My Storied Year Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Katie Proctor

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Brand names are the property of respective companies; author and publisher hold no claim.

  * * *

  Edited by Twyla Beth Lambert

  Cover by Fresh Design

  Print ISBN 978-1-945419-52-2

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-945419-53-9

  Library of Congress Control Number 2020930316

  My Storied Year

  Katie Proctor

  To S.J., wherever you are,

  I hope you have found someone who cheers for you.

  Contents

  Dragon

  1. My Morning Meeting

  2. My Math Class

  Dragon

  3. My House

  4. My Reading Group

  Dragon

  5. My (Sort Of, Not Really) Detention

  6. My Writing Lesson

  Dragon

  7. My Deal With The Principal

  8. My Drunk Uncle

  Dragon

  9. My Stupid Sister

  10. My (Sort Of) FiestaLand Story

  Dragon

  11. My Reboot

  12. My (Sort Of) Good Ending

  Dragon

  13. My Color Poem

  14. My (First) Act Of Bravery

  Dragon

  15. My (Sort Of) Christmas Party

  16. My Christmas Break

  Dragon

  17. My Mr. Reeves Story

  18. My Visitor

  Dragon

  19. My Writing Partner

  20. My Worst Day

  Dragon

  21. My Absolute Meltdown

  22. My Valentine’s Day

  Dragon

  23. My Mom’s (Almost) Story

  24. My Class Anthology Project

  Dragon

  25. My Mom’s (Real) Story

  26. My (Second And Third) Acts Of Bravery

  Dragon

  27. My Writing Process

  28. My Story

  Dragon

  29. My Awards Assembly

  30. My Last Run-In With The Bully

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Call to Action

  In science last year

  we learned that

  smell and memory go hand-in-hand.

  * * *

  You might smell

  cookies

  and then be in your grandma’s kitchen

  (if you ever had a grandma).

  * * *

  You might smell

  the ocean

  and then be on the shore

  (if you’d ever been to the shore).

  * * *

  You might smell

  cigarette smoke

  and then be face down on your own carpet

  (if you’d ever been in a family like mine).

  * * *

  But when Travis Beaker asks,

  “What’s that smell?”

  loud enough for the whole world to hear,

  I’m hoping the scientists are wrong,

  that they missed something.

  * * *

  I’m hoping these kids won’t forever remember

  the smell as me.

  * * *

  The water’s been off

  a few days.

  * * *

  Makes showering kinda hard,

  which makes smelling normal near impossible.

  I should’ve seen it coming,

  really;

  first white envelopes,

  then orange,

  then red.

  * * *

  At least it’s not the lights.

  But water’s nice too.

  1

  My Morning Meeting

  “Come over to our circle of trust!” Ms. Luna’s voice rings out in that sing-songy way of hers, just as I scribble the last line of my poem and shove the ratty notebook as far down into my pocket as it will go. “Time for morning meeting!”

  I roll my eyes. Morning meeting might be the worst thing ever invented. Seventh graders are way too old for it.

  “Ain’t nobody got time fo’ dat,” my best friend said on our first day of school in his over-exaggerated Sweet Brown voice.

  But Ms. Luna’s different. She wants us to “share ourselves.” We started off talking about dumb stuff: birthday parties and beach trips and FiestaLand and shopping sprees, for the lucky kids. For the not-so-lucky ones? Stories about cops and rabid dogs and redneck hot tubs in the backs of pickup trucks and stealing WiFi from the Thai place. The line between us is pretty obvious now even though it didn’t used to be.

  I especially hate Monday morning meetings, because Ms. Luna puts a random quote on the board for us to talk about. Today, it reads:

  “Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.” ~Kahlil Gibran

  I stifle a groan. I can see exactly where this is going. Denzel Washington—yes, his parents think they’re funny—is my only friend in the universe, and we sit together on the opposite side of the circle from Ms. Luna. She always starts the sharing to her immediate left or right, so this way we figure we’re guaranteed never to go first, giving us time to listen to what other kids say and then either agree with one of them or make up our own nonsense. Ms. Luna also lets us pass if we have nothing to say.

  Ms. Luna is my homeroom teacher, and she might actually be the nicest person on the planet. She might also be the weirdest. Kids at school call her “Ms. Loony” when she can’t hear. I figure she brings it on herself, though, with her odd clothes and the fact that she makes us do yoga sometimes.

  We sit on the floor for morning meeting because there are no desks in the classroom, which makes it feel huge, almost like there’s too much space. Denzel plops down next to me and takes a deep breath. I do, too. It always smells funny in here; Ms. Luna has this little thing that sprays a mist into the air. It smells different every day, but it always smells funny. Denzel and I play our private game.

