Catching a Storyfish Page 8
not even Ms. Lindle,
who comes to deliver books
and then sits down to listen.
The room is quiet.
Every face is still.
Everyone stares,
their eyes like dark windows.
Their mouths are like doors
to scary houses, some sealed,
some open. Even Allegra
has a strange look.
I feel ice cubes in my head.
I feel fishhooks. I feel
tangly nets. I feel mosquitoes buzzing
and angry bees. I don’t ask
permission. I don’t ask for a pass.
I don’t wait for Ms. Harner
to dismiss me from class.
I jump and run out the door.
“Katharen!” Ms. Harner calls. “Katharen!”
but I don’t stop.
RUIN, DISASTER
I run all the way to the office.
I don’t stop for anyone.
They call Ms. Harner,
but it doesn’t matter what she says.
I won’t listen. I don’t listen.
I say I’m not feeling well.
“No, I can’t wait for the bell.
I want to go home.
I want to go home.
I want to go home now!”
Mama hurries. Mama comes.
“Keet? What’s wrong?”
I can’t tell her.
I get in the car
and I cry and cry.
“Baby, what’s wrong?
What’s wrong, Keet?
Tell me what’s wrong.”
I am Keet-Keet Parakeet
the story-talker, the story-maker.
I used to be. But not now.
They didn’t like the stories.
They didn’t like the teller.
They didn’t want the heart-box
inside of me.
HOME
I wake up,
curled in my bed.
Mama has tucked me in.
I hear voices
in the kitchen.
I hear Nose chitter-chattering
and asking someone to read to him.
I hear a deep breath.
Slowly, I open my eyes
and see Grandpa’s walker.
And in my chair
I see—Grandpa!
I jump out of bed
to give him a hug.
“Are you better, Grandpa?”
“Well, I’m a little better now
that my Fisssh Bait’s woken up.
I was w-worried about her.”
His voice is raspy and not very loud.
He still says “Fish Bait” in a funny way.
But it’s my grandpa’s voice,
my Old Grandpa.
“I hear someone caught
a big fish today in school.”
“No, Grandpa.
I didn’t catch anything.
I tried to talk, but it came out wrong.
Everybody stared at me.
They think I talk funny.”
“Fisssh Bait, I think I need
to take you night fishing.”
“Night fishing? Can we really
go night fishing, Grandpa?
Are you getting better?”
“Better now that I see my Fisssh Bait smiling.
Makes me want to get up and start smiling too.
But right now, there’s folks waiting
for you in the kitchen. They’ve been telling
me all about you, and they’re waiting to see you.”
“Who, Grandpa? Who wants to see me?”
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
Nose squeals, “Keet-y,”
and runs to me.
“You slept a long time, Keet-y.
I’m playing with Allie-gator.
She had supper with us.
Mama said you didn’t want any supper.
She said you needed to sleep.
I gave Allie-gator your chocolate milk.
She drank it all up.
Look, Keet-y,
the Library Lady is here to see you.
She gave me a sticker.
See my sticker, Keet-y?”
At our table, across from Mama,
sits Ms. Lindle. My head
drops to my chin. I want
to run away again, but
I hear the stutter of Grandpa’s walker.
He comes to the kitchen,
even though it makes his legs tremble,
even though it makes his arms shake.
Allie-gator gives me a wink,
but I don’t know what it means.
“Am I in trouble?” I ask.
“Trouble? Oh, Katharen, no.
I heard your Dream Report today,
and I thought it was fabulous.
I wanted your family to know.
We were all so proud of you.
If you’d stayed, you would have
heard everyone clapping for you.”
“They clapped?”
“Even John Royale,” Allie-gator says.
“Yes, even John Royale.” Ms. Lindle smiles.
“But I didn’t give the right kind of report,”
I say. “It wasn’t about what I wanted
to be when I grow up. It wasn’t like
the other kids’ reports.”
“Well . . . maybe not. But Katharen,
you put marvelous pictures in our heads.
We heard you.
There can’t be anything braver than what you did,
or anything better. Well . . . maybe one thing.
Can you come to see me tomorrow,
since I came all this way to see you?”
I look at Grandpa,
I look at Mama,
and nod my head yes.
FISHING LESSON #8
I stick to Grandpa like glue,
like a stamp on a letter,
like a spider web,
like sticky tape.
I stick like a cocklebur.
I stick like a shadow.
I stick like a peanutbutterdillpickle sandwich.
