What I Believe Read online

  Ciao, Vicki! It’s Friday night, and I missed catching you for a talk this afternoon. I hear through the grapevine that you might not be coming back to Haralson Country Day School in the fall. That is sad news! I will miss you. You’re one of my best language arts students, not afraid to experiment. But are you working on those sestinas and pantoums we talked about? I’m so proud of you for tackling those poetic forms. Have you tried a villanelle yet?

  Is there anything I should know about your move? Do we need to schedule a little meeting for you to talk about anything?

  Do you need to vent? I get the feeling that you might be a tad troubled.

  See you on Monday, and remember I’m always here for you.

  Your Team One language arts teacher,

  Ariel Ainsworth

  Subj: Re: Moving Plans? Really?

  Date: June 15 Time: 6:20 P.M.

  From: Vicki Marnet To: Ms. Ainsworth

  Ciao, Ms. Ainsworth! Yes, my family is planning 2 move. Our house is up 4 sale. Thank you 4 asking, but nothing is wrong. Anyway, nothing I need to talk about.

  CU SOON,

  Vicki Marnet

  P.S. Yes, I’ve been fooling around with sestinas and pantoums, and like you said, it’s a kind of puzzle, fitting all the pieces together. I think it’s good practice for thinking logically, which I’ll have to do when I’m a lawyer. Thanks for showing me!

  P.S. again: I know we’ve talked about this before, but just to remind you, we don’t have to tell anyone else about the poetry stuff. Okay? Big thanks!

  sold for cash

  mom’s grand piano and the white down couch

  dad’s red sports car with leather seats

  thom’s telescope (but not his microscope)

  spencer’s snowmobile and alpine skis

  my comic book collection

  you got off easy

  spencer said.

  thom agreed.

  News

  The Cameron family is buying our house.

  The Cameron family has two boys and a girl.

  The Cameron kids will go to our school.

  Anti-News

  I don’t want that Cameron girl in my school.

  I don’t want that Cameron girl in my house.

  I don’t want that Cameron girl in my room.

  No News

  is said to be good news—

  now I see

  why.

  Sweet Road Rap

  Don’t wanna leave you, gonna grieve you.

  Feel like crying, but trying not to, not to

  B 2 blue, ’cause I know the wrangle tangle

  of Mom who’s kinda mad & Dad who’s 2 sad,

  & Spence & Thom & me, guess we’re the way

  we have 2 B: Spence teasing, Thom wheezing,

  me tryin’ 2 B pleasing.

  Whole family freezing.

  Ya C?

  What Mom Said While Tagging Stuff for Sale

  3 TVs

  “How many do we need?”

  8 sheet sets

  “Someone else will like these.”

  25 crystal wineglasses

  “They’d probably just get broken when we move.”

  3 digital cameras

  “When’s the last time anyone took pictures?”

  1 teak dining room table

  “This is way too big for an average apartment.”

  15 towels

  “You’d think we set records for cleanliness!”

  1 fur coat

  “Nobody wears fur anymore, and I approve.”

  1 small red velvet couch

  “Vicki, oh! You used to take your naps on this.”

  Overheard at the Tag Sale

  “I know how these rich

  people are. They put out all

  their garbage, their old

  leftovers, trashy stuff junk,

  and then they want big prices.”

  Scary City Thoughts

  after Listening to Bethani

  Everyone knows the city

  is deadly dangerous, dirty

  most of the kids have guns

  half of the kids are out of control

  and the other half are on the skids

  IQs are lower, morals are shiftier

  people are meaner and slower.

  Everyone, everywhere, knows—it’s common knowledge

  everyone in the city is scared

  of everyone else—and no one goes to college

  and no one moves to the city willingly

  and everyone wants to get out

  just get out.

  Everyone, everywhere, knows this

  everyone except my parents.

  We’re going in.

