And then boom, p.8
And Then, Boom!, page 8
I leave the Magic Closet with jeans and
brand-new name-brand sneakers that fit perfectly.
Brand-new sneakers with the tags still on them.
I run my hands over
the toes
—no holes—
the smooth leather sides
—no scuffs—
the bottoms
—no flip-flop soles.
Not a sliver of silver duct tape anywhere.
Then I breathe in that new-shoe smell.
Part rubber.
Part pride.
And all joy.
Mrs. Swan, My Superhero
It’s pretty cool having a superhero
for a teacher.
Over and over again,
Mrs. Swan uses her powers
to change things for the better.
Kids get humiliated for needing free lunches.
And then,
BOOM!
She helps you not be embarrassed.
Kids don’t have enough to eat.
And then,
BOOM!
She provides more food options.
Kids are bullied for not having nice clothes and shoes.
And then,
BOOM!
She creates a closet of clothes you can choose from.
Any of those things can make a poor kid
feel invisible.
And then,
BOOM!
A teacher steps in and you feel seen.
But school ends soon.
I’ll lose a superhero.
Rock, Paper, Scissors
Your moms, she left, huh? Hakeem asks.
We’re headed from school to my place
to walk the Luckies and shoot some hoops.
I look at Nick. He shrugs and says,
Didn’t say a word about your mom.
That’s true, Hakeem says.
I figured it out when Nick told me about the Luckies.
Your mom would never take care of three dogs.
She doesn’t even take care of you.
Nick has to hold me back
to keep me from going at Hakeem.
Watch yourself! I say.
That’s my mom you’re talkin’ about!
Hakeem holds up his hands, surrender-style.
Regretted it as soon as I said it.
For some reason the game Rock, Paper, Scissors
pops into my head.
Hakeem’s strong
like a rock.
I’m a lightweight
like paper.
Paper beats rock.
But Hakeem’s words cut like scissors.
’Cause they’re true.
We Have to Talk
It’s so hot that the Luckies take shelter in the shade.
And even I don’t feel like shooting hoops but
I need to do something
to get everyone’s mind off Mom,
including mine.
To cool down, I take off my shirt.
Who’s ready for a beatdown in a game of Twenty-one?
I ask.
Sitgen!
You’re skin and bones!
Nick says.
You goin’ hungry, bruh?
Hakeem asks.
I have some food, thanks to Mrs. Swan.
Just not enough.
Hakeem has the basketball tucked under his arm.
I reach for it.
He keeps it from me.
We’re not playin’,
Hakeem says.
We’re talkin’.
I roll my eyes.
Not out here.
Inside The Overripe Banana,
away from Uncle Frankie,
who hears, sees, and knows all.
Logic Train
Take the logic train to conclusion station,
Hakeem says as soon as we’re in The Overripe Banana.
Your mom’s car is gone.
You don’t think anyone’s noticed?
I got that covered.
Told Uncle Frankie she works day and night.
Annnnnnnd the train derails,
Hakeem says.
Even if Uncle Frankie’s bought your lie,
he’d expect your mom’s car to be here sometimes.
I shrug.
Who. Gives. A. Sitgen. About. The. Car?!
Nick says.
Joe’s starvin’!
And school’s almost out.
He can’t go all summer without food!
Guys! I know!
I shout.
You think I don’t spend every minute of every day
thinking about food,
trying to find food?
I even dream about food!
Duck and Dawg paw at their ears
and curl into Lucky’s tummy,
trying to hide from the yelling.
I sit down beside them and pet them.
Calm them and me down.
It’s okay.
It’s going to be fine,
I say.
Am I lying to them—and to myself again?
Worst Thing Ever
I get why you kept your mom leaving a secret,
Nick says.
You’re wanting to protect her, and
don’t want to go into foster care, but
we’re friends.
You can trust us.
Any idea when she’ll come back?
I shake my head.
At first, she used to take off for a few days,
and then it became weeks and months.
I don’t tell them that last time,
she was gone for a year.
