Catching a Storyfish Read online

  Out-of-place

  Everything is hard,

  Out-of-place

  A worm finds it hard to be a worm.

  Out-of-place

  Does a worm feel wormy,

  or only small and lost?

  ALLEGRA’S SCIENCE EXPERIMENT: WORM WATCH

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

  (Pencil drawing:

  A line.)

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

  tube, cylinder, segments,

  a long triangle head.

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

  (Pencil drawing:

  A worm in a tunnel beneath the dirt.

  The grass growing overhead—safe.)

  4.What conclusions can you reach from your experiment?

  A line,

  a squiggly line, a wiggly line,

  a straight line.

  Letters are made with lines.

  Are words worms?

  Chapter 6

  FIFTH WEEK: FISHING FOR WORDS

  IN LINE

  In line

  march march march

  by the wall

  hands to self

  march march march

  to the library to the gym

  to the lunchroom back again

  march march march

  at the fountain—line up

  at the door—line up

  straight backs

  eyes ahead

  knees up

  knees down

  march march march

  the teacher watches with ruler eyes

  our school parade

  our school brigade

  students marching marching

  marching in line

  down the hall

  around the corner

  through the doors

  and then outside

  running

  jumping

  hopping

  skipping

  leaping

  spinning

  in loops

  in groups

  and alley-oops

  under the hoops

  monkey-swinging on monkey bars

  somersaults cartwheels

  circles and squares

  but no lines

  ALL THE TALKIN’ I’VE HEARD

  “If everyone can sit in a semi-circle,

  I’ll introduce our storyteller, Doug McVicker.”

  The storyteller is a giant.

  He has a guitar,

  and his voice rumbles and rolls

  like rocks tumbling down a mountain.

  Doug McVicker says he comes from Tennessee.

  He says he comes from Appalachia.

  “You sound funny,” John Royale says.

  Doug McVicker just laughs.

  “Sound like good ol’ Tennessee,” he says.

  “My voice is a map of all the places I’ve been

  and all the talkin’ I’ve heard.

  My stories sound that way too.”

  Then Doug McVicker tells us his stories.

  We laugh.

  We shout.

  We sing.

  We squeal.

  Our eyes beam like flashlights

  and pictures flash inside our heads.

  He tells us that if we know someone’s story,

  then we know who they are,

  and knowing someone’s story—“Well,”

  Doug McVicker says,

  in his good ol’ Tennessee voice,

  “knowing someone’s story is one way

  to put an end to a lot of trouble in the world.

  “For my next story, I need a volunteer.

  I need someone to help me tell the story.”

  I duck my head.

  I try to make myself invisible.

  But Allie-gator squints her eyes at me.

  You tell stories, her eyes say.

  You tell good stories.

  And then,

  not too high,

  not too fast,

  but slowly, slowly,

  I raise my hand.

  Everyone looks at me.

  Ms. Lindle smiles.

  John Royale smirks.

  (He’s always smirking.)

  The storyteller teaches me what to say.

  He shows me what to do.

  We tell the story together.

  He tells it, really.

  I just do the in-between parts.

  Everybody listens.

  Everybody leans in and scooches close.

  Everybody laughs when I say my part.

  They don’t laugh at me

  or the way I say the words.

  They laugh at the story.

  Even Allie-gator smiles (well, almost).

  Even John Royale pays attention.

  Clap! Clap! Clappity!

  Hooting and rooting!

  “Take a bow,” Doug McVicker says.

  “You’re a good storyteller.”

  Good, he said that I was good.

  G-o-o-d with two O’s

  round as sand plums,

  round like two shining suns,

  round like eggs waiting to hatch.

  MAYBE ME

  I think about the storyteller

  and telling stories.

  The way all the kids listened.

  The way everyone clapped.

  It didn’t matter that they thought

  he had a funny voice.

  I have an Alabama voice.

  I sound like Mama-Daddy-Grandpa-

  Grandma-Brother,

  all my uncle-aunties

  and all my hundred-hundred cousins.

  I sound like all the talking I’ve heard,

  and all the singing,

  and all the stories, too.

  SPLASH!

  Maybe my voice

  is hiding

  deep down inside

  like a catfish.

  Maybe it’s listening,

  waiting to rise,

  to splash, to leap

  into the air

  like a rainbow.

  Maybe it’s waiting

  for the right bait.

  FISHING LESSON #5

  Slippery, slippery,

  wide as my hand.

  I feel its weight, feel the slick

  of its smooth scales. I see

  a flat and shiny eye staring back.

  Sharp fins flare,

  sharp spines slash.

