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with a loud

  chattering sound

  coming from

  his mouth.

  Her teeth do that when she gets scared or excited, says

  Old Lady Wilson as she

  rubs him, and—

  Wait, did she just say She?

  Consequence (Part One)

  Hush now, girl, before you wake up the neighbors, Old Lady Wilson says, giving her a snack from her robe pocket.

  So yeah, I’m sorry Mrs.—

  Now just hush yourself, Charlie Bell. Those bottles don’t mean nothing to me. My son collects them.

  I look at Mom,

  wondering

  if she’s gonna correct

  Old Lady Wilson’s grammar.

  She doesn’t.

  I will pay you back, I promise.

  Nonsense. Keep your money, Charlie Bell. But I could use some help around here.

  Anything you want, Mrs. Wilson, Mom says. Just name it.

  Well, could he walk Woodrow here?

  WHAT!?

  He’ll be happy to walk her, Mrs. Wilson.

  Anytime is fine by me, long as it’s not in the early evening. That’s when I take my naps.

  Things I Think About on the Walk Home

  She named her girl dog Woodrow Wilson?

  I wonder if Skinny got in trouble.

  Why didn’t I put the trash out?

  My punishment is walking a dog.

  Doesn’t Mom know I’m afraid of dogs?

  Old Lady Wilson is not as mean as I thought.

  Tomorrow’s the last day of school.

  Tomorrow is the first day of summer.

  Tomorrow is my first summer without a road trip.

  Bomb

  The silence is booming.

  Mom doesn’t say a word

  until we get home.

  Then

  she detonates.

  You want to go to jail, Charlie

  because that’s what happens to people

  who steal. You want to get locked up?

  But I didn’t even do

  anything. I was just

  there, and I didn’t

  even have a choice,

  and it was

  all his

  fault.

  Blame

  Who is he? she asks,

  and I want to

  bust on Skinny

  for getting me

  into all this trouble,

  but then

  she wouldn’t let me

  hang out with him

  all summer.

  If he got caught

  he probably

  wouldn’t tell

  on me,

  so I don’t.

  The Last Straw

  She says she’s run

  out of patience,

  thinks I’m headed

  down the wrong path,

  knows I’m hurting

  and maybe I need

  the kind of help

  she can’t give me.

  It was just some boy from around the way. I don’t even really know him, I lie.

  Well, you need to remember him, ’cause I don’t know is not good enough, Charlie.

  What I need is to get far away from here, I say,

  but she doesn’t understand

  that I’m talking

  about this place of sadness

  I’ve been living in

  since March ninth,

  ’cause she starts crying,

  then goes into

  her room

  and slams the door

  like she’s given up

  on me.

  School

  is a dreadful blur

  ’cause CJ’s not here,

  Skinny’s in detention

  for bouncing his ball

  in school,

  and I can’t stop thinking

  about my mess-up

  and how

  I’ve never seen

  my mom

  this mad before.

  When I get home

  she says hello

  without a smile,

  then tells me

  she’s tired

  so she’s going

  to bed early

  and that

  the suitcases

  that were in

  our attic

  are now on

  my bed.

  After you eat dinner—it’s

  in the oven—start packing

  all your summer clothes

  clean your room

  set your alarm

  an hour earlier

  so you can get up

  and walk the dog

  before school.

  Good night!

  Pack for what?

  Why I Don’t Like Dogs

  When I was six, my dad taught me how

  to ride a bike and showed me tricks

  like bunny-hopping and slides

  and one day I tried to

  pop a wheelie when

  a dog jumped me

  and scared me

  and I

  CRASHED!

  Walking Woodrow

  I knock

  on the door

  then back up

  down the stairs

  of Old Lady Wilson’s front porch

  in case she (the dog)

  comes out

  too fast

  and too big

  and too scary.

  She’s more afraid of you, Old Lady Wilson says through her screen door. Just come on up here and pet her, like this, she says, rubbing her head. C’mon, try it.

  I do, cautiously.

  She’s blind as a bat in her left eye, but she can see well enough to walk, and she needs the exercise. I used to take her to the park every day before my nap, but that arthritis is something, I tell ya.

  Oh.

  Danes don’t like a lot of exercise. Come to think of it, me either, she says, laughing. So just take her around the block once or twice.

