Ben Y and the Ghost in the Machine

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Ben Y and the Ghost in the Machine Page 4

by K. A. Holt

draining away

  any power of surprise

  Ace may have had.

  In this second,

  Ms. J does not—

  repeat—

  does not

  think Ace

  is acting cute

  at all.

  And Ace’s face

  in this second

  looks like

  how I’ve felt

  in my guts

  many, many times

  when I did a thing

  or said a thing

  I wished I’d thought about

  first.

  I’m sorry . . .

  Ms. J says again,

  staring daggers at Ace.

  Her arms cross,

  squeezing her chest,

  which is never

  ever

  a good sign.

  WHAT is your name?

  Ace shifts

  from one combat boot

  to the other,

  and scratches

  quickly

  at the wig.

  I’m Ace.

  Ms. J nods,

  looks at me for some reason,

  looks back at Ace,

  says:

  It’s nice to meet you, Ace.

  Please never do

  any

  of the things

  you just did

  in this library

  ever again.

  It’s Ace’s turn to nod.

  Now Ms. J’s whole self smiles

  along with her face

  as she says,

  Excellent.

  And then,

  Welcome to the library, Ace.

  Talk to me about the books you’re reading right now.

  The two of them walk off together

  like they are brand-new

  best friends,

  but not before Ace

  tosses a grin at me,

  like it’s an over-the-shoulder

  Frisbee fling,

  and WHY

  is everyone looking at ME?

  Oh right.

  Bald head.

  I forgot for a second.

  Except.

  Ace’s Frisbee-fling grin

  wasn’t a bald-head look.

  And Ms. J’s

  quick-stop glance

  wasn’t a bald-head look.

  So . . .

  What?

  I watch them go,

  and the more I think about it,

  the more I know for sure:

  Ace is a Me.

  And I am an Ace.

  I know it from a deep-down place,

  where you know things

  because you feel them,

  not because you learn them.

  I know.

  I just do.

  You know in your guts

  what you know,

  you know?

  You know what scares you.

  You know what makes you laugh.

  You know what you like.

  You know what you don’t.

  You know who you like.

  You know who you don’t.

  And sometimes

  you see someone

  or meet someone

  and you hear a little

  *ping*

  in your heart,

  and you know,

  just like that,

  this is someone

  who’s like you,

  *boom.*

  You can’t explain how you know

  because there’s nothing to explain.

  You know in your guts

  what you know,

  you know?

  I’ve never had the right words—

  to describe what I know

  about myself,

  other than by describing

  what I know I’m not.

  I’m not like him,

  I’m not like her,

  I’m not like anyone

  I’ve ever known

  or met

  or seen

  at school.

  So, somehow,

  just as much

  as I know

  I’m not like him

  or her

  or anyone else at school,

  I do know,

  from deep down

  in the place

  where you know

  deep-down truths:

  If Ace is a me

  and I am an Ace

  then that means

  I’m not just

  a not someone

  anymore.

  Even if we don’t

  really know

  each other,

  and even if we aren’t

  technically friends,

  it’s still a surprising,

  out-of-nowhere feeling

  of . . . relief, maybe?

  To know I’m not alone.

  There are two of us now.

  And it doesn’t matter

  if we’re friends

  or if we aren’t,

  because two is still two.

  Two is not nothing.

  Two feels so much better

  than none.

  The bell beeps its ring,

  and my stomach sinks

  because that means

  back into the belly

  of the Hart Middle beast.

  I’ll figure out what Mr. Mann meant!

  Ms. J shouts across the library

  as Jordan, Ben B, and I

  head toward the door,

  dragging our feet,

  moving slow.

  About the Planet Safe Space article, I mean!

  See you y’alls later!

  Ace,

  still at her side,

  holding a stack of books now,

  shifts the stack

  to one pink-clad hip,

  smiles that sparkling

  fresh-mint smile,

  and waves.

  Yeah, see you y’alls later!

  Jordan and Ben B

  side-eye me

  as we slide out the door

  and Jordan says,

  You y’alls is our thing.

  I know what Jordan means, but . . .

  technically?

  Ace seems made to be a you y’all.

  Just like me.

