Catching a Storyfish Read online

  ruler-straight and knife-edge sharp.

  And then she unfolds the paper.

  A fish! A shiny orange goldfish!

  Allie-gator sets the fish on Grandpa’s windowsill.

  I watch Grandpa’s eyes follow Allie-gator.

  I watch him looking at the fish.

  I watch him studying me

  like my Old Grandpa did, but then

  he closes his eyes and creases them tight

  and seals my Old Grandpaaway.

  SAD

  Sad comes. It will not go away.

  It sits in the bathtub

  and makes the water cold.

  It follows me to breakfast

  and wants runny eggs and soggy toast.

  It tries to do my homework,

  especially math.

  It thinks the answer is always zero.

  Sad puts on my clothes,

  when I don’t want it to.

  Sad wants to wear my shoes

  and do whatever I do.

  I look in the mirror and I see Sad

  staring at me.

  I stick my tongue out at it.

  It sticks its tongue out too.

  Go away, Sad, I say. Go far away.

  It opens its mouth,

  but nothing comes out.

  There are no words, and

  no word is right.

  Sad makes it hard to answer

  when Mama asks,

  “What’s the matter, Honey?

  Tell me what you want.”

  CATCHING GRANDPA

  I want to find my Old Grandpa.

  I think he’s hiding inside this New Grandpa.

  I think he’s deep-down low like

  an old catfish. But I know he hears me.

  I know he does.

  I’m going to tell him stories.

  I’ll use Grandpa’s fishing lessons.

  “Keep your line tight,”

  Grandpa used to say.

  “If one bait doesn’t work, try another,”

  Grandpa used to say.

  “Pull your line a little and let go a little,”

  Grandpa used to say.

  “You’ve got to be patient if you want

  to catch a fish,”

  Grandpa used to say.

  I’ll catch you, Grandpafish,

  that’s what I say.

  Dive, deep, deep,

  and I’ll follow.

  Twist and turn,

  and I’ll hold tight.

  Try to draw yourself away,

  and I’ll make my stories into a net

  and wrap them snug around you.

  KEET’S STORY FOR GRANDPA ABOUT THE GREAT BIG ROCKET

  Ms. Harner tells us to write a fable,

  a story with a lesson. I think and I think,

  until at last a fable swims into my head.

  I call it, “The Fable of Jack’s Rocket.”

  Once there was a boy named Jack

  who liked to draw

  who had an assignment to draw a rocket.

  Lightning-quick, Jack drew

  a long skinny rectangle

  with a triangle on top.

  Jack was pleased with his rocket.

  Jack was the first one in his class to finish.

  Jack carried his rocket

  to the front of the room

  to place it on the teacher’s desk,

  just like the teacher said.

  Or at least

  he started to,

  but then he saw

  another kid’s rocket.

  The other rocket was bigger.

  It had wide windows

  with people looking out.

  Jack didn’t turn his rocket in.

  He sat back down and drew

  a brand-new rocket.

  His new rocket was much bigger.

  It had wide windows.

  It had people looking out.

  Jack was pleased.

  He carried his new rocket

  to the front of the room

  to put on the teacher’s desk.

  Or at least

  he started to—

  but then he saw

  another kid’s rocket.

  It had curlicues of smoke

  and jets of fire.

  It flew through space

  with blue and purple stars.

  The other rocket was better

  than Jack’s rocket.

  So Jack sat down

  and started over.

  He drew an even larger rocket

  with smoke and curlicues,

  and jets of fire, and windows

  with people looking out,

  and a sky filled with stars,

  and a big, wide yellow moon.

  Jack was pleased.

  He carried his new rocket

  to the front of the room

  to put on the teacher’s desk,

  just like the teacher said.

  At least—

  Jack started to,

  but then he saw another kid’s rocket.

  It had an astronaut

  floating from a curly rope

  and a space alien with an antenna.

  The other kid’s rocket

  was better than Jack’s rocket.

  So Jack sat down

  and started over.

  He drew and he drew

  until there was nothing left of Jack

  but his crayon moving around

  and around, drawing rockets

  and rockets and rockets

  over and over and over . . .

  KEET’S STORY FOR GRANDPA ABOUT THE TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, KID-EATING DOG

  Once Nose and I

  walked to the store.

  It was an old store,

  a neighborhood store,

  with a screen door

  that whacked and slammed.

  It smelled like coffee

  and had rows of shelves,

  and a cooler

  with popsicles and ice cream,

  and boxes of candy,

  and gumballs

  for a quarter.

  We had six quarters

  and twenty-five pennies.

  We walked

  past the houses,

  past the fences,

  past the mailboxes,

  past our new school,

  until

  we reached

  the yellow-and-brown

  house with the low gate.

