Catching a Storyfish Read online

  SATURDAY: FISHING LESSON #4

  Our fishing lines reel out.

  The sun wheels overhead.

  We sit and wait for a nibble,

  a bite, a tug on the line.

  Quiet time, inside-my-head time,

  listening time, looking out—

  a leaf spins,

  a frog leaps,

  tiny shells sink in the mud,

  a great blue heron

  pinches a fish with its beak.

  “Look,”

  the water murmurs.

  The wind whispers,

  “Look, again.”

  Chapter 5

  FOURTH WEEK: WIGGLE WORMS AND SAND PLUMS

  SETTLING IN #2

  “Looks like you’re settling in,” Mama says.

  Am I?

  I have a friend, now.

  I get to fish with Grandpa.

  I get to help in the library.

  But what happened to the girl I used to be?

  Mama looks around my room and smiles.

  She studies the cups on my shelf.

  The flowery teacup that belonged to Grandma.

  The cup with my name on it that Daddy found in Kansas City.

  The plastic cup with pink poodles that Nose gave me for my birthday.

  The green cup with a goldfish hidden inside.

  And my favorite cup, the cup Mama gave me,

  cracked and broken like a puzzle

  because I dropped it.

  Carefully, Mama lifts the broken cup from the shelf.

  “Do you remember your story, Keet?”

  “Yes,” I say. I used to tell the story

  to anyone who looked at my cup collection.

  The Cup of Midnight Blue

  Once I had a beautiful porcelain cup.

  The cup was midnight blue, ink blue,

  with four gold legs and a tiny picture

  of the sea painted on each side.

  It was thin and delicate and very old.

  Mama gave it to me.

  It was my favorite cup.

  I used it for my chocolate milk.

  I used it for pineapple juice,

  and I used it for chamomile tea.

  But one day,

  while I sip-sip-sipped,

  my fingers slipped,

  and the cup tipped, toppled, tumbled

  down, and broke into pieces.

  I felt like purple berry juice spilled in a puddle.

  Mama picked the pieces up,

  but she didn’t throw them away.

  Instead she found a special glue

  and glued the cup together

  piece by piece by piece.

  Then she brought it back to me.

  “Isn’t it pretty, Keet?”

  “No,” I said.

  “But Keet, just because your cup has cracks,

  or isn’t perfect like it used to be,

  doesn’t mean it can’t be beautiful.”

  I didn’t want to believe her.

  “It still won’t hold anything,” I said.

  “No, not juice, not milk, not tea,” Mama said,

  “but maybe a broken cup can hold other things.”

  I didn’t think so. “I want another cup,” I said.

  “I wish it wasn’t broken.” Wish, wishes,

  wishing, I thought. “What if

  this were a wishing cup? I could fill it

  with wishes. That’s what I’ll do.

  It will be the best cup of all.”

  It’s our favorite story, but the words won’t come.

  I can’t tell it. I feel Mama watching me.

  “I think I’ll make a wish,” she says.

  “I wish that my parakeet knew how much

  I love her and that once she settles in

  she’ll tell me stories again. That’s my wish,

  Keet-Keet.” She sets the cup back on the shelf.

  It is still my favorite cup.

  It is still beautiful.

  I close my eyes and think

  about school and the Keet who used

  to talk and tell stories. I make a wish

  and drop it deep inside the midnight cup.

  TIRED

  I hear a deep humming noise

  and then a slamming car door.

  Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!

  Nose and I run to the door.

  Mama says, “Slow down.

  Don’t knock him over.”

  I grab Daddy around the waist,

  and Nose hugs his knees.

  Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!

  Daddy drives now for a delivery company.

  He drives a big truck up and down

  the highway and in and out of town.

  Sometimes, he has to drive so far away

  that we don’t see him for days.

  Sometimes, he comes home late at night

  tired, tired, and goes to bed.

  But sometimes, when it’s not so late,

  he says, “Tell me a story, Keet,”

  and I curl up on his lap. I squeeze close.

  I want to tell him the story about

  the time we found the sand plums.

  I want to, but I don’t. I can’t be

  the story-talking, story-making girl,

  telling stories about the things I did

  or making stories up.

  “I . . . I don’t have a story, Daddy.”

  He looks at me.

  He doesn’t tease.

  He doesn’t ask why.

  He just pulls me closer and strokes

  my head like he does when I’m sick,

  his fingers against my braids, trying

  to stroke the troubles away.

  KEET’S STORY ABOUT THE SAND PLUMS

  “Stop the car!”

  Mama sees a grove of sand plums,

  ripe plums, round plums,

  sand plums for jelly.

  Daddy and me,

  Nose, and Mama

  climb out of the car

  and walk through

  a grassy ditch

  and up a sloping bank.