  Scaled, mailed,

  it flaps and claps its tail.

  It does not like the air.

  It does not like the light.

  It does not like my hand’s rough drought.

  Grandpa pries the hook from its lip.

  I stare into its eye. It stares at me.

  “What do you think, Fish Bait?”

  I lower the fish carefully into the water.

  The fish floats, stunned and slow,

  but then—plonk! It swims away.

  Rings of water where it used to be,

  rings spreading out, out, out.

  SATURDAY: FISHING LESSON #6

  Out, out, out, I throw my fishing line out, out, out across the

  muddy water to plunge—splish-splash—down into the slow,

  slow slide, the muddy glide and ooze, letting my line sink

  and settle, long sun-struck string, and bob-bob-bobbin’ in the

  mud-mirrored waters, to drift and drift and duck—dip, dip,

  dip—to the shy nib-nibbling of a fish or maybe the soft

  ba-bump, ba-bump beating of my heart.

  FISHING LESSON #7

  Bait your hook with patience,

  if you want to catch a fish.

  Bait your hook with be still,

  be quiet, be slow.

  Bait your hook with mosquito-buzzing,

  with dragonfly-darts and frog-plops
.

  Bait your hook with shadows,

  with a crow’s awk-awk and with sunlight.

  Bait your hook with just enough wind

  to cool the heat but not too much.

  Bait your hook with your grandpa’s

  steady breath and the way he smiles at you.

  But mostly, bait your hook with listening, with waiting,

  with low waves bumping against the bank.

  Chapter 7

  SIXTH WEEK: THE NEW GRANDPA

  AN ORDINARY DAY

  It seemed like an ordinary day.

  I sat at my desk practicing my spelling words,

  erasing my math, reading about reptiles.

  It seemed like an ordinary day.

  But then the School Office called my teacher.

  My teacher looked at me.

  It seemed like an ordinary day.

  “Katharen, please gather up your things.

  You need to go to the office.”

  It seemed like an ordinary day.

  But Mama was in the office

  and Nose too

  with his backpack and his book

  about kangaroos. He likes animals,

  my little brother. He likes worms

  and bugs. I watch him

  kick-kicking at the rug.

  It seemed like an ordinary day.

  But then Mama said,

  “We need to go, Katharen,

  something bad has happened.”

  Something bad when I was at school.

  Something bad when I was spelling Octapuses or Octopie.

  Something bad when I divided 5,408 by 52.

  Something bad when Allie-gator passed me a note:

  “You want to come over after school?”

  It seemed like an ordinary day.

  But it wasn’t.

  HOSPITAL RAIN

  Words fall

  like rain

  drops,

  heavy, gray words.

  I hear stroke, minor.

  I hear should recover.

  I hear depression possible.

  I hear physical therapy.

  I hear Grandpa’s name.

  I hear wait and see.

  I hear Mama crying

  and Daddy saying,

  “It’ll be all right.”

  Something bad has happened.

  I sit next to Nose,

  and he snuggles against me.

  I feel drops of rain falling

  from my eyes, big fat heavy

  gray drops of rain.

  THE NEW GRANDPA

  His eyes are dark rainy days.

  Mama says he’ll stay with us

  until he gets better, until

  he gets stronger. I tiptoe

  by his door. I don’t want to go in.

  “It’s okay, Keet.

  You can talk to him,” Mama says.

  I go in, but I don’t see my Grandpa.

  I see a new Grandpa.

  He is thin and wrinkle-faced.

  He is sad and quiet.

  “Daddy, look,” Mama says. “Keet is here.

  Do you want to say hello to her?”

  The New Grandpa looks at me.

  But he doesn’t say anything.

  He just looks old.

  His lips tremble, and his hands tremble.

  His eyes are dark rainy days.

  KEET

  GRANDPA

  I want my old grandpa,

  but I’m no use to anyone now. I’m not

  the grandpa who laughed

  the strong man. The man who raised a family.

  and fished and listened.

  And scrambled for a living. Who did his best.

  I love you, I try to say,

  I try to say You’re all I have, but

  words are slippery fish;

  words are deep water. I’m sinking:

  inside I’m a dark river.

  Got an anchor in my heart, too heavy to lift.

  NO WORDS

  Allie-Gator:

  Keet came to school today.

  But she didn’t talk to me.

  I showed her my new collage.

  I gave her my cookie at lunchtime.

  “I hope your grandpa gets better,” I said.

  But she didn’t say anything.

  I almost said, “Can you come over?”

  I almost said, “Do you feel bad?”

  Almost, but my words were turtle-slow.