  Once, I mumble to myself.

  Unleashed

  Woodrow walks

  beside me

  like we’re friends.

  We’re not.

  When we get

  to the Millers’

  she plays

  in their sprinkler

  and starts wagging

  her tail

  in a circular motion

  like a propeller.

  I almost laugh

  until I remember

  the last time

  I was here.

  The Last Day of School

  On the bus ride

  Skinny listens

  to his music,

  twirls his ball

  on his finger.

  CJ can’t stop talking

  about the pizza

  in New York City,

  the weird people

  in Times Square,

  and all the smart students

  she met

  at Columbia University.

  I stare

  out the window,

  yawning,

  wondering why

  I have to pack

  and hope it’s not

  for Disney World

  or worse

  some whack

  summer camp

  for kids with

  grief.

  Well, somebody’s tired, CJ says, nudging me.

  I had to wake up way early, I say.

  Why?

  To walk Old Lady Wilson’s dog.

  TO WHAT!?! she and Skinny say in unison.

  I tell them

  I got in trouble

  for doing something

  really, REALLY stupid.

  I’m sorry, CJ adds.

  Yeah, that’s messed up, Charlie, Skinny says, clueless. What’d you do?

  Why are you always so nosy? CJ says, rolling her eyes at him.

  Why are you so ring-around-the-rosy, he says, laughing and high-fiving me, like he just got her good.


  Why are you so vexatious? CJ counters.

  Huh?

  Yeah, that’s what I thought, she says, licking her finger and rubbing the air with it. Score for CJ!

  I took something that didn’t belong to me, I say, and Skinny’s eyes get all big.

  That doesn’t even sound like you, Charlie Bell.

  Was it just you, or did anyone else get in trouble? Skinny asks, all frantic-like.

  I shouldn’t have done it, but I owned up to it, and now I gotta walk Old Lady Wilson’s dog every morning.

  Dang, that kinda sucks. I’d help, but I’m allergic to dogs.

  You’re allergic to work, Skinny, CJ says. I can help you, if you want, Charlie.

  Thanks, but her dog is kinda scary.

  Dogs are more afraid of us, she says.

  Forget about the dog. What I wanna know is, is Old Lady Wilson scary? Skinny asks.

  The dog

  is white, huge,

  bigger than

  Old Lady Wilson,

  with patches of black,

  and she named her

  after the twenty-eighth president

  of the United States, I say,

  but all Skinny wants

  to know

  is what

  Old Lady Wilson looks like

  and if it’s true

  she keeps

  her husband’s

  casket

  in the basement.

  She named her Abraham Lincoln?

  He then asks.

  No, stupid, Woodrow Wilson, corrects CJ, who’s

  probably gonna be

  a teacher when she grows up

  ’cause her brain

  already knows stuff

  most adults don’t.

  Why would she name a girl dog after a guy president? Skinny asks.

  Yeah, I was wondering the same thing.

  Probably because he supported the Nineteenth Amendment, which gave women the right to vote.

  Probably not, Skinny says, shaking his head.

  Yeah, I doubt that’s the reason, I say, but he sounds like a cool guy.

  He also thought slavery and segregation were good things.

  Not cool, I say.

  Can we not talk about slavery please? It kinda creeps me out, Skinny says.

  How do you know so much stuff, CJ? I ask.

  I’m a genius, Charlie. I thought you knew that, she says,

  with a smile

  and a punch

  to my stomach

  that hurts

  in a good

  kind of way.

  Sorry you got in trouble. I’ll help you walk Woodrow Wilson, though.

  Okay.

  Friday

  We have parties

  in most of our classes

  and in the rest,

  the teachers

  just tell us

  to look busy,

  so I read comics

  while Skinny

  talks my head off

  about

  how he hopes

  his mom gets

  a better job

  so they can move out

  and he can get

  his own bedroom,

  and about

  how he thinks

  that CJ might like me,

  and about how

  he’s sorry

  he got me

  in trouble.

  It’s okay, I tell him.

  AW, MAN, he yells, startling the whole class.

  What?

  I left my ball on the bus this morning.

  Saturday

  We sit

  inches from each other

  at the breakfast table

  but it feels like

  we’re in different countries,

  our treaty disappearing

  with each forkful

  of French toast

  and each spoonful

  of grits,

  our distance

  growing further

  and further

  with each

  wordless

  moment.