  A grasshopper flutters

  and lands on my sock.

  I brush it away.

  Another grasshopper lands in my hair

  and I squeal.

  At the top of the slope,

  the air around the sand plums

  is gnatty and buzzy.

  Sunlight spills on our heads

  as if we are plums too.

  Mama plucks the sand plums

  from the twiggy branches.

  She hands them to us,

  orange-red, and plump, and sun-warm.

  If we squeeze too hard, the plums

  make our fingers licky with juice.

  Mama folds the bottom

  of her dress to make a basket

  and fills it with ripe sand plums.

  She gives me a plum.

  I hold it in my hand:

  a little sun.

  I bite it and feel sunshine

  deep down in my stomach.

  DEEP INSIDE

  This side, that side,

  inside, outside,

  in the center,

  in the middle,

  in the midst,

  in the muddle of me,

  there’s a box—

  a heart box

  a dream box

  a secrets box

  with lots of locks.

  And only Mama

  only Daddy

  only Grandpa

  only Noah

  have a key.

  But maybe

  I will give one key more,

  to Allie-gator,

  if she’ll give me a key

  to the box

  the heart box

  the thoughts box

  the this-is-what-I-feel box

  the box with locks

  in the center,

  in the midst,

  in the middle-middle

&nb
sp; muddle of her.

  ALLIE-GATOR SAYS

  I like her.

  I like her flippy floppy braids.

  I like the way she makes me laugh.

  I like the funny way she talks.

  I like when she tells me stories about her grandpa.

  I like when she tells me stories about Alabama,

  where she used to live.

  I like when she talks about her grandma,

  who’s not alive anymore.

  I like that she likes stars, ice cream, bicycles,

  monkey bars, sidewalk chalk, cups,

  chocolate chip cookies, funny socks, hats,

  jumping rope, and

  peanutbutterdillpickle sandwiches.

  I like when she finds feathers to add to my collection.

  I like that she said my house was nice, even

  though it’s not as nice as hers.

  I like the way she laughed and laughed and laughed

  when Molly Cockatoo said Hullo!

  What cha doing? Hullo! What cha doing?

  I like that she doesn’t make fun of my crooked

  snaggletooth, my pointy tooth, my chipped tooth,

  my cracked and jagged puzzle-tooth

  or my alligator smile.

  I like the Me I see in her deep-water eyes.

  KEET SAYS

  I like her.

  I like going to her house.

  I like climbing trees and scraping our knees.

  I like that she likes spaghetti and big fat meatballs.

  I like when she lets me taste horchata, her mother’s cinnamon

  rice milk.

  I like when she tells me about her abuela, her grandma,

  who lives with her.

  I like that she likes my daddy because her daddy’s

  not alive anymore, which makes me sad.

  I like that she likes birds, chocolate cake, drawing, swings,

  big boxes of crayons, rocking chairs, bracelets, the color

  blue, blowing bubbles, firecrackers, and volleyball.

  I like that she draws and makes all kinds of things with paper,

  even paper beads.

  I like when she lets me hold Molly Cockatoo

  and feed her grapes.

  I like when she comes to my house and talks to my mother.

  I like when Nose asks her 100 billion questions about birds

  and she answers every one.

  I like that she doesn’t like math.

  I like that she has a goldfinch feather, robin feather, hawk

  feather, blue jay feather, wren feather, chicken feather,

  goose feather, and even a peacock feather.

  I like that f-r-i-e-n-d is a hard word to spell,

  but Allegra spells it: K-a-t-h-a-r-e-n.

  YOU CAN’T SPELL IT, ALLIE-GATOR

  Keet:

  I’ll make you a bet, Allie-gator.

  Allie-gator:

  You won’t win.

  Keet:

  Yes, I will. I found a really hard word this time.

  Allie-gator:

  If I can spell it, I get a story like you used to tell your Alabama friends.

  Keet:

  If I win, I get to feed Molly a bag of peanuts, hold her for as long as I want to, and teach her to say my name.

  Allie-gator:

  Uh-uh, just a bag of peanuts.

  Keet:

  All right, a big bag of peanuts. But you have to spell preposterous.

  Allie-gator:

  You’re using your Alabama voice to make it harder.

  Keet:

  Yup!

  KEET’S SCARY STORY FOR ALLIE-GATOR

  Late one night,

  I watched

  a really, really, super scary

  ghost story on TV.

  I was all by myself,

  in the basement,

  eating popcorn,

  and watching

  the lady ghost

  who lived in an old house

  and oozed through the door

  and scared everyone.

  Then I went upstairs

  to get another glass

  of apple-orange juice

  with lots of ice.

