me?
No oneâs blaming you. Iâm just askingâ
Â
Iâm tired of this. Youâre always fussing
at me for not reading your stupid dictionary
or cleaning up my room.
You donât let me do ANYTHING.
You take my phone,
you took Mom,
and now you want to
take away
the last good thing
in my freakinâ life:
SOCCER.
Â
Calm down, Nicholas.
NO. Iâm sick of it.
My life sucks.
I get bullied at school.
I get bullied at home.
I HATE MY LIFE!
I wish I was. Sometimes, I just wish I wasâ
Â
What? You wish you were what?
Â
Dead.
A Good Cry
The blasting rap music
in your headphones
makes you feel less sad
but still angry
about things, so
you start ripping
pages
from books
on your shelf
and only stop
when you get to
his dictionary, because
even though youâre pissed
youâre not stupid.
At the top
of the page
you almost ripped
is the word
sweven.
*
Â
You fall asleep
repeating it
497 times
and dream that . . .
Â
You sprained your ankle
on a dictionary while
moonwalking
with Michael Jackson.
Â
Your parents
celebrate
their twentieth anniversary
at the Dallas Cup.
Â
You beat up
Dean and Don
for picking on April, and then
Â
you fall off
a mountain
but right before
you CRASH
you wake up
crying
in your momâs
arms.
What are you doing here?
Dad called,
she says, wiping your tears.
I drove all night. Weâre both worried about you, Nicky.
Iâm fine, Mom.
Â
He told me what you said.
Mom, of course Iâm not gonna kill myself. I was just upset when I said that.
Â
What about that stuff you posted online?
Seriously, Mom. Iâm fine. I say stuff all the time that I donât mean.
Â
So, you lie?
Câmon, Mom.
Â
. . .
. . .
Â
Letâs get out of here.
Huh?
Â
Put on your clothes. Letâs go to the field.
I donât feel like it.
Â
Thatâs a first! Câmon, Iâm gonna give you a soccer lesson today.
Do I have to?
Â
Yes, but clean up this room first.
. . .
1 on 1
like lightning
you strike
fast and free
legs zoom
downfield
eyes fixed
on the checkered ball
on the goal
ten yards to go
canât nobody stop you
canât nobody cop you
till, like a siren in a storm,
she catches you
zips past you
strips the ball
trips you (fall)
watching her
dribble away
all the while thinking
itâs bad that you got beat
by another girl
and worse
that the other girl is
your mother.
This morning
was just like old times:
cinnamon French toast,
Dutch pancakes,
Ping-Pong.
Now sheâs on
the pitch
talking trash
and youâre feeling
a little better
until . . .
Conversation with Mom
Iâve been calling and calling.
Been a little busy withâ
Â
Sugar balls, Nicky! Too busy to return a call?
Iâm not a kid anymore, Mom. I have a life.
Â
Oh, you have a life, do you?
Yep.
Â
Does your so-called life involve that little hot mama from dance class?
Huh?
Â
Oh, really, youâre going to play clueless.
No, sheâs just a friend.
Â
Whatâs her name?
April.
Â
Thatâs pretty. Arenât you too young to have a girlfriend?
I donât have a girlfriend. Plus, Iâm almost thirteen.
Â
Youâre still my Little Nicky.
Whatever, Mom. Letâs finish playing.
Â
Yeah, you can use the practice.
Iâm good, actually. I scored two goals in my last game. Youâd know that if you were here.
Â
I heard that.
. . .
Â
Are you giving your father a hard time?
Heâs a jerk.
Â
Be carefulâheâs your father. And since when is making you do your chores being a jerk?
So you two are talking again?
Â
Nicky, heâs doing what he thinks is best for you.
Making me read the dictionary is best for him, not me.
Â
Your father loves you and heâsâ
Blah blah blah.
Â
Donât make me
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