  The clink

  of the knife

  slicing bread

  is the only sound

  between us.

  I want to say something

  but the words

  get in the way.

  I take my last bite,

  mumble “Thank you,”

  get up

  to go shower,

  then walk

  our twenty-eighth president.

  Consequence (Part Two)

  You’re welcome, she says.

  I did say thank you.

  Anything else you have to say?

  . . .

  Because even though you don’t want me to be here, I just made your favorite breakfast, and—

  I didn’t really mean what I said.

  Well, it sure sounded like you meant it. That was hurtful, Charlie. And stealing? That’s not you.

  I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to.

  Look, it’s been a tough time for both of us, and I know you miss your father. We need a change.

  What kind of change?

  We need to get away.

  I don’t want to go to Disney World.

  I heard you.

  Or camp.

  I’ve got something else in mind.

  Like what?

  I thought we could visit Grandma and Granddaddy.

  Why?

  They miss you.

  For how long?

  I have to work Saturday night, so I would drop you off next Sunday.

  NEXT SUNDAY? That’s like in a week. And, what do you mean, drop me off?

  I want you to spend some time alone with your grandparents.

  So you’re leaving me there?

  It’ll be good for both of us.

  That’s not fair.

  I think it would be good for you. And them.

  How long do I have to stay there?

  The whole summer.

  . . .

  I almost drop my

  plate on the floor when she decides to

  ruin my brand-new day with her

  cruel and unreasonable

  decision to send her

  only son away,

  but right before

  my STORM, the

  doorbell

  rings.

  Three-Way Conversation

  Hello, Crystal. What a nice surprise.

  What are you doing here, CJ?

  Is that the way we talk to guests, Charlie?

  It’s okay, Mrs. Bell, I’m used to Charlie being cantankerous. He’s dealing with a lot.

  Come on in.

  How are things at the hospital, Mrs. Bell?

  Long hours, but things are good, Crystal.

  I might want to be a nurse when I grow up too. Or a scientist. Or a teacher.

  Or a talker, I say, laughing by myself.

  Or a dog walker, she comes back with, quickly. I came to help you walk Woodrow Wilson, but maybe I should reconsider.

  . . .

  That’s very nice of you, Crystal. Well, I’ll leave you two to it. Charlie, come straight back home afterward.

  Yeah, okay.

  Are you coming to our skating contest on Friday, Mrs. Bell?

  I’m afraid Charlie will not be able to participate.

  MOM! Why not! That’s just not fair.

  Charlie, we can discuss this later.

  That’s a shame, Mrs. Bell. I understand, but it’s certainly disappointing. We’ve been practicing our routine for months, and we have a chance to win the finals, and Skinny’s grounded because he got a D in English but his mother is letting him skate because if one of us doesn’t come we won’t be able to compete, and my parents are coming, and—

  Okay, thank you, Crystal. Is this true, Charlie?

  Yeah.

  . . .

  I mean, yes.

  Well, we will see. Maybe I’ll make an exception.

  Thank you
, Mrs. Bell. Thank you so much.

  Tell your parents I said hello, Crystal.

  C’mon, let’s go, CJ whispers, pulling my arm out the door. Before she changes her mind.

  Reprieve

  . . .

  What?

  I just got you off punishment. That deserves some acknowledgment, don’t you think?

  Oh yeah, thanks for that.

  That’s disingenuous.

  Huh?

  Insincere. As in, you don’t really mean it. Your gratitude is disingenuous.

  But I’m still on punishment.

  But you get to skate in the contest on Friday.

  Yeah, but I have to leave next Sunday.

  Leave? Where are you going?

  To stay with my grandparents for the whole summer.

  Why?

  Because my mom wants to get rid of me.

  I’m sorry, Charlie.

  Yeah, me too.

  You’re still hurting, aren’t you?

  What do you mean?

  You don’t ever really talk about your dad. I think that’s probably unhealthy.

  There’s nothing to even talk about.

  My mom says my dad doesn’t talk about how he feels about stuff either. I’ve never seen him cry.

  So what?

  So, he has ulcers in his stomach.

  Oh.

  You can talk to me, Charlie, she says, grabbing my hand and rubbing my palm like she’s somebody’s mother. Or you could write about it.