  Keet:

  Ms. Harner said, “We missed you, Katharen.”

  The kids looked at me funny.

  I heard them whispering.

  Allie-Gator showed me her new collage.

  She gave me her cookie at lunchtime.

  She said she was sorry about Grandpa.

  Allie-Gator likes Grandpa.

  I almost said, “Do you want to come over?”

  I almost said, “How’s Molly Cockatoo?”

  Almost, but my words were turtle-slow.

  ALLIE-GATOR’S WISH

  I want my friend Keet-Keet back.

  The talking girl, the story girl.

  But I’ll try to be patient. I’ll try to listen,

  until her sad days, her bad days, go away.

  Talking girl, story girl.

  Can’t you laugh again with me?

  Until the sad times, the bad times, go away?

  We’re girl glue: me + you.

  Can’t you laugh again with me?

  I’m Allie-gator, I’m your friend.

  We’re girl glue: me + you.

  “Give her time,” Abuela says.

  I’m Allie-gator, I’m your friend.

  Tell me a story, talk to me.

  “Darle tiempo,” Abuela says.

  Won’t you laugh, Keet-Keet?

  I’ll keep asking for your stories.

  I’ll try to be patient. I’ll try to listen.

  I’m Allie-gator and you’re mi amiga.

  I want Keet-Keet back, por favor.

  KEET’S WISH

  I want my Old Grandpa back.

  Keep your line tight, Keet.

  I won’t give up. I’ll tell him stories.

  I’ll make the sad go away.

  Keep your line tight, Keet.

  Grandpa, can you talk to me?

  I’ll make the sad go away.

  Guess what I did, Grandpa?

  Grandpa, can you talk to me?

  I’ll listen with my inside ear.

  Guess what I did, Grandpa?

  “Give him time,” Mama says.

  I’ll listen with my inside ear.

  Don’t cry, Grandpa, I love you.

  “Give him time,” Mama says.

  I hold Grandpa’s hand. I kiss his cheek.

  I’ll use talking and stories for bait.

  I won’t give up. I’ll tell him stories.

  I’ll talk and talk his sad away.

  I want my Old Grandpa back.

  RAINY DAYS

  Mama hugs me tight.

  “It’ll be all right, Keet.

  It’ll be all right.”

  “Is he going to get better?”

  “He’s feeling down, Keet,

  and his body’s weak. But

  he’s doing his physical therapy

  and he’ll get better. You’ll see.

  We just have to keep his spirits up.”

  “Does he still love us?”

  “Of course Grandpa loves us!

  Especially you and Noah.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’re his Fish Bait, Keet,

  the girl who Grandpa says

  can talk his ears all the way to Texas

  and have them back in time for supper.

  The girl who makes him laugh.

  The girl who takes him fishing.

  “He told me once

  that his heart was an old tackle box

  and that you were the best thing in it.”

  MOONLIGHT

  Da
ddy does his best to get home

  before I go to bed. But sometimes

  he’s late and I fall asleep.

  Daddy’s late tonight, but when he

  gets home, he tiptoes into my room

  and whispers in my ear.

  I slip on my slippers,

  and Daddy picks me up

  in my pajamas and swoops me

  high above his head

  to perch on his shoulders.

  Quietly, Daddy steps

  out of the house.

  Quietly, he shuts the door,

  and we walk through the ink-black,

  skillet-black, down-in-a-deep-

  deep-hole-black night

  to the rickety picnic table

  where he sits me down to look

  up into the far, far away,

  up into the starry polka-dotty night.

  We look, like we used to,

  for our shiny friends:

  the Big Dipper,

  Orion’s Belt, and

  the Little Dipper,

  and there in its highest seat,

  the Moon Milk Pie.

  That’s what I called it

  when I was little,

  and that’s what Daddy

  calls it now.

  “Look how bright it is tonight, Keet.

  Look how bright.”

  I fold my hands into a cup

  and let the moonlight spill in.

  I tip it full into Daddy’s hands,

  and he raises it to his lips

  to sip, sip, sip,

  and then he does the same for me.

  “Mmmm,” I say,

  “nothing like Moon Milk,”

  just like I used to do.

  Daddy smiles,

  and Moon Milk spills

  over us

  until we shine.

  A SHINY SHEET OF PAPER

  Grandpa doesn’t say anything,

  but he watches carefully.

  He watches closely as Allie-gator

  draws a shiny sheet of orange paper

  from her pocket. Then Allie-gator

  sits beside Grandpa’s bed

  and smoothes the paper flat.

  She folds it this way and folds

  it that way. She creases the lines