  “Cooking herbs,” he whispers.

  “Wet grass,” I counter.

  He wrinkles his nose. “Wet grass covered in fresh dog poo.”

  I nod, conceding. He’s right. Friday, it was oranges, way better than today.

  Soon, it’s my turn to share about the quote. Truthfully, I haven’t listened to the other kids because I know it’s all the same. Blah blah don’t judge a book by the cover blah blah be nice blah blah it doesn’t matter what you look like on the outside. I give Denzel a look, one that says, ugh, these kids don’t mean a word they’re saying. He shrugs, but we both know why they say that stuff; we’ve been with Ms. Luna long enough to know what she wants to hear.

  There’s a string on the faded blue carpet that’s really bugging me, so I’ve been pulling on it. And staring at Ms. Luna’s toes. I mean, I’m not creepy. They’re just there, across the circle from me, peeking out from her long flowery skirt. Little crescent moons on her big toes, a single silver star on her others, all of them sparkly. Like her eyes when she smiles.

  “Er… Dragon?” It’s been four weeks, and she’s still not used to having a student named after a mythical creature.

  Don’t get me started on my name. I’ll get to that later.

  “Oh,” I mumble. “Uh. Pass.”<
br />
  Ms. Luna gives me a knowing look; she gets that I hate to share.

  I’m just glad we don’t have to tell what we did over the weekend. Because then I’d have to lie.

  The truth is that, yesterday, I huddled up in my room listening to my mom and the landlord argue about rent money, did nothing when he slapped her, and then fended for myself when she slept the rest of the day. Her bedroom door was like a wall that couldn’t be breached. I’ve learned not to disturb Mom when the door is shut. It isn’t ever a pretty sight.

  I turn back to my carpet string. It’s really getting long.

  Once everyone has a turn, the most annoying part of morning meeting happens: the compliment part. Denzel rolls his eyes hard core and I stifle a laugh.

  “Now remember,” Ms. Luna says in a sweet voice, “we give compliments because they help us show kindness to one another, and when we say kind things, we become kind people.”

  I happen to think that Ms. Luna is a little delusional about this. Some people just aren’t kind.

  But she gives the speech anyway. Kyla and Jolie turn to face each other and giggle, doing some dumb girly pinky promise thing. Caden looks at the clock, probably hoping the bell will save us all. Denzel’s smirk is gone, and now he’s avoiding eye contact with everyone.

  Luckily, compliments are voluntary. Ms. Luna always starts off with one. She usually picks a kid who’s a little shy or strange to try to boost their confidence, but sometimes she has to try pretty hard. Today’s a prime example.

  “Great job, Millie, for being the first paper in my homework inbox today!”

  I mean, really? She finished her homework. So this might be the first time ever. Who cares?

  Some people don’t deserve compliments.

  Denzel and I keep our lips zipped during compliment time. It’s not for us.

  I start to squirm. I want this period to be over, and then the next two. Because I just want to make it to lunch and free time—kind of like recess was in elementary school. I can do whatever I want at free time, unlike the rest of the day where it’s all Dragon, do this and Dragon, finish that. The only thing that sucks about free time, though, is having to share the yard with the sixth graders.

  And the worst part about sixth graders is that my sister Maya is one of them.

  I’m two years older than she is, but when I was in second grade, they found out I have dyslexia, which is why I have a hard time reading. But I spent two years basically faking it, so people thought I could read. Until they knew I couldn’t. Plus, that year my mom went through a bunch of stuff and I skipped a whole lot of school days. They decided I should do second grade again. So now, I’m bigger and older than everyone in the seventh grade and they all know it’s because dumb-ol’-Dragon had to do second grade twice. Ugh.

  But this year’s worse. This year, Maya is actually at my school. And she is, if possible, even weirder and dumber than I am.

  And she’s mean.

  She picks fights on the playground and steals kids’ stuff right out of their backpacks. I try to stay away from her, so people won’t know we are related. It kind of works because we have different last names. We have different dads—I’m a Stewart, like Mom, and she’s a Cortez.

  She goes to a special class for kids who can’t read. Or do math. See, I learned to at least fake read and now I can mostly read easy things, but Maya can’t read at all. And reading’s kind of important in the sixth grade. There’s a big test and everything.

  To be fair, her reading problem might have something to do with the fact that she spent two years in a bilingual Spanish classroom. She wouldn’t talk at all back then, and Mom wouldn’t fill out any paperwork on us, so the school figured, well, she has a Hispanic last name, might as well put her in there.

  Maya knew exactly zero Spanish words when she started, and she knows exactly zero Spanish words today.

