Planet Middle School (4 page)

It’s Not My Fault

There are suddenly

cute boys everywhere,

I swear.

They keep popping up

all the time.

Not My Kind of Exercise

My English teacher

is out to ruin my day.

“I want each of you

to write a poem

about a topic

that interests you,” she says.

Don’t get me wrong.

I love to write, but I hate

these on-the-spot assignments.

My brain always freezes.

I study the clock,

count down

the remaining minutes

of this torture

and scribble something about

running against the wind.

Bell

The bell rings at last.

I spring from my seat and dash

to the locker room.

Locker Room

They call her Glory,

the girl who has the locker

next to mine.

She’s the same age as me,

only more like—

I don’t know—

a lady.

Her silver hoop earrings,

armload of bangles,

and painted fingernails

tell me she’s

nothing to worry about—

some girly girl who probably

shouldn’t even have made the team.

I’m sure I’m right

till we hit the gym

and she dribbles the ball so fast

all you see

is a blur.

Guess I counted her out

too soon.

Lunchroom

Glory spots me

in the lunchroom,

waves me over to the table

with a bunch of other

girls from the team.

I’m so used to

playing with the boys,

it’s strange to be with girls

who play the game

as hard as me.

I join them,

trying not to stare

at the perfection

of Glory’s hair,

a cascade of braids

framing her face.

Here she is in her

lace-trimmed tee,

this serious jock

who looks nothing

like me.

Silent Shift

On the way out,

I pass by KeeLee

laughing with her new friends

from show choir.

We smile and wave

at each other

like our not sitting together

is no big deal.

History

KeeLee texts me

in the middle of history.

Good thing the teacher

doesn’t catch me

with the phone in my hand.

What excuse could I use?

I’m exploring the history

of technology?

“Come over for dinner,”

she texts.

“Can’t,” I answer.

“My mom has

an exciting evening

planned for me.”

“Got it,” types KeeLee.

“Laundry.”

That girl knows me

too well.

Risky Business

Nobody told me

the Laundromat could be

a danger zone.

There I am

minding my own business

studying the slow turn of the dryer

when here comes

this six-foot-tall

chocolate chip,

muscles rippling like Denzel

in
The Hurricane
,

and suddenly I’m imagining

my hand swallowed up in his

my head nuzzling his shoulder

my—

the ear-splitting dryer buzzer

brings me back to reality

and I make myself busy

folding sheets.

Butterfingers

Give me an “F” for frustration

and you can spell out

the next afternoon.

That’s when Caden’s on the court.

I call him to the throw line,

grab his hand, and press

our palms together

to measure size.

His hand is already

larger than mine.

So why can’t he keep the ball

from slipping away

in the middle of a dribble?

It’s a mystery to me,

but he keeps saying

“Wait! Wait!

Let me try again.”

Mom says

that’s one thing her kids

have in common:

We’re both

stubborn as sin.

Teacher

KeeLee and I

follow our gym class

out into the school courtyard

for a jog.

The new phys-ed teacher

runs back and forth alongside us

to keep an eye on everyone’s pace.

KeeLee can’t take her eyes

off of him.

“What exactly are you staring at?” I ask.

“You gotta be kidding!

Don’t tell me you missed

that bodacious butt.”

“KeeLee!”

“What?” KeeLee looks all innocent.

“Bodacious isn’t a bad word.”

I lower my gaze

and check out the teacher’s

southern hemisphere,

and a minute later,

I’m giggling like

every teenage girl

I’ve ever made fun of.

I bite my tongue

to stifle my silliness,

but it doesn’t help.

I’m already

too far gone.

Girls Will Be Boys

On Saturday,

I try to shake off whatever this weird

giggly-thing is

that’s happening to me.

I hit the local basketball court,

make the boys groan, like always,

butting into their game,

stealing the ball

like I belong there.

What’re they gonna do,

hit a girl?

So they put up with me.

I charge downcourt

ready to slam past

the guard shadowing me

a little too closely

for my use.

Who is this guy?

I look up past the knees,

catch sight of sweet brown curls

bouncing above killer green eyes

rimmed with the longest lashes

I’ve ever seen,

and I lose it.

The ball is gone

before I know it,

and I’m shaking my head.

What’s the matter with me?

How could I let

some boy get me

off my game?

After

Far as I’m concerned,

the game is over.

I excuse myself

and limp off the court,

pretending a pulled hamstring.

The only thing worse

than losing my game

is Jake catching me.

“Why was you staring down Santiago?”

is the way he puts it.

“It’s
were
staring down, Jake,

and I wasn’t staring down anybody.”

“So you say.”

I’m pretty sure

that’s a smirk

Jake is wearing on his face,

and I’m not having it.

“Good-bye, Jake,” I say,

happy nobody can tell

when I blush.

Plus, I get one good thing

for my embarrassment.

I find out the new boy’s name

is Santiago.

Santiago

Turns out,

he’s not new

to the neighborhood.

So how come

I never noticed him

before?

Dinner Chatter

“Hey, bud,”

Dad says,

“Jake told me

he saw you down

at the basketball court last week.”

“Yeah,” says Caden,

grin splitting his face in two.

“Good for you!” says Dad.

Caden passes me

a look that says,

“See? It’s already working!

Dad’s starting to notice me.”

I’m thinking,

Yeah, but wait

till he sees you

try to play.

Speechless

I’m losing my mind,

I’m sure of it.

Yesterday, that cute boy

Santiago said hello

and I completely lost

my power of speech.

I mean, I opened my mouth

and out came …

nothing at all.

What’s wrong with me?

Boy Watch

I can’t help it.

I start watching Santiago

watching girls in the hall.

How dumb is that?

I try to talk myself

out of my stupidity,

but then I notice

every one of them

wears makeup

and tight shirts

and short skirts.

My naked lips

form the words:

“Guess that leaves me out.”

The Closet

I search my closet for

a single outfit that would qualify

as pretty.

Of course, I come up empty.

“Pretty” has never been

part of my vocabulary.

But that was pre-Santiago.

Is that my phone?

I let the call go

to voicemail.

I’m not leaving this closet

till I find something

semi-pretty

to wear.