Words
with
Wings
Words
with
Wings
Nikki Grimes
AN IMPRINT OF HIGHLIGHTS
Honesdale, Pennsylvania
Text copyright © 2013 by Nikki Grimes
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, contact permissions@highlights.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
WordSong
An Imprint of Highlights
815 Church Street
Honesdale, Pennsylvania 18431
ISBN: 978-1-59078-985-8 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-62979-262-0 (e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013907720
First edition
The text of this book is set in Bembo and Gill Sans.
Cover illustration copyright ©2013 by Eva Vazquez
Design by Barbara Grzeslo
Production by Margaret Mosomillo
For Elizabeth and Julia Bailey.
Don’t let anyone clip your wings.
Contents
Prologue
Two of a Kind
Summer Shift
Cheri
Hope
First Day
Gabby
Words with Wings
Getting Started
Gone
Concert
Games
Adjusting
Setting the Table
Washing Dishes
Laundry
Report Card
Explain This, Please
Nothing New
Arabesque
A Trip to Thailand
Mom’s Complaint
Maybe
Sled
Snowflake
Waterfall
Mom
Favorite Words
Missing My Old School, My Old Life, My Old Family
Parent-Teacher Talk
Mom the Nurse
Wishful Thinking
Teased
Stuck in Dreamland
I Quit
Color-blind
Perfect
Home Work
Correction
Persistent
Macaroni Memory
Spring
Butterfly
Carousel
Roller Coaster
Willow
Closer
Switch
Inside Joke
My New Best Friend
Stilts
Dragon
Camp Dreams
Tent
Planetarium
Comet
Teacher
Practice, Practice
Firefly
Sand
Uh-oh
Later
Canyon
Idea
Announcement
Good Night
Home
It’s Here!
All In
Author
Fair Is Fair
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Mom loves angels.
Their pink-cheeked faces
peek from pictures
on every wall
in every room.
So—surprise!
Mom decided to call me
Angel.
Dad said, “Enough already.”
He didn’t want his kid
named after some silly,
weak-looking chubby cherub.
He wanted
a strong name for his girl
to take out into the world.
Mom is stubborn, though.
She flipped through the Bible,
found a few fierce angels
and tried again.
“What about naming her
after Gabriel?
He was so fierce
people fainted
at the very sight of him."
That’s all Dad
needed to hear.
Words
with
Wings
Two of a Kind
Mom calls me
Daddy’s Girl
’cause him and me,
we’re both dreamers.
“Close your eyes,” he used to say.
“Tell me what you see.”
I’d say, “Sky, shooting stars,
rainbows wrapped
round the earth.”
“Now, it’s my turn.
I see: you and me
bundled up in silver space suits,
bouncing on the moon.
Race you!” he’d say.
And we’d laugh,
back before he moved
across the street
and we moved
across the city.
Our laughter
has a lot farther
to travel now.
Summer Shift
We packed our bags in June.
I braced for a summer
of impossible good-byes,
and the dread
of living without friends
ever again.
To chase away the fear,
I flipped through a dictionary,
plucked out the word hush
and thought about
the whisper of wind
rustling through leaves,
come next autumn,
and the silence of their falling.
Then I jumped into
a soft deep pile of them,
grabbed an armful
of red, gold, and
burnt-orange beauties,
tossed them into the air,
and I was all right again,
for a while,
and I went back to packing
for the move.
Cheri
The kids at my last school
called me weird,
teased me,
or left me to myself.
Except for Cheri,
who picked me
to sit next to
in kindergarten
just because she saw me
staring out the window
and was dying to know
what made me smile
when all she saw
were raindrops.
I was shy about
telling her at first,
but Cheri didn’t mind
my daydreaming.
She was color-blind, but said
whenever I described
my daydreams,
it was like
helping her see
the rainbow.
Hope
I hope this new school
has a Cheri who’ll think
daydreamers are cool.
First Day
I duck down in the seat
of my new class.
To these kids,
I’m not Gabby yet.
I’m just Shy Girl
Who Lives
Inside Her Head.
No one even knocks
on the door
for a visit.
They don’t know
it’s beautiful
in here.
Gabby
One week in,
and already
my new teacher complains
about how much I daydream.
“Gabriella!” he’ll say,
“Where have you gone off to
this time?”
I try to tell Mr. Spicer
it’s not my fault.
Blame it on
t
he words.
Words with Wings
Some words
sit still on the page
holding a story steady.
Those words
never get me into trouble.
But other words have wings
that wake my daydreams.
They fly in,
silent as sunrise,
tickle my imagination,
and carry my thoughts away.
I can’t help
but buckle up
for the ride!
Getting Started
Say “fly,”
and I go back to the
first daydream
that saved me.
I remember
there were screams,
a plate crashing
to the kitchen floor,
and angry words
ripping the air.
I pulled the pillow
over my head,
dove deeper under the covers.
Still, I could hear the awful sound
of their raised voices.
“Lalalalalala,” I said aloud.
Still, I could hear them.
If only I could fly, I thought.
If I could fly, fly, fly away,
I’d go to the window,
step out on the ledge,
spread my wings and fly way
high above the city,
higher than the clouds.
I’d fly straight to Virginia,
fly to Great-Grandma’s house.
I’d land on the porch,
hop on her swing,
and listen to her hum,
hum, humming to me.
And just then,
I could almost hear
Great-Grandma’s hum,
could almost feel the gentle sway
of the porch swing.
