Catching a Storyfish Page 7
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?
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,