  Mrs. Mack Pretty-Talks Me after School

  smiling, showing her brown teeth, saying, “You take care of yourself, Cookie. See you, little darlin’,” as if she loves me, as if we’re buddies, but her eyes are saying something else, her eyes are saying, You’re a pity puppy now, poor people now, not so high-and-mighty now. I pass her back a smile, give a jaunty swing to my knapsack, like Who cares what you know, but that traitor sackful of books slams my leg, as if it’s telling me, You care, Cookie! My leg stings and I stumble down the bus steps, but I keep holding on to my smile and, on impulse, sassily (oh, stupidly!) wiggle my butt, which gets me nothing but a catcall from Casey Ford, who always seems to be around when I make a fool of myself, and it’s only now, hours later, that I see the black-and-blue bruise stretched across my calf and shaped almost like a house. I guess it’s a souvenir of Sweet Road.

  Weather Report

  Mom, cloudy.

  Dad, overcast.

  Spencer, sunny all day.

  Thom, possible storm brewing.

  Me, unsettled conditions.

  Memo to Myself

  Do not hate the Cameron people.

  Try to remember it’s not their fault.

  Do not get mad at Mom.

  She can’t help talking about the apartment she found.

  Do not get mad at your brothers.

  They can’t help talking about their new school.

  Do not get mad at Dad.

  He can’t help not talking about anything.

  On Moving Day I’m a Robot

  helping to pull apart my bed, take down my curtains, carry chairs, lamps, and boxes out to the U-Haul, robotically passing everything up the ramp to Dad, trying to laugh at Spencer’s jokes, trying not to cry because we’re leaving the house where I’ve always lived, and hours pass, the rooms are nearly bare, voices echo from upstairs to down, and in the empty kitchen I pick up the last chair and bash it on the floor, bash it, bash it, bash it, and then I am crying, and all the rooms are crying, and the windows are like big bare sad faces, and I want to bawl at my family, We’re leaving our house, we should do something special, we should say a prayer, so I do, I pray with my face against the wall, and then somehow time has passed again, and Dad and my brothers are in the U-Haul, and Mom and I are in the car behind them, and we’re rolling slowly down Sweet Road when Spencer sticks his head out the window and yells something, and Mom asks, What did your brother say? and I say I don’t know, but to myself I think he must have been crying out, Good-bye, house … good-bye, Sweet Road … good-bye, good-bye …

  Dialogue in the Car with Mom as We Pass the Welcome-to-Winslow Town Sign, and She Lights a Cigarette

  Vicki: Mom, what are you doing? You’re smoking! When did you start smoking?

  Mom: Yes, I am smoking, and don’t tell me I shouldn’t. I know that. It’s just for now, in the present circumstances.

  Vicki: When did you start?

  Mom: Oh, years ago! I smoked in college. I gave it up when I met your father. He told me it made my breath stink and my hands smell. Quote, unquote.

  Vicki: I mean, now. When now did you start?

  Mom: I don’t know, Vicki! I just did. A few weeks ago—or maybe months, I’m not sure. What does it matter? I’m going to stop, don’t worry.

  Vicki
: When?

  Mom: And don’t do what I’m doing. You know I’ve told you about the dangers of smoking. I don’t take back any of that. There’s nothing good about it, nothing.

  Vicki: Right. When?

  Mom: When what?

  Vicki: You’ll stop when. Vicki said patiently.

  Mom: I’ll stop when things calm down.

  Vicki: When will that be? Vicki said reasonably.

  Mom: How do I know when things will calm down? I’m not a fortune-teller! Soon, I hope. And why are you commenting on yourself like that?

  Vicki: I just like to. Vicki said thoughtfully.

  Mom: Sweetie, please. City traffic makes me nervous, and you’re really not helping. And don’t say anything to your father about my smoking, he doesn’t know, and I won’t be smoking in the house.

  Vicki: We don’t have a house anymore. It’s an apartment. Isn’t it an apartment? That’s what you said, it’s an apartment.

