EVERYONE SHOUTED

I’m the worst at soccer. It’s because of what happens when everyone’s shouting. I’ll get the ball, and I’ll think, pass it!, and everyone (forte)shouts, “Shoot it!” but I pass it anyway. Then everyone’s mad at me for doing the wrong thing. When everyone shouts at me, I want to listen to them, but I can’t. The kids on my team (forte)shout, “Shoot it shoot it shoot it!” but I was already thinking, pass it!, and once I’ve thought something, I can’t stop myself from doing it.

My brain shouts at me sometimes too, like it’s kids on my team. My mom will bake cherry scones for someone’s birthday at the rest home, and I’ll stand over them on their tray, and look at them, and sniff them, and the kids in my brain will (forte)shout, “Don’t eat those scones, they’re not for you, they’re for someone’s birthday!” but I’ll eat some anyway, five or seven of them. I’ll pack a snowball with ice and dirt and rocks, and I’ll watch someone’s grandmother drive past in a van, and the kids in my brain will (forte)shout, “Don’t throw that snowball!” and I try to listen to them, I want to listen to them, but I throw it anyway, and the snowball (forte)thuds into the van’s bumper as I run into the woods and the grandmother stomps on the van’s brakes.

That night, at the rest home, the kids in my brain were shouting like never before. Grandpa Rose was sitting on his bed, wearing that bathrobe and borrowed slippers, begging me to sneak him away to the ghosthouse. My mom was still signing paperwork. He wanted me to lie to her. He wanted me to hide him. He didn’t want me to tell her where he was, so we could look for the heirlooms together. I still hadn’t found any tattoos, I didn’t know where the map was, my plan had failed totally. I needed additional information—even if the only place to get that was in the ghosthouse. The kids in my brain (forte)shouted, “Don’t listen to him, listen to your mom, she knows what she’s doing!” but even while everyone shouted, I was thinking, I’ll sneak you away, I know exactly how to do it.