Ode to a Nobody, page 1
The Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson, Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1951, 1955 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © renewed 1979, 1983 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Copyright © 1914, 1918, 1919, 1924, 1929, 1930, 1932, 1935, 1937, 1942 by Martha Dickinson Bianchi. Copyright © 1952, 1957, 1958, 1963, 1965 by Mary L. Hampson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Holiday House / New York
Copyright © 2022 by Caroline Brooks DuBois
All Rights Reserved
HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
www.holidayhouse.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: DuBois, Caroline Brooks, author.
Title: Ode to a nobody / Caroline Brooks DuBois.
Description: First edition. | New York : Holiday House, [2022] | Audience: Ages 8-12. | Audience: Grades 4-6. | Summary: After a devastating tornado tears apart her home, thirteen-year-old Quinn struggles to find stability and return to who she was before, finding she has to rebuild herself.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022002950 | ISBN 9780823451562 (hardcover)
Subjects: CYAC: Novels in verse. | Resilience (Personality trait)— Fiction. Identity—Fiction. | Families—Fiction. | LCGFT: Novels in verse.
Classification: LCC PZ7.5.D83 Od 2022 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022002950
Ebook ISBN 9780823454044
a_prh_6.0_141971236_c1_r0
To East Nashville, with love.
And to my students, for inspiration.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
The Before
Expert of Nothing
Mom Thought I Was Going to Be a Boy
Pumpkin’s Origin Story
Freewrite
Acrostic Assignment: What’s In a Name?
Friendly Feedback
Simile Assignment: “Writing Is Like…”
More Feedback
Cinquain Assignment: Aka
A Secret
“Whatcha Doing?”
Homework: Diamante “Opposites”
“Who will Read Their Opposites Poem?”
After School, Just Jack & Me
Poeming Vs. Gaming
Ode to the Dogwood Out my Window
In Tune
Word Doc.
City Mouse, Country Mouse—And Me
Inclement Weather Drill in Study Hall
School Rules, According to Jack
My Philosophy
National Poetry Month
Ode to a Stationary Ollie
Ode to my Bedroom (And Pumpkin)
When Forrest Left for School Last August
“Quinnie Says”
If Then
Me Time
Backstory of Best Friend Jack
Favorites
City Games
Disconnected
Parking Lot
Nailed It—Not!
Skate For Life?
The Fight Before
Gaming with Jack
The Night Before
During and Immediately After
The Right Before
Falsely Alarming
Nocturnal
Volume-Cranked
60 Seconds
The Moment it Becomes Clear
Unreal—
Surreal
Yardful
After Silence—Noise
Thankful
Encounter with a Drunk Girl
And Stranger Still
Ambulance Story
Under One Roof—Together
While I Sleep
When Suddenly you Remember your Pet
The Upstairs
The Dark has a Way of Downplaying
On Really Seeing my House, I Write this Ode in my Head
In Shock and Taking Stock
Discovery
Our House Among the Others
The Walk
Someone Says, “EF4 On A Scale of 1 to 5”
Un-Housed
Repair or State of Disrepair?
Taking Greater Stock
Unplugged
Old-School
Call from Forrest
Things you Take for Granted Until They’re Gone
Ode to the Trees
Typing VS. Writing
Tornado
Wildlife
Lego Girl
Drop-By
O to Be Wild
Without a Board, I Use My Feet to Walk Home
Some of Us Move Out
Not this Place!
With the Worms
Meeting the Weird Old Man
My History with Dogs
Assistant
Hinting for Pumpkin
The Beast
Hanging with Pigeons in the Park
Community Cookout
“Torna-Cation”
Meeting
Lack of Affection
Spectators
Everyone Else’s Pets
The Masses Descend
Ice Cream Crew
In Line
Debris Crew
Forty-Three Water Bottles
“Volunteer”
Sorr-Joy-Ful
Connected Again to the Outside World
*The Path Taken
The Week That Lasted a Year
The After
Back to School
Second Period
“Please Stay After Class”
Semi-Normal
Bus Ride Back into Tornado-Ville
Brainstorm
A Chorus of Houses
Clues
Hopeful
Found Poem
The List
This is Not a Eulogy
Drop-By #2
Playgrounds
Ghost of A Girl
Neon-Green-Handed
Haiku-Note to Future Parents
Smashing Things
Treasure or Trash?
