The Poet (Samantha Jazz Series #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,1

like when I walk through the water in the river down by my house after Dad comes home, shouting and drinking his beer.

I’m almost to the front when Sister Marion loses patience with me like my dad does all the time. “Come now, son.” She grabs my hand and yanks me forward, placing me in front of the class and shoving a book into my hand. “Read,” she commands. “Give us the title and the author.”

I can feel my cheeks reddening, blowing up like apples the way they do when I’m upset. Next, the smear of red will spread to my neck and then I’ll look stupid. I need to get this over with now.

I clear my throat. “‘Dreams’ by Langston Hughes,” I announce, and then I glance at Sister Marion to make sure I’ve said the name correctly. She gives a sharp nod of approval.

Someone snickers and a boy from the back of the class shouts out, “He’s too fat for his uniform and he looks like he’s going to poop his pants.”

“I’m not too fat,” I shout back. “It’s too small because my mom and dad can’t afford a new one.”

“Enough, all of you!” Sister Marion snaps and waves her ruler across the room. “One more outburst from anyone and everyone in this room will write one hundred Hail Marys after the bell.” She looks at me. “Continue.”

I suck in air and force it out, promising myself I will not cry. I’m not fat. I’m not fat. I look at the book again, ready to do anything that lets me just sit back down. I start reading, and I can’t dare say something stupid. I speak slowly, taking my time:

“Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go…”

I can’t read a couple of the other words. They’re too big for me, so I just stop there.

“Very good,” Sister Marion says, clapping. I puff out a breath of relief. She didn’t even notice I didn’t read all of the poem. “Class, clap with me!”

Everyone claps but the redheaded girl and a boy in the back that I don’t think I know. He’s new, too.

The sister takes the book from me. “Return to your seat,” she orders.

I want to run back to my seat, but I’m afraid of falling again. I walk. I walk really carefully, and when I slink back into my seat, I slide down low, snickers erupting behind me. My heart is pounding in my ears, my palms sweaty again. I’m going to get beat up after class, just like two weeks ago when that boy, Nicholas, took my lunch. Dad was mad, too. He said I was a pussy. I know that’s bad, because Mom screamed at him and told him not to call me that.

Sister Marion begins reading another poem, and I plot my escape after class. One minute before the bell is to ring, my hand goes to my book bag, and when finally the bell blasts above, I launch into action. I dart for the door, determined to get out of here and just go home, hoping my dad won’t be drinking beer tonight. I hate it when he drinks beer. I push through the other kids to the door, and I ignore the hall monitors screaming for me to “Walk, don’t run.”

I explode out of the school, running with all my might, looking over my shoulder, panting and wheezing by the time I reach the big tree past the playground. I drop my book bag and sit down. I made it. I’m not a pussy today.

“Hello, Henry.”

I blink and Nicholas is standing above me, and five other kids all appear from behind the tree. I start to wheeze. I can’t breathe. Nicholas shoves his foot on my chest and now I can’t catch my breath at all. “Henry here almost pooped his pants today. Henry is a poo-poo pants.”

The kids start singing that. “Henry is a poo-poo pants. Henry is a poo-poo pants.”

“Read us some more poetry,” Nicholas says, and he holds up a book. “I took Sister Marion’s poetry book just for you.” He opens it and shoves it into my lap. “Read.”

Tears start streaming down my cheeks. Oh God, not the tears. “I—I—I can’t,” I sob.

“You can,” Nicholas says, and he yanks me off the tree, flattening me on my back. Then he’s sitting on my chest, holding the book, reading it for me. “Now you,” he says, shoving it