A parent can get in a car and go
or leave you in other ways,
Nick says.
My mom leaves every time she stops taking her meds
and falls into a really deep depression.
She just lies on the couch.
Sleeping, mostly.
And she won’t budge,
no matter how much I beg her to get up,
to take a shower,
or to do something—anything.
That’s rough,
Hakeem says.
So that’s why you had to go to foster care?
Nick nods.
What’s it like when CPS comes for you?
I ask.
Absolutely terrifying.
Not knowing where you’re going.
Who you’ll end up with.
What’s gonna happen to you.
At the first home, I got lice.
The fosters were newbs and panicked.
Shaved all the kids’ heads.
I looked like Professor X.
So that’s why you were bald when I met you,
I say. I thought it was cool,
but I could tell you didn’t like it,
since you kept your head covered with a baseball cap.
Yeah, I hated it.
Vowed then and there,
never again will anyone cut my hair.
Wait! Back it up a minute.
The first home?
Hakeem asks, furrowing his brows.
Sometimes they bounce you around.
A foster might not want you.
It might be a bad fit.
Or a foster might up and quit.
Wouldn’t you have been better off
with your moms than them?
Hakeem asks.
Probably not.
Mom’s depression was really bad back then.
Dad worked extra to make up for Mom not working,
so he was never around.
But you said being a foster
was the worst thing ever,
I say.
Because I was away from my parents.
And Mom needed me.
She still needs me.
But what do you need?
Hakeem asks.
Never think about that anymore,
Nick says.
Me neither,
I say.
I’m Not Alone
I’m gonna make us something to eat,
Hakeem says, heading to the kitchen.
You can’t think straight when you’re hungry.
Facts.
I watch as he opens one cabinet after another.
Then the fridge.
Nothin’ in there, I say.
You see nothing.
I see ingredients to make something.
He sets out the bottle of ketchup.
Sugar.
Salt.
Pepper.
Garlic powder.
Onion powder.
Basil.
Oregano.
It’d be better if we had milk and Parmesan cheese,
but I’ll improvise.
Be right back, Nick says.
He runs home and returns like the Flash.
Milk.
Parmesan.
Bread.
He sets them on the kitchen counter.
Hakeem sees the green cheese can
and gives it a side-eye.
La snob,
Nick says.
Le snob,
Hakeem corrects.
A half hour later,
Hakeem’s made tomato soup
and garlic bread.
Grandmum and Mom are gone.
But I am not abandoned.
Running Out
I used to like to shower when we had hot water.
But now that I have none, thanks to Doomsday,
I can barely get up the nerve to shower
every three or four days.
Being blasted with ice-cold water hurts.
It’s miserable.
Today when I walk into class,
I hear kids whisper and laugh.
And when I raise my hand to answer a question,
I lower it quickly, since I can tell
my armpit smells like onions.
Everyone but Hakeem and Nick
wrinkles and then holds their noses.
I know I stink.
And it’s not just because I don’t have hot water.
I also ran out of soap.
I’m running out of everything.
Surprised, Not Surprised
Hakeem wants Nick and me to go to his place after school.
He lives several blocks away.
It’s a hot June day, and
the three of us are sweaty, slimy slugs
by the time we get there.
I know how we can all cool off,
Hakeem says,
grabbing the hose and spraying Nick and me.
Oh, it’s on now!
Nick says.
He and I wrestle the hose away from Hakeem
and drench him.
Truce!
Hakeem screams.
Hey, since we’re already soaked,
will you two help me clean Mom’s van?
Might as well,
I say.
Hakeem grabs buckets, sponges, and soap,
and the three of us give the
van a good scrubbing.
When Hakeem squirts soap on me,
I give myself a good scrubbing, too.
What a nice surprise! Thank you, boys!
Hakeem’s mom, Zuri, says, leaning out the front door.
Mind if they stay for dinner?
Hakeem asks.
Of course not,
but you three look like drowned rats,
and none of ya are steppin’ foot in my house like that.
