We don’t walk to school together in the morning,

because Lizard’s family is often late for things.

But we walk home together,

either to her house or to mine,

almost every day,

except for Fridays,

when I bike to my piano lesson at four o’clock.

It’s like my house is Lizard’s house,

and Lizard’s house is my house.

Both houses are our houses.

“We’re saving a language that’s going extinct,”

Lizard explains to her mother now.

Her mom doesn’t ask which language,

or why it’s going extinct,

or how two sixth-grade kids can save it.

All she says is “Great!”

Then she settles into her big reclining armchair,

which is permanently stuck in recliner mode,

and clicks on the TV.

Lizard’s Father

He’s never there.

Well, hardly ever.

Weeks can go by when I don’t see him,

and then I only get a glimpse of him,

on the way to the bathroom or something.

That’s why Lizard says he’s a spy.

You might think I’d roll my eyes and say,

“Nobody’s father in Benson, Colorado, is a spy!

What does he really do?”

But I don’t.

It has to be some job where he works at night

and sleeps during the day,

since her mom sometimes reminds Lizard to be quiet

because her dad is sleeping.

Except I can’t think of any night job

Lizard wouldn’t want people to know about.

I’ve never seen Lizard cry,

which seems strange, since she and I have been best friends

since third grade.

How could Lizard never cry

once during three whole years?

But it’s true.

So I don’t ever ask her about her father,

just in case that might be the first time

I’d see my best friend cry.

Our Clubhouse

No one has lived in the house next door

to Lizard’s for a long time.

The windows are boarded up,

and the weeds grow wild like a meadow.

But the house next door is our favorite

because it has an old shed in back that isn’t locked.

Lizard and I have it as our private clubhouse.

We even keep some furniture there:

a card table with one broken leg that we prop up,

and two chairs that were on someone’s front lawn

with a sign that said free,

and a bunch of cushions with limp stuffing

that we use to make a nest

where we can curl up together.

I write poems,

and Lizard makes plans

for how the two of us can save the world.

On Thursday we go out there

to practice our Guernésiais.

Now we’re really saving the world,

or at least a tiny part of it,

one word at a time.

What Lizard and I Figure Out

It’s hard for two kids

to learn a language,

even a little bit of one,

all by themselves.