House Arrest by K.A. Holt

started to rock his hand back and forth.
He wasn’t making a T at all.
He was making the sign for . . .
Potty! See that, T-man? Levi can sign potty now! Now he can tell us when his diaper needs changing! Levi clapped.
I patted his head and smiled and sighed.
Yeah. Awesome, little man. And then to Mom:
Don’t call me T-man. Come on.

WEEK 44
    Eight weeks
that’s it
all that’s left
eight weeks
then no more James
no more Mrs. B
well, if the judge says I’m good,
if the judge says I’ve learned my lesson.
Have I learned my lesson, James?
I think I’ve learned too many,
just way too many to count.

    I wish I could do that thing
you know that thing?
The one where people lift up one eyebrow
but not the other?
That’s what I would have done
when Mrs. B said,
Timothy, you have a way with words,
you really should think about giving that speech.
The people at the Carnival of Giving would love it.
Your mom would love it.
I would love it. Think about it, Timothy.
For me.
For her.
Who do you think I am, Mrs. B?
James?
[eyebrow lift thing goes here]

    A school haiku:
So what’s the deal, then?
Your brother, he’s a retard? That’s when I punched him.

    Things were going so well.
That’s when you know to watch out.
That’s when you know Timothy
is going to do something
stupid
stupid
stupid.
But in my defense
you can’t just call people retards.
That’s offensive to everyone
with a brain
and a heart.
And if you’re going to be the kind of person
who is offensive to everyone
with a brain
and a heart,
maybe your mouth deserves
a Carnival of Giving
from my fist.

    I know I’m lucky.
I know it.
I didn’t get regular suspended,
I only got in-school suspended.
I wish I had gotten a medal, though.
I wish I had gotten a parade.
I wish it was OK
to punch a kid
for being an idiot
but I guess vigilante justice
is not a real thing
in middle school
or anywhere
really.

    I don’t want to hear it. You made your decision. That’s the only thing I heard this time
through the closed door
after the phone rang
and Mom tried to hide
again.

WEEK 4 5
    It’s too late now, James.
I mean, you can yell at me.
You can talk about self-control.
I can wish I had more of it.
But it’s too late.
I can’t just go back and erase everything.
The judge will see I hit that kid.
The judge will see I hit that wall.
The judge already knows I stole that money.
What else do you want me to do?
What else can I do?
I am who I am.
I’m trying, James.
You know that.
Please don’t yell at me.
Please don’t be James from Probation Officer University.
Please don’t be that guy.

    What do you mean
if I could talk to him?
I would never talk to him.
I’m not ever talking to him.
Not ever again.
I mean
unless he was kidnapped by a chupacabra,
or went to secret medical school,
or was on a hero’s quest
to find a forest of perfect tracheas . . .
then maybe
maybe
I would say:
Why didn’t you just let us know?
Why didn’t you even say bye?
Don’t you love us?
Don’t you love me?
What is wrong with you,
that a human could be so selfish?
Do you think this isn’t hard for Mom?
Do you think you helped us by leaving? Do you even have a brain?
Do you hate us or something?

    Dear Dr. Sawyer,
Well, thanks for zero help.
It must be nice to be the only doctor
who can do what you do
because then you can be rude
and never answer e-mails
and people still have to figure out
a way to see you
if they want their babies
to get fixed.
So that’s what we’re doing.
First the Carnival of Giving,
then we’re coming.
And I won’t kick you in the shins
when I see you
even though I will want to.
Peace out, nerd,
Timothy

    It’s almost as loud as the suction machine,
the turtle car.
José’s dad gunned the engine
like a big show-off
and filled the entire cul-de-sac
with smoke
that smelled like burning tires
or what I imagine burning tires
smell like.
It purrs like