I lunge, strike a low blow.

Doc steps up onto a chair to escape.

I swing,

she defends,

and we lock sabers,

form an X.

“Did you attack back?”

“I made fun of Marissa’s nose and

Kortnee’s acne.”

Doc steps closer.

The sabers hum and buzz,

glow red and blue.

“Did that feel good?”

“Actually, no.”

She turns off her saber.

“Let’s start with that.”

I flop back down on the couch.

“When I tried to stand up for myself,

why did I end up feeling worse than

when they bully me?”

“Think about our little duel.

What did you learn?”

“That you like toys?”

“True, but focus on the battle.

Did I ever use my saber to strike you?”

I shake my head.

“So I can defend myself

without attacking others?”

“Good Jedi, you are.”

TECHNOLOGY TRICKS

When grown-ups fully understand technology,

kids will be in big trouble.

Until then, we rule the planet.

To punish me,

Dad took my phone so I can’t text,

but I have a computer and

I can email texts to Viv.

I’m grounded.

No phone for now.

That’s why I didn’t answer.

No reason

to be jealous of Catalina.

You and I are besties.

Will always be.

I hate that you’re a thousand miles away.

She replies,

Feels like a million.

So tell me about

this storm and bus thing.

I tell her everything that happened,

and ask,

So how was your day?

She replies,

Equally horrible.

The divorce is final.

I’m officially without a family.

If only I could text a hug.

CHOOSING SIDES

Sometimes I fear Splitsville

for my parents, too.

I try to picture what life would be like

spending part of my week with Dad,

the other part with Mom.

Half of my stuff at one house,

the rest at another.

Constantly packing and unpacking.

Never feeling settled.

No one place to call home.

But would I feel relieved, too?

No more hearing

them fighting because of

me

would be nice.

Of course, if I had to choose

which parent to live with,

I know it’d be Dad,

not because I love him more,

but because I’m not sure

Mom loves me at all.

WHERE HATE COMES FROM

Will there ever be world peace

when families can’t even agree

on what to have for dinner?

Dad wants barbecue.

Mom wants the latest, greatest trendy restaurant.

Anaïs wants all things non-American.

Liam wants pizza.

It doesn’t matter what I want.

Wherever we go,

I don’t even bother to look at the menu.

Mom always decides what I get.

We go to Mom’s choice,

and while we wait for our food,

a little boy from the next table comes over.

Dad plays up his accent.

“Well, howdy, little fella.”

The boy looks at me and then at his dad,

who nods and grins.

The boy faces me again.

“You’re fat.”