  Then I went tiptoe,

  tiptoe along the sidewalk,

  going by the house

  tiptoe quiet and tiptoe quick.

  But Nose went

  CLOP clop, CLOP clop,

  because he had on Daddy’s shoes.

  We had almost

  made it to the next house,

  when across the yard

  of the yellow-and-brown house,

  and through its low gate,

  ran

  the scariest

  dog

  in the whole wide world,

  a big-eyed, pointy-eared,

  sharp-toothed, snotty-nosed Chihuahua,

  and it barked,

  and barked,

  and BARKED

  at Nose and me.

  Then it chased us!

  I was scared. I ran.

  Nose was scared.

  He ran, or tried to.

  CLOP CLOP, CLOP CLOP.

  He started to cry

  and call my name,

  but I was too scared.

  I ran fast for the store,

  for the squeaky screen door

  that would whack

  and slam behind me.

  I ran faster than Nose.

  The terrible Chihuahua was right behind him.

  CLOP! CLOP! CLOP! CLOP!

  BARK! BARK! BARK! BARK!

  Then the old man

  who lived in the yellow-and-brown house

  gave a sharp whistle.

  The dog stopp
ed.

  He turned and trotted

  back to his yard

  like a little yellow king,

  a horrible monster dog,

  a kid catcher.

  Nose cried

  for a long time.

  I felt bad.

  I didn’t save him.

  I wasn’t a superhero or a wizard.

  I didn’t have a magic cape.

  So I let him have five quarters

  and all the pennies.

  I took the last quarter

  and bought a gumball.

  He got a popsicle and ate it

  all by himself,

  and he didn’t give me any.

  ANY FOR ME?

  I tell Grandpa a story every day.

  I tell him:

  “How I Walk Noah to School,” and

  “How I Made Cornbread Soup with Mama,” and

  “The Great Cream-Puff Disaster,” and

  “Earthworms Everywhere,” and

  “Allie-Gator Can Spell Anything.”

  I tell all kinds of stories, new ones

  and old ones. Grandpa listens to every one.

  Sometimes, he falls asleep, but he always

  wakes up and listens again. Once,

  when I came home, he was sitting

  up in bed waiting for me.

  Today, I tell him about making

  stamps in art class and eating

  three slices of pizza for lunch.

  Grandpa’s lips wobble into a smile,

  and he says, in a slurry voice,

  “Did you save any for me?

  Fisssh Bait?”

  When I look at his face,

  I can see my Old Grandpa.

  I can see two guppy-sized girls

  in his eyes, and they look just like me.

  Chapter 8

  SEVENTH WEEK: SAY SOMETHING, KEET!

  “DREAM DAY”

  “Katharen,” Ms. Harner calls.

  Every eye turns to me.

  “We’re looking forward

  to hearing your report

  for ‘Dream Day.’

  It will be your turn next week.”

  Me? My turn? How can that be?

  John Royale will laugh.

  Chloe will sneer.

  Everyone will say I sound funny,

  that my words hurt their ears.

  Maybe I’ll be sick.

  Maybe I’ll stay home.

  Maybe I’ll catch a boat to Timbuktu or Rome.

  Allie-gator gives me a note:

  “You’ll be MAGNIFICENT. You’ll see.”

  Nosy Posy

  Allie-gator comes over to see me after school.

  But sometimes she comes to see Nose.

  Nosy Nose has a secret.

  He’s doing something with Allie-gator. What?

  Mama keeps me busy in the house

  so that I don’t find out.

  “What are they up to?” I say. “What are they doing?”

  “Who’s the nosy one now?” Mama laughs.

  I don’t know. But I know

  they’re up to something fishy.

  “Nosy posy,” Mama says.

  “Keet’s a nosy posy.”

  FISH COUNT

  Nose likes to count the fish

  on Grandpa’s windowsill,

  different sizes, different shapes.

  Allie-gator made them all.

  When she comes over after school,

  Grandpa sits up a little higher in bed.

  Is he feeling better? Today, he looks

  at something on his bedside table,

  and then he looks at Allie-gator,

  and then he looks at me.

  Allie-gator doesn’t hesitate.

  She picks up the gum wrapper,

  and folds triangle-y angles

  into a teeny-tiny, itty-

  bitty gum-wrapper goldfish.

  Allie-gator sets the fish

  on the windowsill.

  Grandpa looks at her,

  and then he looks at me.

  His mouth trembles a little

  and then he smiles, a small smile.

  “That-s-sahh keeper!” he says.

  SWIMMING AWAY

  Allie-gator keeps telling silly fish jokes.

  “Keet, what did the catfish say to the librarian?

  Got any fish tales?”

  “Keet, why did the catfish skip school?

  It was playing fish hooky.”

