Little Pills Read online

  Please visit our website, www.west44books.com. For a free color catalog of all our high-quality books, call toll free 1-800-542-2595 or fax 1-877-542-2596.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Dodds, Melody.

  Title: Little pills / Melody Dodds.

  Description: New York: West 44, 2019. | Series: West 44 YA verse

  Identifiers: ISBN 9781538382813 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781538382820 (library

  bound) | ISBN 9781538383414 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Children’s poetry, American. | Children’s poetry, English. |

  English poetry.

  Classification: LCC PS586.3 L588 2019 | DDC 811’.60809282--dc23

  First Edition

  Published in 2019 by

  Enslow Publishing LLC

  101 West 23rd Street, Suite #240

  New York, NY 10011

  Copyright © 2019 Enslow Publishing LLC

  Editor: Caitie McAneney

  Designer: Sam DeMartin

  Photo Credits: Cover BSIP/UIG/Universal Images Group/Getty Images.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer.

  Printed in the United States of America

  CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CS18W44: For further information contact Enslow Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-542-2595.

  FOR THE TOUGH KIDS, AND THE LONELY KIDS, AND ESPECIALLY FOR THOSE WHO ARE BOTH.

  THE SCULPTOR

  They say

  meth

  is the Monster.

  Well.

  Oxy is

  an artist who

  sculpts

  the monster

  out of

  you.

  ESCAPE

  The bathroom

  is the only place in this house

  where I am *guaranteed*

  privacy.

  So I tend

  to spend a

  L

  O

  N

  G

  time in here.

  Let’s be clear: I mean “house” in the sense of home.

  House really means apartment.

  Three bedrooms, one bath.

  Five people…no, wait.

  Four.

  Still—

  do the math.

  Let’s be clear: I mean “privacy” in the sense of walls.

  Privacy barely means

  solitude.

  Someone always needs to use it.

  Stay in too long

  and they lose it.

  But here I am.

  No pounding yet

  from my mother or

  her husband, Rupert.

  And no threats

  from my sister, Isabella,

  who is younger

  but whose hunger

  to hurt me

  is a thing I can’t forget.

  So I escape.

  SAFE

  Looking at the mirror

  but really

  through it.

  Messing with my hair

  but thinking

  of a boy.

  Glossing my lips

  (for the same boy)

  but waiting for

  changing leaves

  flannel shirts

  pumpkins

  cider

  fires

  HALLOWEEN!

  candy

  and

  bam bam bam

  GET OUTTA THERE!

  (My sister.)

  THE COOLEST GIRL SHE’S EVER SEEN

  I make myself

  MEAN.

  I

  squint.

  I

  scowl.

  I throw open the bathroom door

  and growl

  words I should not say.

  (But Mom’s away.)

  Surprise!

  Outside the door

  is not my sister anymore.

  Instead

  some other girl her age.

  Still,

  I fill with rage,

  and stomp away.

  But

  as I do

  I hear this stranger say,

  Your sister

  is

  soooo…

  *pretty.*

  She’s,

  like,

  the

  coolest

  girl

  I’ve

  ever

  seen.

  ISABELLA DISAGREES

  Cool?!?!?

  How about:

  rude

  mean

  selfish

  nasty

  cruel.

  Monster tomboy who:

  lies

  steals

  sneaks around

  does things she’s told

  not to.

  She’s failing school!

  She’s horrible. She’s SCARY!

  If you lived with her,

  you’d see.

  You can’t think

  my sister’s

  cool

  and still be friends with me.

  MY BROTHER’S ROOM

  My older brother,

  Leopold.

  My brother

  who is

  gone.

  Not like my mother,

  who just works too much.

  Leo’s physically

  moved on.

  He doesn’t live here

  anymore.

  But all his stuff

  still does.

  Which makes me sad

  but

  sometimes

  happy.

  Because:

  he locked his room

  before he left

  but left

  his window cracked

  enough that I can sneak in.

  Like some big,

  yellow-haired

  rat.

  But I don’t want

  anyone else

  to know.

  So

  I say

  I’m going out

  then break

  back in

  to

  my own home.

  Slip through that crack

  by

  standing tiptoed

  on a can

  filled with

  trash.

  Push it wide

  and step through

  to a room

  that’s like a tomb.

  Or I guess

  like

  a memorial.

  Then I do

  this thing

  I do

  sometimes,

  more often

  lately.

  Where I take

  this pill I took

  from Gramma

  and

  I let it

  just

  sedate me.

  MY BROTHER

  My older brother,

  Leopold—

  my brother

  who is

  gone—

  was the fifth of us.

  I forget sometimes.

  I mean, I know he’s not here.

  I just forget

  we’re down to four.

  First time,

  they told him:

  Don’t let there be

  a next time.

  Next Time,

  he went to juvie.

  And the next Next Time.

  And the Time after that.

  The Next Time After That,

  they told him:

  This is your last time in juvie.

  You’re eighteen now.

  Last time,

  they told him:

  You can

  join the army

  or

  y
ou can

  go to jail.

  He told them

  where to go.

  But he went

  to Afghanistan.

  In a camo uniform

  and brown boots.

  He sends me pictures

  where I can’t tell

  which one’s

  him.

  GRAMMA’S PILLS

  are round

  and white

  and very

  small.

  You wouldn’t think

  they could do

  much.

  But they can.

  Oh yes

  they

  can.

  It’s like being

  wrapped

  in cotton

  candy.

  And the sun is warm

  and golden,

  all around

  me.

  Like I’m floating

  in a pool,

  but the pool

  is

  full

  of sunlight.

  A pool of sunlight.

  Warm.

  Golden.

  And all my worries

  float

  away

  like voices.

  And instead of echoes,

  I get comfort.

  Mom is always working…

  it’s

  alright.

