Hope is a Ferris Wheel by Robin Herrera

Author:Robin Herrera
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Abrams
Published: 2014-01-22T22:00:00+00:00

It took me forever to get my Dad bag packed, and I ended up packing hardly anything. Just a couple of homework papers and projects I got stars on, and my Emily Dickinson poem—the one Jared said sucked. I’m pretty sure Dad will like it better.

I spent Friday’s detention making a list of things I wanted to talk to Dad about, like my club (hopefully he’ll have some good advice), and how Mr. Savage is a terrible teacher, and what Mom was like when she was younger. Maybe he can tell me how they met, because Mom won’t tell me anything except that they went to community college together.

Other than that, detention was pretty dull, and even if I wanted to talk to Eddie, he was working on some math paper the whole time. Miss Fergusson gave him a big smile when he turned it in at the end of detention, but I’m not sure he noticed. He caught up with me in the hallway and asked if I’d read any other poems yet.

“I’ve been busy,” I told him.

“Oh, okay,” Eddie said, and I thought that’s what he really meant and that he’d drop the whole poem thing, but a couple of steps later he started to recite this poem from memory. It was short and kind of funny, but it didn’t make any sense. He said it was by someone named Gwendolyn Brooks and asked me what I thought.

“I think Emily Dickinson wrote two thousand poems,” I said. “I think if we do one poem a week, we’ll be set for life.”

We were almost to the front steps, when Eddie put a hand on my shoulder and shoved me a little bit. Not enough to knock me over, just enough to steer me into the edge of the hallway.

“What was that for?” I asked.

“For being so stubborn,” he said. “Is that why you’re in detention? I’ve been wondering, ’cause it’s not like you’re a bad kid or anything.”

I said it was none of his business why I was in detention, and he muttered, “Yup, I knew it.”

We sat down on the steps, and Eddie started another poem. This one was by Robert Frost, and it was almost as good as one of Emily Dickinson’s poems, but when I told Eddie that, he said, “I hate Robert Frost.”

“Then why did you even recite it?”

“Because I knew you’d like it, since you have the worst taste in poetry,” he said, and I felt like shoving him just a little bit, enough to knock him down a step.

Langston appeared then, plopping down right next to me and saying, “Hey, Mullet.” I wondered if he even remembered my name.

While Eddie recited some more poems, Langston used a wood chip to chisel the dried mud out of the lugs of his boots. At one point he asked me how long my fingernails were and if I would mind trying to dig into this one little crack in his sole, because he was pretty sure

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