  “Keet, why don’t they serve catfish in the school cafeteria?

  The catfish and hotdogs always fight.”

  I want to smile because

  I’ve found a friend,

  because Grandpa’s getting better and talking a little

  more,

  because Mama’s singing to herself like she used to do,

  because Nose is still my silly baby brother.

  I want to smile, I try to,

  but then I remember

  “Dream Day.”

  I have stories now for Allegra,

  and stories for Grandpa,

  but at school—

  my stories snarl like fishing lines,

  my talking catches mean-kid looks,

  my words slip and swim away,

  and the storyfish sinks deep inside.

  CAN

  “Keep trying, Keet,

  you can do anything

  you put your mind to,”

  my grandma used to say.

  But I have to give

  a “Dream Day” talk,

  and I don’t say the words the way

  the other kids say them.

  I think about the storyteller,

  who made it seem so easy. But it isn’t easy.

  Inside my head, I hear Mama say,

  “You can do it, Keet.”

  I remember Allie-gator’s note.

  “You’ll be MAGNIFICENT. You’ll see.”

  I imagine Nose singing over and over,

  “Keet-y can. Keety-can.”

  I think about Grandpa’s fishing lesson.

  “Plant your feet, Keet, and pull, pull, pull.”

  I think of Daddy tugging my braids,

  looking me in the eye, and giving me a wink.

  Daddy always thinks I can do it.

  But what if I don’t think,

  really don’t think I can?

  GENIE

  “Grandpa,” I whisper. “I don’t think I can do it.”

  But Grandpa is sound asleep.

  He doesn’t hear me.

  He doesn’t know

  that I really, really need him.

  I whisper, “Don’t let the fishes bite,”

  like he used to say.

  But Grandpa is fast asleep.

  I don’t know what to do.

  I hold his hand and rub it

  like I’m making wishes on a genie lamp.

  Grandpa

  Grandpa

  Grandpa

  WHAT WILL I SAY?

  I repeat the words over and over:

  You can do it. You can do it.

  But—I can’t. I know I can’t.

  They’ll say I say things wrong.

  They’ll look at me

  and think I don’t belong.

  I try to remember what the storyteller said.

  I try to remember Grandpa’s fishing lessons.

  I try—but in my head

  I see eyes like measuring tape.

  I see faces like sour grapefruits.

  I hear voices chanting:

  Katharen Walker, funny talker.

  Don’t look! Don’t listen to them,

  to the kids who say you can’t do it.

  You can do it, Keet-Keet.

  You can do it, Keet.

  You can do it, Katharen!

  But what will I tell them

  for “Dream Day”?

  What can I talk about?

  What can I say?

  Do I have a dream today?
r />   MY KNEES ARE KNOCKING

  My hands are grasshoppers

  my heart is a kangaroo

  my lungs are too small

  my throat is a desert

  my tongue . . .

  where’s my tongue?

  CATCHING A STORYFISH

  “If you’re going to catch a fish,

  you can’t be afraid of the water,”

  Grandpa used to say.

  “You got to be quiet and still.”

  I let myself get quiet.

  I stand very still.

  I feel my heart skipping rope.

  I remember the storyteller’s words.

  My voice is all the places I’ve been

  and all the stories I’ve heard.

  It’s Grandpa, Grandma, Mama, Daddy,

  and Nose. It’s my uncles, aunties,

  and my hundred-hundred cousins.

  I open my mouth

  and let the words come.

  I tell them about Grandpa.

  I tell them how to find

  the best fishing holes,

  and the best bait.

  I tell them Grandpa’s recipes

  for scaring away mosquitoes.

  I tell them about turtles

  and water striders and great blue herons

  and minnows, sunfish,

  bass, and carp with diamond-shiny scales.

  I tell them about cleaning fish,

  and fishing poles as tall as a house,

  and all the different kinds of bait:

  red wigglers, night crawlers,

  crickets, hoppers, stinky dough balls,

  chicken livers, and even marshmallows.

  I tell them about deep water

  and shallow water, and water rings

  beating against the shore.

  I tell them how you have to stay quiet

  and still and not move, not even

  when you have an itch.

  I tell them about keeping catfish-quiet

  and not wiggling anything, not even your nose.

  I tell them my dream,

  to go fishing with Grandpa again,

  and how we will catch Ol’ Muddy Joe,

  and Grandpa and I will stay together, forever forever.

  I tell them about the storyfish

  that Grandpa says I have inside.

  And how sometimes a story

  swims through my heart

  and leaps up all silvery

  and rainbow-bright. I tell them

  I dream of catching my storyfish

  and telling a really good story

  that makes my grandpa smile again.

  I lift things from my heart box

  one by one to show them.

  I talk for a long time.

  But no one says a word,

  not even Ms. Harner,