crack
by
standing tiptoed
on a can
filled with
trash.
Push it wide
and step through
to a room
that’s like a tomb.
Or I guess
like
a memorial.
Then I do
this thing
I do
sometimes,
more often
lately.
Where I take
this pill I took
from Gramma
and
I let it
just
sedate me.
MY BROTHER
My older brother,
Leopold—
my brother
who is
gone—
was the fifth of us.
I forget sometimes.
I mean, I know he’s not here.
I just forget
we’re down to four.
First time,
they told him:
Don’t let there be
a next time.
Next Time,
he went to juvie.
And the next Next Time.
And the Time after that.
The Next Time After That,
they told him:
This is your last time in juvie.
You’re eighteen now.
Last time,
they told him:
You can
join the army
or
y
ou can
go to jail.
He told them
where to go.
But he went
to Afghanistan.
In a camo uniform
and brown boots.
He sends me pictures
where I can’t tell
which one’s
him.
GRAMMA’S PILLS
are round
and white
and very
small.
You wouldn’t think
they could do
much.
But they can.
Oh yes
they
can.
It’s like being
wrapped
in cotton
candy.
And the sun is warm
and golden,
all around
me.
Like I’m floating
in a pool,
but the pool
is
full
of sunlight.
A pool of sunlight.
Warm.
Golden.
And all my worries
float
away
like voices.
And instead of echoes,
I get comfort.
Mom is always working…
it’s
alright.
Rupert is always sleeping…
he’s
okay.
My sister is always angry…
she’ll
get on.
Leo is gone…
he’ll
come back.
There is nothing
to worry
over.
The universe
has
got it.
And me?
I
can
just
be.
TEETH
Extras, four.
Had budded
in the very back
of my mouth
like weeds.
Wisdom teeth.
Impacted.
Remove them.
In August,
they cut away
my gums
and yanked
those wise teeth
right out
by their roots.
PAIN
Jaw the
size of my
whole head.
Head pounded.
Mouth oozed.
And bled
and
b
l
e
d.
Sent home with
10 little pills.
Round
and white
and very
small.
I didn’t think
they’d do much
and they didn’t.
I still felt
all the pain.
I just
didn’t
care.
My teeth were gone…
they were trouble.
My jaw ached…
it would heal.
I was in pain…
it would pass.
And it did.
After two days
I didn’t need those
round
white
pills
anymore.
I’d taken four.
ITCHING
I can always tell
when I’m coming
d
o
w
n.
It always starts
with the itching.
Some people
get the itching
sooner,
but for me it happens
around the three-hour mark, which means
in another hour
I’ll be sober.
Not back at zero—
I seem to dip
a little
lower
than where I started
and I seem to get
crabby-cranky, touchy-testy
and I grind my teeth.
Except the four they took.
HOME AGAIN
Isabella’s friend,
the stranger?
Her name is Mia.
I find this out
as she’s coming out of my house,
which is
right when I’m going back in.
She tells me
this name of hers.
Makes a point of it.
I expect stink-eye
from Mia
for things Isabella
probably
told her.
But Mia’s eyes still shine
bright.
Warm and inviting
like
she really wants to know me,
like
she wants me to like her.
I ignore her.
THE BASEMENT
is where we used to play.
To ride trikes
and play dolls
and house
and trucks
and little animals.
Three of us,
then two, but
now
just
me.
Not dolls
or house
or animals:
music.
I mix it
on my phone.
I’m good, too.
I did the playlist
for our sophomore dance
last year.
What I really want is to
make
the music.
There’s free software.
But I’d need a laptop.
Can’t write music on my phone.
Can’t put any software—
free or not—
on my iPad from school.
Those are the
only computers
I have access to.
For now,
I play
other people’s music.
But someday,
I’ll play my own.
One day,
they’ll play mine.
MY BIG IDEA
Mixing music
gets me in the zone,
helps me forget
that I’m alone
in a house that’s overflowing.
I’m growing
up on my own.
And then it hits me:
To Mia I’m a mystery.
She’s 14, looking for a hero.
I’m a zero
with a history,
but she doesn’t know.
She’s Isabella’s
best friend.
If she likes me,
my sister can.
Maybe we can save each other
from one another;
make the hate end.
And if that doesn’t work,
she can at least tell me
why my sister hates me
so
darn
much.
BTW
I’m not failing school.
Just one class.
Or, maybe two
if you count library day,
which I don’t.
Not
anymore.
MRS. SCHILLER
wore
long plaid skirts,
ankle boots,
and cardigan sweaters
over turtlenecks.
She wore her long,
silver
hair
in a
loose,
messy
bun.
Mrs. Schiller looked
like a librarian
should look.
Her blue eyes sparkled
like stars
over her
which she wore
on a chain
around her neck
when she did
n’t have them
on her face.
But mostly she did have them on.
Because she read to us
a lot.
Because Mrs. Schiller
wanted us to read.
All of us,
even the kids who
didn’t
couldn’t
wouldn’t.
She would find you something
to like,
something simple,
something you wanted to read,
even if that meant
you had to
first learn
how.
Or at least get better at it.
I got sooooo much better
that I was placed in AP English.
THE NEW LIBRARIAN, MS. JORDAN
First of all, Mizz?
What era is this?
I think women have proved
we mean more than a kiss.
And what’s with those pants?
And hiking boots?
Ponytail, high up on her head,
not loose,
and tight sweaters with
pictures of
moose.
She’s from Away
not from Here,
not from Maine.
She dresses “outdoorsy”
and tries to talk cool.
But she looks 19,
must have just finished school.
How can she have read
beyond Winnie the Pooh?
Now she’s
going to tell me
what I’m supposed to do?
What I’m supposed to read?
What books I need?
Mizz Librarian, please!
HALLOWEEN
Seventeen is too old
To go out.
You get yelled at.
People shout at you
even if your costume is good,
which mine isn’t.
We decided last minute,
Alexis and I.
It’s not even about the candy.
We can obvy
buy it from the store.
We’d just like to be
little kids once more.
THE BUS
is a mess,
a test.
I stay at the back
with the rest
of the bad kids
who can’t hack it
but I do my homework
while they make racket.
Swagger and bragging
while their grades are
lagging behind.
They’ll get defined
as dumb and
made to repeat,
or sent to school
in the heat.
Or end up in camo
with boots on their feet.
They’re losers and thugs,
but they leave me alone
so I ignore them,
