JUST LIKE SUPERMAN
My name’s Joseph Oak, and
since an oak tree
grows from an acorn nut,
Grandmum calls me a little nut,
and if Mom’s around to hear it, she adds,
I’m allergic to nuts.It isn’t nice of Mom to say that,
but she’s not known for saying
—or doing—
nice things.
But I never thought
she’d do what she did.
I never thought a lot of things.
Like I’d be on the news and
the whole wide world
would end up finding out about
the moment I flew.
Just like Superman.
ORIGIN STORY
I’m
not a superhero.
Straight up not.
I mean, yeah, sure,
I flew like Superman.
Once.
But
I don’t have any special powers—unless
you count my ability to be invisible,
and to survive.
I do have one thing in common
with superheroes.
I have an origin story.
So does Grandmum, who’s from England,
Mom, who gets The Itch,
my best friends, Hakeem and Nick,
Uncle Frankie, who’s not really my uncle,
and my sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Swan.
Each of us has an origin story,
the story of how we became who we are.
This is my story,
and when you read it,
I want you to remember something.
When Superman summons every ounce of his strength
to survive something others can’t even imagine,
he’s the same person he was when
he crumpled to his knees,
left helpless by Kryptonite.
He’s the same person he was when
he was Clark Kent,
just living day by day,
invisible to the world.
Superman’s the sum of
all his moments.
And so am I.
WHY THE WORLD NEEDS COMIC BOOKSIn comic books,
superheroes use their powers to help others,
defeat villains,
and save themselves.
Good triumphs over evil,
giving you hope,
something to believe in.
Comic books remind you
that even when horrible things happen,
it can all work out
in the end.
AND-THENS AND BOOMS!
Every story boils down to
and-thens and
BOOMS!
And-thens and
BOOMS!
are all about the moments when
something happens
that changes
everything.
It could be bad.
And it could be good,
but it’s often not.
So always pay attention to
and-thens and
BOOMS!
SCRATCHING AN ITCHI’m only allergic to one thing.
Poison ivy.
I learned that the hard way one day when
my basketball rolled into the woods.
Leaves brushed across my face as
I parted them like curtains to find the ball.
When I woke up the next day,
I looked like . . . well . . .
Pretend you need to blow up a big balloon, and
fill your cheeks full of air.
Bigger.
Bigger.
Bigger.
Now squint.
That’s what I looked like.
But worse than how I looked was how I felt.
An itch is the worst!
You can’t stop thinking about it,
and the more you try not to,
the more you do.
Plus you just have to scratch it,
but then an itch itches even more.
It’s almost impossible
to live with an itch.
PREPARE FOR TAKEOFFMy grampy was a pilot,
and my grandmum says
you can always tell when
a pilot’s preparing for takeoff.
They start ticking boxes on a checklist.
And the list is always the same.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Mom’s like a pilot when she gets The Itch.
That’s what I call it when she gets restless
and wants to take off.
Her Itch Takeoff Checklist goes like this.
Stares out windows.
Sighs loudly a lot.
Swings like a pendulum
from sad
to mean
and back again.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Mom leaves for days.
Weeks.
Months.
You never know when she’ll take off
or when she’ll come back.
But you know takeoff’s coming.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
MOM'S FIRST TAKEOFFThe first time I remember Mom taking off
was on a sweaty, sticky summer day.
We lived in The Gingerbread House then,
the color of graham crackers with a fancy white trim.
It was old and didn’t have air-conditioning.
Mom sighed as we sat on the porch swing,
hoping for a cool breeze.
She pumped her legs,
and the swing creak-creaked as we rocked.
My legs stuck straight out,
too little to dangle down.
As soon as I spied
yellow wings with black tiger stripes and a blue tail,
I jumped down to chase
the eastern tiger swallowtail,
and Mom chased me.
All I wanted was to hold the butterfly,
but every time I got close to it,
it took off.
What on earth’s wrong with you?! Who tries to trap a butterfly?! Mom yelled,
picking me up,
carrying me back to the porch, and
plopping me down onto the swing.
I flinched
when the screen door banged
as Mom went inside the house.
She came back out
with her purse slung over one shoulder
and her keys jingling, jangling.
Where you going? I go, too! I yelled, scooting off the swing.
She didn’t even look at me.
She just went straight to her car and got in.
Slam!
Squeal!
Vroom!
Mom took off.
I hopped onto my Big Wheel
and pedaled down the sidewalk,
trying to catch her,
but my little legs
just couldn’t keep up.
MAKE ME CHOOSEMom wears a silk butterfly scarf all the time.
She says she’s a butterfly,
and butterflies are free.
You should be able to go wherever you want whenever you want. Fly away. Be free.But Grandmum would say,
You’re not a butterfly, Carli. You’re a mom. You can’t be both.
Oh yeah? Mom would answer.
Then make me choose and watch what happens.
POP!
When I was little,
I had a jack-in-the-box.
Music played as I turned the handle, and
I never knew exactly when
it was coming, but
I knew the door would open with a loud
POP!
And the clown would be right there.
The longer I turned the handle,
the more nervous I got,
waiting for that pop.
That’s what it’s like
after Mom gets The Itch and takes off.
I never know when
she’ll pop back into my life.
The longer I wait for her,
the more nervous I get
that she won’t ever return,
and yet
the more I fear her coming home.
ONOMATOPOEIAComic books are full of onomatopoeia.
I can tell you a story about Mom and me
using only onomatopoeia.
Grrr!
Slap!
Ouch!
Shhh!
Onomatopoeias are words
that sound just like
what’s actually happening.
OODLES OF DOODLES
I’m a doodler.
I have a notebook full of doodles.
Oodles of doodles.
I doodle the infinity symbol a lot.
It looks like the number eight on its side.
When you draw it, the line loops and connects.
So you end up not being able to tell
where it all even started.
But once it starts,
it never ends.
It goes on forever because
it keeps repeating itself.
∞
Sometimes I don’t even realize
what’s going on inside me till
I start doodling and
whatever was in me is out of me and
right there on paper.
I just doodled a circle that became
a planet in a galaxy where grown-ups act like grown-ups
and do what they’re supposed to do,
over and over again.
The world where I want to live.
Copyright © 2024 by Lisa Fipps. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
