Where I Live (3 page)

My teacher, Mrs. Clifford,
made a poster
of my sun poem.
She hung it
in the hall.
I pass it
every day
on my way to
the cafeteria.
And I try hard not to
beam.

Rose and I play Scrabble.
She wears her purple floppy hat.
The one I call “purpy flopple.”
The one I wish was mine.
The one she promises to leave me
in her will.
“It will be all hole-y and moth-eaten by then,” I say.
“So.” Rose shrugs. “Use it to strain spaghetti.”

Rose rolls her eyes.
“Nebula
is not a word.”
“Yes it is,” I say, counting up my score.
“What's it mean?”
“It means a kind of cloud in the night sky.”
Rose snips: “Use it in a sentence.”
“Okay. If my friend Rose looked up at the sky
more often,
she would know a nebula when she saw one.”
Rose throws her pillow at me.
“You and your sky!”

We finish the Scrabble game.
I win.
Like always.
(Well—like almost always.)
Rose says: “Let's read each other's diaries.”
We do this from time to time.
She gets hers from a box under her bed.
I get mine from my backpack.
“You first,” says Rose, flipping her diary
across the bed.

I begin to read:
“Yesterday Billy Borden kissed me
behind the magazine rack in the school library.”
My eyes boggle. “He did?”
“No, silly,” says Rose. “It's just
more exciting than what really happened.”
I ask her: “What really happened?”
“What really happened,” sighs Rose, “is that
Billy Borden stomped on my foot
and my big toe still hurts.”

“Your turn,” I say.
Rose opens my diary.
“Today I saw a cloud that looked
just like a white flower.”
Rose yawns.
Closes her eyes.
Soon she's snoring. Zzzzzzzzzzz.
My diary slides out of her hand
to the floor.
“Stop joking around,” I say.
“It's not that boring.”
But Rose isn't joking.
She really has
fallen asleep.

Dad hasn't told a joke
in three days.
When Mom asked
if he wanted a second helping
of lemon pie
(his favorite food
in the entire universe
including nebulas),
he said, “No thanks, honey.”

 

Mom isn't laughing
like she usually does
(only once, really—
when Twink made goofy
baby bird faces).

 

Mom and Dad
stay up late
into the night
whispering.

 

I tell Rose
I'm worried.
I'm worried my parents
are getting a divorce.

Mrs. Clifford claps
when I walk into
the classroom.
She calls out:
“Bravo, Diana!”
She hands me a letter.
The letter says
I have been invited
to join a poetry workshop
on the last week in July.
A famous city poet,
Mary Elmore DeMott,
will be teaching it.
It doesn't cost a penny.
Only ten students
were chosen
from the whole district.

 

I wish

I could feel happier.

Congratulations on your poem.
I am proud of you.
I will write more
when my cold is better.

 

Love,
Grandpa Joe

My parents
are not
getting
a
divorce.

Dad announces: “I lost my job
last week.”
Mom says, “We're short on
money now.
We'll have to cut back.”
Cutting back means
no new bike
for my birthday.
I guess
I can live with that.

Twink brings her frog bank
to my room.
She empties it
on the rug.
“Help me count, Diana.”
“Five dollars and
sixty-three cents,”
I tell her.
She shouts: “I'm rich!”
She says: “I will
buy you a new bike
for your birthday!”

Grandpa Joe
fell off a ladder
and broke his arm.
He was trying to
clean the gutters
around his porch.
Mom will go visit.
She will stay
with Grandpa Joe
for a week
or two.

1. When I told Rose I thought my parents might be getting a divorce, she didn't blab it all over the neighborhood.

2. When I told Rose that my dad lost his job and Grandpa Joe broke his arm, she hugged me.

3. Sometimes Rose lends me her purpy flopple.

4. Rose doesn't think I'm goofy because I love astronomy. (Boring maybe, but not goofy.)

5. Rose is nice to Twink. (Sometimes nicer than I am.)

6. Rose admits I'm better at Scrabble.

7. Rose listens to my poetry.

8. Rose lets me use her computer.

9. When I spilled a ten-pound bag of bird seed on the garage floor, Rose helped me clean it up.