The Next Morning, I Spy
Afterglow
Person-Ifying
The Story of A House Part I
If I Were Forrest
Grandma Jo Talks About Strength
“The Irony Kills Me”
Ms. Koval Talks About Rhyme
School Rules Part II, According to Jack
Feeling Sorry After Class
Mr. Jones Talks About Words
Neighborhood Soundtrack—Extended Version
Suddenly Everything
Natural Consequences
Pep-Less Rally
Re-
On the Bus
“Friend”
“The Steeple’s Pov”
What’s in a Pseudonym?
Revision
Jack’s Jacket
“Not my House Anymore”
Words
The Story of a House Part Ii: After the Storm
Hanging With Mr. Jones
Poetry Project Conferences
The Not-So-Happy Ever Afters
Inspection
Ollie Over and Out to Somebody I’m Not
Third-Quarter Report Card Finally Arrives
The One Thing
For Good, This Time
A Journal
More Lost Than Found
“A Real Beauty”
This Fight is Staged at Ivy
Taking a Breather
The Overpass
Bailing
Juvenile Detention Center
Finally Back in Our House—Grounded and Alone
The Story of A House Part III
Middle School is About Outgrowing
My Newfound Fear of Storms (And Being Friendless)
A Horse Off His Rocker
Spring Does Its Thing Anyway
The Big Announcement
Pity Party
Fundraiser for a Family
“Follow Your Heart”
Synonymous
An Apology
“On One Condition”
The End-of-The-Year Eighth-Grade Poetry Reading
“Learning to Fall”
Ovation
Portfolio
Life, According to me, Quinn
Forrest in the City—Briefly
My New and Improved Bedroom
Think-Pair-Share
Transitions
Acceptance
Courageous Into Summer
An Unexpected Gift
“Quinn Says”
Rebuilding
The Story of a House: The Next Chapter
“Just Toys”
Ode to a Tornado
Writing
The Great Adventure
Acknowledgments
The Before
EXPERT OF NOTHING
It’
and I’m still the student
I was on Friday. Worse,
my pencil’s gone dumb in my grip
and I begin to sweat.
I head my paper Quinnie.
Easy enough! Deep breath.
Erase that, write Quinn.
Erase that, write Quinn(ie).
Erase that—and rip
a jagged hole in my paper
that I want to slip
in-
to.
Ms. Koval eyes me, says,
“Don’t think too hard.
Just make a list
of everything you’re good at,
or consider yourself
an expert on.”
My page is empty,
like my mind.
Maybe I should write
Good at sweating.
Everyone else is hunched,
madly writing—like way more
than usual. Even Jack
across the room tosses
words onto his paper.
Of course! He’s an expert skater,
gamer, and talker—
when he’s in trouble.
Maybe I should write
Good for nothing.
“You can refer to this list
when you need
a topic for a poem.”
Two rows in front of Jack
sits Jade, who turned our friend group
from two to three last year
when she came here
from another school.
She flips to the back
of her paper and keeps going.
Also an expert skater—
all tricks and skill—
an expert rule breaker,
expert at being the new
girl in middle school,
expert at befriending
Jack—and me, I guess.
I was the plastic toy
chucked in for free.
My paper waits
impatiently
for my expertise.
“Three more minutes,”
Ms. Koval says.
I pop my knuckles.
If I were Forrest,
I’d write perfect student, valedictorian, prototypical son.
Basically, a chameleon.
No joke—he aces everything.
He’s even supreme
as a brother.
When it comes to me,
I’m coming up empty.
How will I start this project
if I can’t even start
this list?
I stare out the window
at a kite caught in the power lines.
I think about my Cs,
the F I’ve got in math,
and a B in English just ’cause
Ms. Koval is kind.