  “… and I just love how she’s always my friend, through thick and thin!” I hear Jolie gush about Kyla, brushing thoughts of my sister right out of my mind. I look at Denzel and use my pointer finger to pretend to gag myself. Jolie and Kyla are always best friends, until they’re not. It changes daily. Besides, how is that even a compliment?

  No one pays me a compliment—shocker—and after morning meeting is finally over, I get my stuff for math.

  Actually, I don’t have much stuff, only the small notebook where I keep my poems. And unless I’m writing in it, it never leaves my pocket. My sixth grade English teacher, Ms. Hill, gave me this notebook after the only thing I ever did in her class was write a poem. When she gave it to me, she told me, “I think you really have something, Dragon. Keep writing.” And that was that. So I did.

  I was the only kid in the seventh grade who showed up on the first day with no school supplies. Everybody pulled out their shiny new folders and notebooks and opened packs of brand-new pens and mechanical pencils. Even Denzel’s mama had made it to the discount store and scraped together some stuff for him. But I had nothing.

  Okay, well, that’s not entirely true. I did have a backpack the first day. But it was seriously old and smelled like a dog had puked in it like five years ago and then it sat in a hot black car through five whole Texas summers. You can imagine.

  After people in my homeroom complained about the backpack that nobody would claim, Ms. Luna picked it up with two fingers, using her other hand to plug her nose, and set it in the hallway. The janitors must have seen it later and trashed it, because I never saw it again. But who cares? It was empty anyway.

  The bell rings, and kids are moving toward the door, but Ms. Luna asks if I can stay back for a second. I look around at people like, who, me? But nobody cares. They don’t even pay attention as they scatter toward their next classes. The hallways are supposed to be quiet during passing period, but no one listens to that rule. Locker doors slam and friends slap high fives and yell out to others down the hall. I don’t want to admit that I’m a little glad Ms. Luna asked me to stay where it’s quiet. Where it’s safe.

  When the room clears out, I realize Ms. Luna is rambling on about some Dolly Parton song (whoever that is) and asks me to hold her weird water bottle with little floating seeds in it (whatever that is) while she searches her closet for something.

  It’s taking Ms. Luna a long time to dig around in the closet, and it feels strange to be the only kid in here, so I look around as I wait, to give my eyes something to do other than stare at Ms. Luna’s backside. Next to the closet, bookshelves line the wall, filled with brightly colored novels. Over the shelves, paintings are tacked to the wall—bad ones, that were obviously done by little kids. Three neon beanbags sit lumped together on the floor, and one of those floor lamps with different colored arm-looking shade things stands watch over the little reading nook. Honestly, the whole classroom is so bright with color, it’s a wonder people don’t have seizures in here.

  Finally, she finds what she’s looking for and hands me a new backpack, full of new supplies. And, I totally luck out because nothing is pink. Ms. Luna doesn’t say much, just, “Here, Dragon, I want you to have this.” Then she smiles. Ms. Luna smiles so much I think it probably hurts, and her voice is so calm that I have a sudden urge to scream at her to see how she’d react.

  Instead, I mumble, “Thanks,” then grab the backpack without looking at her and run to my math class. I don’t like awkward moments, and I could tell there was about to be one. You know, the kind where she looks at me with sad eyes like a puppy she wants to adopt and I feel weird and then run out anyway. So, we’ll just skip the awkward bit.

  2

  My Math Class

  When I get to math, Mr. Berman has everyone on the floor playing a math game with a partner. He wanders the classroom, stroking his bushy white mustache as if he’s deep in thought, giving me time to look through my new backpack. I can’t believe it, but Ms. Luna slipped me a pack of for-real Cheez-Its, my favorite. How’d she know?

  Luckily, everyone is really into their game and no one even no
tices that I’m late. By the time my table group comes back, I’m sitting in my chair like I’ve been there all along.

  Mr. Berman clears his throat and points our attention to the next task, pushing his glasses up his nose. His glasses are so thick, they magnify his eyes, making him look slightly crazy from just the right angle. I wonder if anyone else ever notices things like that or if it’s just me.

  The Problem of the Day is already projected on the whiteboard. These are usually harder than your average math problem; they’re supposed to make us good at teamwork or something. We have to work on the Problem of the Day as a table group. It’s good, not because I like who sits at my table, but because it takes me way too long to read the problems. Lucky for me, Erin Summers sits next to me and loves to show off, so she always reads the problem aloud. And Jason Sparks is pretty decent at math, so he helps, too.

  But the bad thing is that it also takes me a really long time to figure out what the question is even asking. By the time I can decide what we should do to solve it, the others are done, they’ve shown their work, and they’re mad because I didn’t help.