  The lights were low,

  and only the spooky-ghosty

  blue light

  from the TV

  was shining.

  I put my foot on the first step

  to go up the stairs.

  Eeeechhhhh.

  Was that noise behind me?

  I turned around.

  All I saw

  was the dark, dark

  basement

  with the blue-ghosty

  light from the TV.

  I took a step

  and another step.

  Eeechhhh.

  I pushed my foot on top of the step:

  no sound.

  I pushed my foot really hard

  on the step: no sound.

  I looked behind me

  in the dark, dark basement.

  I looked at the blue and spooky,

  blue and ghosty light

  from the TV.

  I took a step

  and then another step

  Eechhhhhh.

  Something was behind me.

  I knew it!

  Something was following me.

  I just knew it!

  It was the ghost woman

  from the TV.

  I knew it, just knew it!

  I raised my foot to get ready to run.

  I raised my leg to race up the stairs.

  I took a step. Then I heard it,

  and then I knew!

  Eechhhhhh.

  My knee!

  My knee creaked.

  My knee squeaked like a rusty door!

  I had a spooky-ghosty knee:

  Eechhhhhh.

  SLEEPOVER

  1.Pajamas on and fuzzy slippers,

  2.Chocolate cookies, chocolate milk,

  3.Homework finished,

  4.(Even math),

  5.Fingernail polish for twenty toes,

  6.A rap song, a TV show,

  7.Drawing pictures,

  8.Potato stamps,

  9.Laugh so hard your stomach cramps,

  10. Play Monopoly,

  11. Play Go Fish,

  12. Baby brother—such a nuisance!

  13. Blowing bubbles,

  14. Milk and cookies,

  15. Milk mustache,

  16. Putting on my funny hats,

  17. Practice handstands on the mats,

  18. Try on lipstick,

  19. Try on rings,

  20. What if we had magic wings?

  21. More cookies, more milk,

  22. Pink ice cream and pillow fight,

  23. Laughter rising like a kite,

  24. Mama turns out all the lights,

  25. Girl giggles: ark! ark!

  26. Telling stories in the dark,

  27. Shadow fingers on the wall,

  28. Daddy’s warning, our last call,

  29. Little brother, little sneak squeezing in beneath our sheet.

  Good night, Allie-gator.

  Good night, Keet.

  Good night, Nose.

  Now go to sleep!

  LOUD

  Too loud

  the alarm clock.

  Too loud

  the sun.

  Too loud

  Mama calling,

  “Get up,

  everyone.”

  Too loud

  the words,

  “Keet, it’s time

  for school.”

  Too loud

  my yawn.

  Too loud.

  Too loud.

  Where has

  nighttime gone?

  HALLWAY ELEPHANTS

  After the bell, we come rumbling,

  racing, and stomping down the hall,

  herding through the doorways,

  trumpeting our calls,

  romping wit
h giggles, with gossip,

  and now and then a shout,

  pushing and tumbling everyone all about.

  The walls bounce and echo

  with every kind of loud:

  locker slams, book whams,

  lunchbox flops and bags that pop,

  heels sliding to a stop,

  cell phones ringing, singers singing.

  Until the teacher claps and shouts,

  “Quiet, quiet, quiet!”

  This isn’t the Serengeti.

  This isn’t a circus tent.

  But not a one of us seems

  to know what the teacher meant.

  PENCIL SONG

  When the room is quiet,

  if I press my ear

  to my desk,

  I hear my pencil

  slide, scrape, stutter.

  I can hear

  the pencil humming

  and rolling my words

  along,

  slipping and pushing

  its lead like the tongue

  of a new kid at school

  saying words

  with difficult letters,

  practicing the sounds

  over and over

  trying to get them right,

  to make them slip

  from the lip, smooth and swift,

  like everybody else.

  KEET’S SCIENCE EXPERIMENT: WORM WATCH

  1.Gently place the worm’s body on the wax paper in the tray. Observe the worm’s movements.

  Poor worm

  twist

  thrash

  wiggle

  thump

  Poor, poor worm

  2.Use the hand lens to study the worm. Describe its body.

  Long, pencil-thin, a whip of skin, a soft twistytwig, a rubber band stretching,

  reaching, shrinking. Segmented rings on a rubbery tube, wiry hairs, pointy

  at the end, plump in the middle, a tiny vacuum cleaner hose.

  3.Sprinkle a layer of soil on top of the wax paper. Place the worm on the soil. Observe the worm’s movements.

  I glide.

  I stretch. I slide. How easily

  I grip the dirt with my spiky hairs. How easily

  I plow and push and mine. How easily I move

  from here to there.

  4.What conclusions can you reach from your experiment?