  Rupert is always sleeping…

  he’s

  okay.

  My sister is always angry…

  she’ll

  get on.

  Leo is gone…

  he’ll

  come back.

  There is nothing

  to worry

  over.

  The universe

  has

  got it.

  And me?

  I

  can

  just

  be.

  TEETH

  Extras, four.

  Had budded

  in the very back

  of my mouth

  like weeds.

  Wisdom teeth.

  Impacted.

  Remove them.

  In August,

  they cut away

  my gums

  and yanked

  those wise teeth

  right out

  by their roots.

  PAIN

  Jaw the

  size of my

  whole head.

  Head pounded.

  Mouth oozed.

  And bled

  and

  b

  l

  e

  d.

  Sent home with

  10 little pills.

  Round

  and white

  and very

  small.

  I didn’t think

  they’d do much

  and they didn’t.

  I still felt

  all the pain.

  I just

  didn’t

  care.

  My teeth were gone…

  they were trouble.

  My jaw ached…

  it would heal.

  I was in pain…

  it would pass.

  And it did.

  After two days

  I didn’t need those

  round

  white

  pills

  anymore.

  I’d taken four.

  ITCHING

  I can always tell

  when I’m coming

  d

  o

  w

  n.

  It always starts

  with the itching.

  Some people

  get the itching

  sooner,

  but for me it happens

  around the three-hour mark, which means

  in another hour

  I’ll be sober.

  Not back at zero—

  I seem to dip

  a little

  lower

  than where I started

  and I seem to get

  crabby-cranky, touchy-testy

  and I grind my teeth.

  Except the four they took.

  HOME AGAIN

  Isabella’s friend,

  the stranger?

  Her name is Mia.

  I find this out

  as she’s coming out of my house,

  which is

  right when I’m going back in.

  She tells me

  this name of hers.

  Makes a point of it.

  I expect stink-eye

  from Mia

  for things Isabella

  probably

  told her.

  But Mia’s eyes still shine

  bright.

  Warm and inviting

  like

  she really wants to know me,

  like

  she wants me to like her.

  I ignore her.

  THE BASEMENT

  is where we used to play.

  To ride trikes

  and play dolls

  and house

  and trucks

  and little animals.

  Three of us,

  then two, but

  now

  just

  me.

  Not dolls

  or house

  or animals:

  music.

  I mix it

  on my phone.

  I’m good, too.

  I did the playlist

  for our sophomore dance

  last year.

  What I really want is to

  make

  the music.

  There’s free software.

  But I’d need a laptop.

  Can’t write music on my phone.

  Can’t put any software—

  free or not—

  on my iPad from school.

  Those are the

  only computers

  I have access to.

  For now,

  I play

  other people’s music.

  But someday,

  I’ll play my own.

  One day,

  they’ll play mine.

  MY BIG IDEA

  Mixing music

  gets me in the zone,

  helps me forget

  that I’m alone

  in a house that’s overflowing.

  I’m growing

  up on my own.

  And then it hits me:

  To Mia I’m a mystery.

  She’s 14, looking for a hero.

  I’m a zero

  with a history,

  but she doesn’t know.

  She’s Isabella’s

  best friend.

  If she likes me,

  my sister can.

  Maybe we can save each other

  from one another;

  make the hate end.

  And if that doesn’t work,

  she can at least tell me

  why my sister hates me

  so

  darn

  much.

  BTW

  I’m not failing school.

  Just one class.

  Or, maybe two

  if you count library day,

  which I don’t.

  Not

  anymore.

  MRS. SCHILLER

  wore

  long plaid skirts,

  ankle boots,

  and cardigan sweaters

  over turtlenecks.

  She wore her long,

  silver

  hair

  in a

  loose,

  messy

  bun.

  Mrs. Schiller looked

  like a librarian

  should look.

  Her blue eyes sparkled

  like stars

  over her

 

  which she wore

  on a chain

  around her neck

  when she did
n’t have them

  on her face.

  But mostly she did have them on.

  Because she read to us

  a lot.

  Because Mrs. Schiller

  wanted us to read.

  All of us,

  even the kids who

  didn’t

  couldn’t

  wouldn’t.

  She would find you something

  to like,

  something simple,

  something you wanted to read,

  even if that meant

  you had to

  first learn

  how.

  Or at least get better at it.

  I got sooooo much better

  that I was placed in AP English.

  THE NEW LIBRARIAN, MS. JORDAN

  First of all, Mizz?

  What era is this?

  I think women have proved

  we mean more than a kiss.

  And what’s with those pants?

  And hiking boots?

  Ponytail, high up on her head,

  not loose,

  and tight sweaters with

  pictures of

  moose.

  She’s from Away

  not from Here,

  not from Maine.

  She dresses “outdoorsy”

  and tries to talk cool.

  But she looks 19,

  must have just finished school.

  How can she have read

  beyond Winnie the Pooh?

  Now she’s

  going to tell me

  what I’m supposed to do?

  What I’m supposed to read?

  What books I need?

  Mizz Librarian, please!

  HALLOWEEN

  Seventeen is too old

  To go out.

  You get yelled at.

  People shout at you

  even if your costume is good,

  which mine isn’t.

  We decided last minute,

  Alexis and I.

  It’s not even about the candy.

  We can obvy

  buy it from the store.

  We’d just like to be

  little kids once more.

  THE BUS

  is a mess,

  a test.

  I stay at the back

  with the rest

  of the bad kids

  who can’t hack it

  but I do my homework

  while they make racket.

  Swagger and bragging

  while their grades are

  lagging behind.

  They’ll get defined

  as dumb and

  made to repeat,

  or sent to school

  in the heat.

  Or end up in camo

  with boots on their feet.

  They’re losers and thugs,

  but they leave me alone

  so I ignore them,