  Mom: Vicki, sometimes you are the sweetest girl in the world and sometimes you make me want to tear out my hair! When did you learn to be so annoying? You’re right, it’s an apartment. Must you say it as if it’s a bad word? Lots of people live in apartments. Most of the world lives in apartments, probably.

  Vicki: Mom, you don’t know that.

  Mom: I said probably, didn’t I? I lived in an apartment when I was growing up. Oh, this is it! Look! Look at the street sign. Second Street. That’s our street. Check the numbers on the houses. We’re 22 Second Street. Don’t you think it’s lucky, all those twos?

  Vicki: Mom, I don’t think luck has anything to do with it. There’s a lot of traffic on this street, isn’t there? Ouch! And potholes! Jeez, they should fix this street!

  Mom: Vicki said helpfully.

  the landlady, mrs. dann

  old blue jeans

  frilly blouse

  white curly hair

  yellow teeth

  brown marble eyes

  a white bulldog

  sits in the window

  on the third floor

  hoarse-voiced

  barking

  at us

  mrs. dann speaks

  here’s your key, you better make copies.

  where’s all your things, still on the way?

  everything’s clean, you don’t have to worry about that.

  up there on the third floor is my other tenant.

  mr. marty and his mr. rose been with me many years.

  they don’t give me trouble, no, they never do.

  that’s the way i like it, you’ll be the same.

  they wanted the second floor, but i said no.

  i didn’t want any dog toenails clickety-clickety-clacking

  over my head, you see what i’m saying?

  but you people are good people, i can tell

  you won’t mind.

  Eating Chinese Takeout on Our First Night

  Precariously perched on a pile of boxes,

  Spencer’s plugged into his music,

  head nodding, fingers drumming, not noticing me

  cross-legged on a pillow, writing this on a paper plate.

  Dad, eyes closed, rolls an empty rice carton between his palms

  as if it’s a crystal ball telling him something none of us know.

  Mom’s rubbing her hands as if she’s freezing.

  She stretches out her foot and nudges Thom,

  who’s lying on the floor, reading, coughing, and wheezing.

  Son, Mom says, get off the floor, in a minute you’ll be sneezing.

  This whole place needs cleaning, but it’s got character.

  Don’t you agree, Larry?

  Dad keeps rolling the rice carton.

  Larry, are you okay, please stop doing that,

  it’s getting on my nerves, and does anyone want

  more sweet

  and sour?

  Memo to Myself on Entering MLK School

  Watch what’s going on, but don’t be obvious about it.

  Head up when you’re walking in the halls.

  Try really hard not to stumble over anything.

  Smile, but not so big that you feature your front teeth.

  Figure out who’s down, but do not suck up.

  Check out the clothes and dress accordingly.

  Remember, these are cool city kids.

  Being a School Newbie

  is something like

  being a newborn

  only not adorable

  to anyone

  this time.

  How It Is at Home after One Week

  The TV lives in the kitchen, chairs crouch on the couch, and boxes bang around the hall. Finding a clean towel is a big deal, and no one knows where the toothpaste is hiding. Glasses are still stuffed with crunched-up, nasty newspaper, the toaster oven hates us, and sticky packing popcorn pops up everywhere. Yesterday, those white nasties slip-tripped Mom, who fell down on her knees and cried. I cried, too.

  Answering Machine Duet

  Hey there. It’s Bethani here. Uh-huh, this is my personal private phone, so leave me a message after the tone. Don’t bore me, pul-ease. Make your message fun, and you’ll be number one on my callback list! Hi, Bethani! I thought you might like to hear from me. I started in my new school. Uh, well, zo zorry I have nothing really funny to zay today. I’ll be thinking about it for the next time, though. Wazzup, anyway? Call me!