She creates a trail of towels for us to walk on
from the door to the bathroom
and makes us change into some of Hakeem’s clothes
while she washes and dries ours.
Later, when Nick and I are about to leave,
Hakeem hands me a bag full of leftovers
—and a bar of soap.
Hakeem surprised his mom,
but I’m not surprised
he found a way to help me yet again.
Problem Solved
During lunch,
Hakeem pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket.
He hands it me.
That, my man, is the answer to your problems.
I unfold it.
It’s one of those junky ads that comes in the mail.
“Panties, two for the price of one”?
The other side, Joe. Read the other side.
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
Citywide Rummage Sale This Weekend!
Clean out your closets and
make some cold, hard cash!
It’s during the bass tournament,
so you won’t have to worry about
Uncle Frankie nosing around,
Nick says.
Maybe I could sell Grandmum’s stuff?
Now you’re talkin’,
Hakeem says.
Leaning on Each Other
Grandmum’s robe
hangs on the back of the door.
Her reading glasses
are upside down on a book on the nightstand.
Her fuzzy slippers
peek out from under her bed.
It feels like she’s still here
and I like that,
so I leave those things right where they are and
pack up everything else.
Before I leave her room,
I stare at the photo of us on her dresser.
The library paid a photographer
to take it on their Free Family Photo Night.
Grandmum’s eyes sparkle,
and we’re standing up,
hugging tight,
leaning on each other.
I don’t know who’s smiling more.
We were a great team,
you and I,
I say,
trying to keep my tears
from landing on the picture and ruining it.
For safekeeping,
I tuck the photo into our accordion folder
that holds everything important.
The Grocery List
I sell almost all of Grandmum’s stuff
and have money for food.
I silently thank Grandmum for taking care of me
one last time.
I make a grocery list in my head
as I walk toward The Gathering Spot.
Potato chips, butter, and bread for crisps sandwiches.
(Potato chips are called crisps in England.)
Rice and beans would be good for filling me up.
And I have to buy toothpaste.
My gums are starting to swell around my bad tooth.
Near the Bowling Ball Pyramid,
Uncle Frankie stops me.
Says the rent’s due.
Way past due.
Says he’s been patient.
Understanding.
Says if Mom’s working, then she needs to pay him.
So just like that,
my money’s gone.
And it’s only a little of what we owe him.
Does the reticulated python always have to tighten its grip
just when you think you’re about to break free?
Disconnected
I’ve been texting Mom every day since she left
and getting no response,
so today I call her.
I expect to hear it ring
and then for voicemail to kick in.
She hates talking on the phone.
Instead, I hear
three
shrill
sounds
before a recording starts.
We’re sorry,
you have reached a number
that has been disconnected
or is no longer in service.
Surely it can’t be.
I must have dialed the wrong number.
I call again.
Three
shrill
sounds
and then the recording.
I’m about to try one more time.
But now my phone doesn’t work.
Doomsday turned it off, too.
The Five Marbles
Five words roll around like marbles in my head,
slowly bumping out all other thoughts.
I let them roll out in front of Nick.
If Mom doesn’t come back . . .
Then you’ll be in foster care, Nick says.
Know what I hated most?
The garbage bags.
Every time CPS took me,
they threw all my things into garbage bags.
Like I’m garbage.
That why you always pack a suitcase
even for just a sleepover?
Nick nods.
I take a deep breath and exhale.
Do you think me being a foster would be better
than trying to make it on my own?
Here’s the truth, Joe,
Nick says.
Foster parents are like birth parents.
Some are good.
Some are not so good.
It doesn’t have anything to do with you.
It’s just the luck of the draw.
Great, I say. That’s just great.
’Cause the luck thing’s been working out real well
for me these days.
Going, Going, Gone
It’s almost summer vacation.
Nick’s going
to Colorado for a couple of weeks
to spend time with his dad.
Hakeem’s going
to New York City.
He got accepted to Jeunes Cuisiniers,
