A Mind like Mine (chapter one)

In kindergarten, there was that kid who always spilt his milk.

In first grade, there was that kid who could never write his name.

In second grade, there was that kid who messed up his line in the school play,

then threw up all over the girl standing next to him.

In third grade, there was that kid who broke the beaker in your first science class.

In fourth grade, there was that kid who always seemed to be sharpening his pencil.

In fifth grade, there was that kid who gave flowers to every girl in the class.

In sixth grade, there was that kid who ate lunch alone, but didn’t seem to mind.

In seventh grade, there was that kid who ran like a dinosaur—and not in a good way.

In eighth grade, there was that kid who had a Thomas the Train folder

In ninth grade, there was that kid who didn’t have a skateboard.

In tenth grade, there was that kid who had never watched Southpark.

In eleventh grade, there’s that kid who’s never kissed a girl.

In twelfth grade, there’s that kid, walking across the stage,

and everyone’s wondering how the hell he did it.

That kid is Parker Stevens.

It’s always been Parker Stevens.

Parker Stevens is the kid with milk permanently stained on his shirt on his shirt,

the kid with stickers that have his name on them,

the kid who Allie Jenkins can’t even look at anymore,

the kid with glass in his big toe,

the kid with the tiny stub-pencil,

the kid with pollen all over his chin,

the kid with no lunch conversation,

the kid who wondered what was so funny about gym class,

the kid who loved trains,

the kid who rode a scooter,

the kid who looked forward to watching Ben Ten on Wednesdays at 9:30,

the kid who all the girls loved, but none would dare to like,

and the kid who made it,

all the way through school;

without learning a single thing.

“Can i play?” The little red-headed boy turns around. A tall, lanky, wide-eyed big kid is standing behind them, wiggling his fingers. The boy stares at them.

“Yes.” The blonde girl standing next to him says. The big kid joins in. He isn’t very good at four-square,

but they don’t mind, cause they like having him around. He laughs at their jokes, and doesn’t try to

take their allowance. Plus, they beat him every time.

“Parker!” The tall kid turns around and drops the ball. Another big kid, with brown hair and big green eyes,

stands at the other end of the playground, his hands in his pockets, leaning on a blue bike.

“I have to go.”

The big kid says.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

“Bye, parker.”

He flaps his hands and runs to the smaller big kid and then they walk away into the fog,and the little kids keep playing, laughing, playing, and they don’t find anything out of the ordinary about their new friend—

too bad they’re the only ones.

Parker

words.

they float around in my mind

all day long,

all night long,

all the time.

sometimes they’re good,

sometimes they’re bad,

but i can never get them to

go away.

but i like my words.

i like them there,

cause then i don’t feel so alone.

sometimes my words are stories,

sometimes they’re poems,

sometimes they’re just

what they are—

words.

hello.

goodbye.

wet.

dry.

ugly.

beautiful.

sad.

mad.

words.

they float around in my mind…

“ready?”

“ready! ready!”

i flap my hands and

jump up and down.

grover smiles.

“set…?”

“set, grover! i’m set! set!”

he laughs.

he pauses.

i flap.

i jump.

“GO!”

i run.

i run faster than

my skinny seventeen-year-old

legs can carry me.

i run so fast i practically fly out of my high tops.

“give it up old man! you can’t fight

evoloution, i was built for speed!”

grover laughs from beside me.

i stop at the hydrant,

cause that’s a rule—

don’t go past the hydrant.

grover looks up at

the moon.

“almost got it that time, park.”

the times i’ve heard

those words come out of his mouth.

i shake my fist at the moon.

“don’t worry. you’ll get it soon.”

i breathe in and out.

“want some dew?”

“dig it.”

he runs inside and comes back out

with two cans of

mountain dew.

he lowers me onto

the steps and sits beside me.

i look up at him—

grover’s younger than me,

and smaller,

but he’s always been the older

brother.

he sips his soda and

looks at me.

i look away.

grover stares straight forward.

“parker,”

he says.

“let’s talk.”

grover says this a lot.

but he’s the only one who ever talks, really--

i just listen.

grover tells me

stuff about school,

and he asks me questions,

and i say dig it, or sometimes

you built a time machine...out of a dolorian?

and then he says,

thanks, park,

in his deeper-than-mine voice,

and leaves.