  Hey there. It’s Bethani here. Uh-huh, this is my personal private phone, so leave me a message after the tone. Don’t bore me, pul-ease. Make your message fun, and you’ll be number one on my callback list! Hello, hello, hay-lo again. It’s Vicki. Well, life is sort of interesting here. Or different, anyway, if you know what I mean. Remember those things you said about guns and kids in the city and stuff? Whew, baby! I haven’t forgotten. I’m watching my back, I’m telling you! No close calls yet in MLK Middle, and that is not Milk Middle. Anyway, hope to hear from you soon, if not even sooner. Call me!

  Hey there. It’s Bethani here. Uh-huh, this is my personal private phone, so leave me a message after the tone. Don’t bore me, pul-ease. Make your message fun, and you’ll be number one on my callback list! Bethani, is your answering machine not feeling well? A tad sick? Has a virus? I’ve been leaving you messages—uh-huh, several. Sooo, topic of the day will be—home base. My home-base teacher, Mr. Franklin, is African American—he has us all for language arts, too. He wears wire-rimmed glasses and his hair in a long ponytail. I don’t know what I think of him yet. Oh, in case you’re baffled, home base is what they call the team room here. It’s all sort of different, including the teachers and the kids. Lots of black kids, lots of brown kids, lots of Asian kids, plenty of white kids, too. None of them too friendly. Anyway, no guns, at least—tell you more when you call.

  Hey there. It’s Bethani here. Uh-huh, this is my personal private phone, so leave me a message after the tone. Don’t bore me, pul-ease. Make your message fun, and you’ll be number one on my callback list! Bethani? Are you there? Hello? Hello? Oh, well … good-bye.

  I’m Calling Bethani Ollum Way Too Often

  It’s so tempting—like almost stepping off a cliff—

  how close to the edge can you go and still not fall?

  I called four times this week—four times too many!

  Saturday she answered. I started talking fast,

  lunging right off that cliff into a reckless riff

  on school, kids, teachers, my misery, misery,

  misery, missing nothing. Top-speed tongue tripping.

  Barely curbing the impulse to bleat, No one talks

  to me. I eat alone. I wish I was back home.

  Sniffing like a cat, she switched the subject fast.

  I don’t blame her. I let my mouth run—no playing

  field, no art or music, no fast-track classes. None.

  Mom says most of the time you get what you ask for.

  I guess I was asking for Bethani Ollum

  to feel sorry for me. She obliged! Gul
ped out

  my name gleefully. Poor, poor, poor little Vicki.

  Those words—her voice—they painted a sorry picture

  of me—a poor, pathetic, pitiful creature.

  I’m going to learn to speak less and, I vow,

  I promise, from now on I’ll think first, not just fast.

  A Very Long Sentence About

  Two Very Short Neighbors

  This morning, looking out my window, I saw Mr. Rose, who was wearing a blue and red striped scarf and a gray porkpie hat, and Mr. Marty, who was also wearing a blue and red striped scarf (on which he was drooling big white doggy drools) walking slowly up and slowly down the driveway, then slowly up and slowly down again, which looked so boring it made me feel sorry for them both (but mostly for Mr. Marty), so I stuck my head out the window and called in a cheery voice, “Mr. Marty and Mr. Rose, hello, good morning,” but neither one looked up, and Mr. Marty didn’t give me even a short friendly bark, which was kind of crushing, but I reminded myself that they’re both not only short and stumpy, but on the old side and maybe even a little deaf so this afternoon when I came home from school and saw the two of them walking up and down the driveway again, I waved and called and waited, but Mr. Rose didn’t even glance my way and neither did Mr. Marty, and now my feelings were getting hurt, but I reminded myself what my brother Spencer likes to say, There’s always tomorrow to try again—so I will.

  Daily News Brief

  Mom chewing on a pencil, checking sales.

  Dad, talking low, on the phone.

  Thom reading, wheezing, pushing at his glasses.

  Spencer shooting hoops outside, alone.

  Vicki watching, writing this poem.

  The Landlady Stops Me for a Little Chat

  Mrs. Dann: There you are, Vicki. Aren’t you a little late getting home?