I won’t let him get away
ever again.
“Tell me about night fishing, Grandpa.”
It takes Grandpa a while to start. His voice
is soft. And sometimes,
his words slip and slur.
Sometimes, he stops to catch his breath.
But then he looks at me, my Old Grandpa,
and starts again. He won’t give up.
“If you want to catch the big fish, Fish Bait,
sometimes the best time to go is at night,
when the mosquitoes are singing,
when the air cools, and the moon
is a creamy bowl of buttermilk.
“Sometimes it’s best to go fishing at night
when all the other fishers are at home snoring.
Go out and set your lines, your nets,
your traps. Then go away and come back
in the morning. Go night fishing, Fish Bait,
“because at night, the big fish come out, quietly
rising, quietly nib-nib-nibbling at your bait.
And when you go back early in the morning—
you’ll find that you’ve caught some of the biggest
fish of all. Sometimes, fish don’t come right away.
They don’t come when you want them.
They like to take their time.
They swim slow and easy, slow and easy.
But if you’re patient, if you come
at the right time, you’ll find them.”
“I ran away, Grandpa.”
“You did. But the fish came anyway.
They liked your stories, Fish Bait.
You drew them in and caught them.
Just like you caught me.”
THIS MIGHT INTEREST YOU
National contest . . .
Original . . .
“Katharen,” Ms. Lindle says.
“I enjoyed your report.
You should write it down.
Here’s something that might interest you.”
National contest . . .
Enter by . . .
Original . . .
“See what you can do, Katharen.
I’m happy to help, if you have questions.”
National contest . . .
Enter by . . .
Original . . .
A writing contest,
a short story contest.
After school, I go home,
and I write, and I write,
and I write.
National contest . . .
Enter by . . .
Original . . .
“Keet-Keet, time for supper.”
“Katharen, time for bed.”
“Keet, what are you working on so hard?
Keet? Keet-Keet? Katharen?
Put it away!”
National contest . . .
Enter by . . .
Original . . .
I write a lot and erase a lot.
I write and rewrite and try to get it right.
I write down all the words
that float, dizzy-dance,
and tumble in my head.
National contest . . .
Enter by . . .
Original . . .
The deadline is coming closer.
National contest . . .
Enter by . . .
Original . . .
Ms. Lindle helps me fill out the form.
Ms. Lindle sends my story in.
“It’s a good story, Katharen.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Absolutely-truly-ruly-
no-mistake-for-certain,” Ms. Lindle says.
National contest . . .
Enter by . . .
Original . . .
WAITING
Waiting is the lace
on the collar of your dress that you have to wear to school,
and it scratches and itches, and scratches and itches:
a long, long time.
Waiting is the nine bazillion hours before your favorite TV show,
the nine gazillion hours before school gets out,
and the nine padrillion days before your birthday:
a long, long time.
Waiting is lying in bed at night when it’s still dark,
and the house is all creaky,
and you can hear a moth flick-flick-flick against the window:
a long, long time.
But Ms. Lindle says,
“We just have to wait, Katharen.”
“How long?” I say.
Ms. Lindle looks at me.
I go back to reading
and doing my homework
and waiting,
waiting,
waiting.
NOAH’S BIG SURPRISE
Nose can’t wait any longer.
“Keet-y, hurry up.
I want to show you something.”
There on the kitchen table,
Mama, Grandpa,
Allie-gator, and I
see a large hump
covered with cloth.
Nose pulls the cloth away.
In her cage
sits Molly Cockatoo.
Nose pushes a peanut
through the bars.
“Say it, Molly,” Nose says.
“Awk, Grandpa!
Awk, Grandpa!
“Hullo, Grandpa!
Awk! Hullo, Grandpa!”
“That’s a mighty fine chicken,”
Grandpa says.
“No, Grandpa!” we all say.
“That’s not a chicken!”
Mama laughs at me laughing,
at Noah laughing,
at Grandpa laughing,
at Molly squawking,
“Pretty girl!
Grandpa pretty girl!”
And Allie-gator smiles
her biggest s-m-i-l-e ever,
bright and pointy as a star.
Chapter 9
A TRILLION WEEKS LATER
THE MYSTERY OF THE STRANGE SMILE
Everyone’s acting strange.
Mama makes my favorite breakfast:
cornmeal pancakes with applesauce,
and hot chocolate with two extra
marshmallows, for no reason at all.
“Just because,” she says.
And then she gives me a strange smile.