I write on my paper:
I’m a kite dangling from a branch,
tangled and tossing
in the shadows
of tall trees.
Not bad, I think.
“Prepare to partner-share
your areas of expertise,”
Ms. Koval says. I gulp,
erase, quick-scribble:
decent caretaker of small animals
basic skater
competent gamer
Maybe with practice,
I can become
an expert at one
of these.
MOM THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO BE A BOY
Today in English,
we’re writing our origin stories
in fifteen sentences or fewer.
This I think I can manage.
Mine goes:
Mom’s ultrasound and intuition
convinced her
I was to be born a boy.
So my parents chose a name
and for nine long months
called me Quinn.
When I turned out a girl,
Mom still liked Quinn.
“It’s gender-neutral,”
she insisted.
Dad disagreed
and has always called me
Quinnie. So it’s Quinn on paper,
but out loud mostly Quinnie
and sometimes Quinn,
depending on
who’s speaking.
Quinn(ie) Jolene Nash—
is how I’ve been writing it lately,
so neither parent
can claim me as their victory.
That’s me.
Age thirteen.
Master of nothing.
Mom got to name me.
Essentially, she won:
Dad zip, Mom one
in case anyone’s keeping score.
I know they are!
Sometimes when she calls me,
I wonder if she wishes
I’d been born that boy,
or some other version
who doesn’t mess up
so much.
PUMPKIN’S ORIGIN STORY
Last summer, Mom and Dad
were exchanging words—not kind ones.
And Forrest said, “Let’s go!” We hopped in his car,
windows down, music up. He took me to Pet Town.
“Pretty sure they don’t take sisters,” I told him.
“Not even pesky ones?” His smile always made things okay.
We strolled the aisles. Named all the kittens. Then
we noticed him, or maybe Pumpkin picked us.
Standing on his hind legs, nose wiggling, whiskers working,
a hamster round like a pumpkin. “Should we ask Mom?”
“Nah,” Forrest said, “we got this.” He paid, carried
the cage, and helped me set Pumpkin up
in my bedroom. “Now you have a four-footed
friend to talk to.” Forrest was right:
Pumpkin’s made for listening—
always here, and all ears.
FREEWRITE
“Freewriting is the warm-up,”
Ms. Koval pep-talks, “before
the big game,” before
we “kick off” the April
poetry project.
Jade would call this busywork.
Jack would say it’s just another teacher
preaching how words hold the power
to shape our lives—
or a teacher trick so she can pick
the shiniest students to read
at the End-of-Year Coffeehouse
for the smiling parents.
I can picture it:
Jack and me in the back row,
feet kicked up on another desk,
some brainiac mumbling poems
from their polished portfolio.
But for a split second, I picture
myself up there.
Reality check:
if this is the warm-up
before the game, I will
be the one warming the bench.
No medals, ribbons, or plaque
for my wall.
Mom and Dad
will be relieved
if I at least pull a C.
ACROSTIC ASSIGNMENT: WHAT’S IN A NAME?
Questioning.
Untalented? A blunder? I wonder:
If my brother’s star beams bright, does it
Nullify my dull speck of light?
Not trying to compete with his glory.
(In this lifetime.
End of story.)
FRIENDLY FEEDBACK
You wrote on my acrostic
in teacher cursive and teacher ink:
I bet there’s more to your story.
But what if my story is boring?
What if I’m not the appetizer, main course,
or dessert, but the leftovers—cold hamburger
missing its bun in the back of the fridge,
two sprigs of broccoli, and a stale biscuit?
What if I’m just another kid in this class
clumped with “those” kids in the back,
the ones you keep an eye on, taking notes.
What if my brother, who you taught
and called “brilliant”—as if I didn’t know—
is the better model? Sounds about right,
since he got the better version
of my parents too.
SIMILE ASSIGNMENT: “WRITING IS LIKE…”
Writing is like homework—
but it beats math any day.
I won’t say homefun.
No thanks, Ms. Koval,
for that pun, because
it’s still hard and I can’t
figure it out. At least