And for a few moments,
I forgot
my parents fighting.
The word fly
had set me free,
and I wondered,
Are there other words
that can carry me away?
Gone
A few days later,
Dad packed his bags
and hugged me good-bye.
Something wet was in his eye
when he walked out the door.
I started missing him
that very second,
but I didn’t cry. Instead,
I filled the quiet
with daydreams.
Concert
Say “concert,”
and I’m somewhere
in the past,
sprawled out on the grass
in Central Park,
my head cozy
in Mom’s lap,
her head cozy
on Dad’s shoulder.
I can’t quite
make out the music,
but who cares?
Games
Say “Scrabble,”
and I’m giggling
next to Mom,
whispering words in her ear
while we gang up
against Dad.
He doesn’t stand a chance,
but he grins anyway.
We come up with QUIZ,
beat him with a triple score,
and roar.
I sure do miss
those days with Dad.
Adjusting
It’s been six months
and I still miss us,
the us that used to be
when Mom and Dad and me
were happy.
“Gabriella!” Mom calls.
“Please come and set the table.”
I sigh and leave my memories
in my room.
“Coming!”
Setting the Table
I grab place mats
blue as the ribbon of sky
beyond my window
where pigeons invite me
outside to play.
But I’ve got a job to do,
so I shake my head no
and lay down
two knives and two forks.
When I fling a pair of napkins
toward the table,
one sails on the air
like a kite,
and I take off running
across the park,
chasing my crimson high flier
as it cuts across the blue
and—Mom asks me why
it’s taking me so long
to set the table.
“Gabby! Snap out of it!” she says.
“I see you forgot the glasses.
Again.”
Washing Dishes
Washing dishes,
I sink my hands into
rivers of soapy water
soft as sea foam.
I close my eyes
and float in the ocean,
sun warming my cheeks,
breeze tickling my skin
until Mom yells, “Gabby!
Stop daydreaming
and finish those dishes!”
Laundry
Mom runs to the store,
leaves me in the Laundromat
with a neighbor,
our clothes spinning
in the dryer.
I’ve seen pictures
of kids giggling in giant
whirling teacups,
and pretty soon I’m whirling, too,
hands raised to catch the wind,
dizzy with laughter,
which makes Mom groan
when she gets back because
the dryer stopped
when I wasn’t looking
and I was supposed to be
folding clothes.
Report Card
At my old school,
all my report cards
ended the same:
Note:
Gabriella’s mind
wanders.
I wonder why
they bothered
to write it down.
(Everybody
already knew.)
Will Mr. Spicer
write that, too?
Explain This, Please
Mom names me for a
creature with wings, then wonders
what makes my thoughts fly.
Nothing New
One or two hellos
greet me
at the classroom door.
I know not to expect more.
No one wants to be friends
with the weird girl.
I pass by rows of desks,
a make-believe grin
hiding my hurt.
Most days,
I’m an A+ pretender.
When I’m not,
I just crawl
into my daydreams
and disappear.
Arabesque
This weekend,
I stayed with my dad.
He bought tickets to the ballet
like I begged him to.
On the way home, he asked,
“So, what did you think?”
I closed my eyes:
I tied on my toe shoes,
checked the fit of my tutu,
then pirouetted and leaped
across the stage.
I pulled off a tight spin
and was about to leap again when—
“Gabriella? Where’d you go?”
I grabbed my dad’s hand
and smiled.
A Trip to Thailand
Dad dreams out loud.
Once, he spun imaginary stories
about a trip to Thailand.
Mom waved off the idea,
said we didn’t have
that kind of money.
Dad knew
she wasn’t listening.
But, on his birthday,
Mom took him to
a Thai restaurant for dinner.
That’s when he realized
she’d been paying attention
all along.
Mom’s Complaint
Mom calls me to the kitchen,
a note from school
waving from one hand.
I stand in the doorjamb,
jumpy as a cat.
“Gabriella,” she begins,
“what am I going to do with you?
You have to start paying
attention in school.”
I gulp,
search my pockets
for some promise I can offer,
but only find the seashell
Cheri gave me
when we said good-bye.
“Did you hear me?” Mom asks.
I nod, finally breathing easy
when she sends me
to my room.
Maybe
Dad is a dreamer
and Mom is a maker.
I’ve been thinking,
maybe
I can be
both.
Sled
Say “sled,”
and my nose
is cold and shiny
as the blades
of the Red Racer I haul
to the top of the hill.
Then it’s down down down I go
careening through
a lopsided snow fort,
waking the morning
with laughter,
steering straight into
the sun.
Snowflake
Say “snowflake,”
I start to shiver,
rip off my mitten
and giggle as one wet,
cold, lacy filigree
of winter white
falls onto my greedy palm,
then melts away.
Waterfall
Say “waterfall,”
and the dreary winter rain
outside my classroom window
turns to liquid thunder,
pounding into a clear pool
miles below,
and I can’t wait
to dive in.
Mom
Mom watches me, sometimes.
I’ll return from a daydream
and find her eyes
studying me.
Once, I asked her
what was wrong.
She shook her head.
“Nothing,” she said.
“I—I wish I understood you better.”
If only, I thought.
But I let her
go on staring.
Favorite Words
Mine: Pretend.
Mom’s: Practical.
All we have in common
is the letter P.
Missing My Old School, My Old Life, My Old Family