Grandpa talks and talks to Daddy
and hardly says a thing to me.
Even Daddy isn’t acting right.
When he comes home from the road,
I always get to watch him shave.
He lets me pat-pat-pat the shaving cream
on his cheeks. But today, Daddy
just gives me a chicken-peck kiss,
a strange smile, and hurries off to work.
Even my teachers
act strange. After recess,
Ms. Harner marches us to the library.
“Why are we going to library?”
I ask Allegra. It’s not library day.
“The principal has an announcement,”
Ms. Harner says,
and gives me a super-strange smile.
We’re sitting in the reading circle
when the door opens,
and in walks the principal,
in walks
Mama,
Daddy,
Grandpa,
Nose,
Ms. Lindle,
and a man with a camera!
“Class, one of our students wrote a story
for a national contest,” the principal says.
“Her story has won an honorable mention.
Our school is so proud of her.
Katharen, would you please come forward?”
Something silvery leaps inside me,
something cold and tickly.
I feel minnows and squiggly-wiggly tadpoles
swimming in my stomach.
The class cheers.
Grandpa waves his fishing hat.
Mama’s eyes are watery pools.
Daddy puts a hand on my shoulder.
Noah makes the loudest noise of all.
“Keet-y! Keet-y! Keet-y!” he chants.
Allie-gator holds up a picture she’s hidden
in her pocket: a girl with a heart shape
on her dress, and in the heart, a fish.
They put my picture in the paper.
They give me a certificate with a big red ribbon.
Ms. Lindle displays my story in the library
with a sign that says: You’re a Writer, Katharen Walker!
HONORABLE MENTION
I ask Ms. Lindle
what “honorable mention” means.
She says I didn’t win,
or get second place, or third,
but the judges think
I have talent.
“Winning isn’t the important thing, Katharen.
The important thing is your stories.
“Keep telling them.
Write them down.
One day everyone will read them.”
THE END OF THE STORY
“Keep writing, Keet-Keet, and who knows
what could happen,” Mama says,
and she gives me a sloppy kiss
on the top of my head.
“Fish Bait, you caught your storyfish,”
Grandpa says. “Now hold on to it.
Hold on good and tight, and don’t let go!”
“No, Grandpa, I won’t let go.”
Daddy doesn’t say a thing,
but he brings me a notebook
where he’s written my name,
and a silver pencil
with a fish-shaped eraser.
I give Daddy a hug
and go off to bed.
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I think about the day
and all its surprises.
Keep telling stories.
It’s not the winning. It’s the writing.
I look at the midnight cup
on the shelf and think of the wishes
and secrets and memories it holds.
I look at the fish-shaped eraser.
I look inside my head and see Noah
with another cup of chocolate milk,
saying over and over, “Tell me a story, Keet-y.”
And inside something
leaps, splashes light.
Something comes
and waits
for a line,
for a word,
for a small whispering heart.
I lift my pencil,
open my notebook—and write.
POETRY GLOSSARY
Abecedarian
In an abecedarian poem, the first line begins with the letter A, the second line with B, and so on through the alphabet. Example: “Allegra Can Spell Anything.”
Blues Poem
A blues poem uses or adapts the 12-bar rhyming structure of the African-American music form called the blues. To write a blues, write two similar or nearly similar lines that present a problem. Then use the third line to respond to the problem. The best way to write a blues poem is to listen to blues music. Blues musicians and poets often play variations on the form, as I do here.
I got the New-Girl blues.
I got those back-to-school and don’t-want-to,
do-I-have-to-Mama? do-I-have-to? blues.
Catalog Poem
A catalog poem is structured like a list. Often, a catalog poem begins with a phrase that repeats again and again. This pattern of repetition is called anaphora. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech offers a famous example of anaphora. “Library Helper” is a catalog poem that uses anaphora. “Things to Do with a Baby Brother” and “Sleepover” are also catalog poems, but they do not use anaphora.
Concrete Poem
A concrete poem expresses its topic in the shaping of the words on the page. For example, “Fishing Line Knot Hook” takes the shape of a marshmallow on a fishhook.
Contrapuntal Poem
This is a difficult form. Readers can read a contrapuntal in three ways. The left column is one poem, and the right column is a second poem. When we read the whole poem from left to right, we find a third poem. Example: “Keet Grandpa.”
Haibun
This is a Japanese form composed of prose and a haiku. The haiku and the prose should enrich and expand each other. Example: “Cafeteria.”