  I don’t say anything

  because I’ve been swallowed

  by the laughs streaming my way

  in the crowded hallway,

  and it takes

  my whole

  entire

  concentrating

  ability

  (which is,

  admittedly,

  not the best)

  to drown out

  all the comments

  so that I don’t just . . .

  drown.

  < NEWSPAPER TYPING CLUB CHAT >

  JJ11347: Can I have some help over here?

  JJ11347: We need to get started on the shelves for the poetry section.

  0BenwhY: BenBee has some good building skillz.

  JJ11347: “Skills,” Ben Y. You know that. Proper grammar in Typing Club.

  0BenwhY:

  BenBee: but my skills are so good, they’re skillzzzz!

  JJ11347:

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!: I built some shelves out of chickens once.

  BenBee: Seems like we’ve worked on the library enough for today.

  BenBee: Maybe I can use my building skills(z) doing something else?

  JJ11347: None of you have done ANY work today, BenBee.

  JJ11347: You all literally just got here and ate a snack. That’s it.

  JJ11347: jajajavier:)! Stop blowing up chickens!

  JJ11347: Look what you did to the rug 0BenwhY added. Gross!

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!: Javi! How am I supposed to make my chicken shelves???

  jajajavier:): if i can’t blow up chickens, i’ll have to change my avatar name to jajajavier:(

  BenBee: Why are we even building a library, again?

&nbs
p; BenBee: IN A VIDEO GAME??

  BenBee: Does Sandbox really need one?

  JJ11347: You hurt my heart, BenBee, when you say things like that.

  Ms. J leans back in her chair,

  her gold and turquoise caftan

  shimmering around her,

  as she breaks the number-one

  most important rule

  of Newspaper Typing Club:

  No Talking during the Typing Club part.

  You know,

  there are

  entire

  undiscovered

  universes

  in libraries, right?

  She flings her arms

  out to her sides

  like she’s about to

  shoot fireworks

  from her fingertips.

  Jordan snickers,

  but one look from Ms. J

  stops his snickers

  only halfway

  out of his nose.

  Worlds, realms, lifetimes—

  You would never get to experience

  ANY of it

  ANYwhere else!

  And it’s all right here!

  In the real library!

  She drops her arms,

  scooches her chair

  closer to her computer,

  and starts to type

  louder than usual:

  JJ11347: It only makes sense that you should find THAT kind of magic,

  JJ11347: if not even *more incredible* magic, in a Sandbox library.

  She looks up

  over the top

  of her monitor,

  and somehow

  her eyes frown

  right at the edges,

  not hiding

  the little bit of sad

  sneaking out.

  She looks back down.

  JJ11347: That’s why I thought it would be awesome for us to do this together.

  JJ11347: Because libraries are magic, and Sandbox is magic

  JJ11347: and I know you y’alls are so good at making magic.

  JJ11347: But fine. Save the shelves for another time.

  JJ11347: Go get your notebooks.

  BenBee: Thanks a lot Javier

  jajajavier:): what?? I didn’t do anything! You’re the one being mean to libraries!

  jajajavier:): which are totally awesome and full of awesome things.

  JJ11347: Enough. Everyone go get your notebooks.

  0BenwhY: any news about the , Ms. J?

  JJ11347: Nothing yet. But I left several messages for Mr. Mann.

  Hey.

  We all look up

  as Ace wanders over,

  and wow

  Ace seems to be . . .

  everywhere

  these days.

  Ace gives a little bow,

  dropping a bursting backpack

  BAM,

  on my table,

  half landing on my keyboard,

  making it go AZXCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC

  in chat

  until I get a chat infraction

  AND ANOTHER ONE

  until I yank the keyboard away,

  clutching it to my chest,

  hitting GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

  until I get my third chat infraction

  in, like, five seconds

  and get ejected from the game.

  Ace looks up from the giant backpack,

  waving a wrinkled paper,

  grinning that shiny, sparkly,

  24-carat-gold

  stupid-cute grin.

  Can someone show me

  how to find bus . . . uh . . .

  Ace looks down,

  squints at the paper.

  . . . 315?

  My grandma can’t pick me up today

  and blah blah blah. . . .

  Ms. J points at me, smiles.

  Ben Y can show you how to find the 315.

  She knows everything about the buses!

  I give her a look like, What??

  What kind of dink knows everything about the buses??

  I find some words that say:

  Like, show Ace right now?

  But aren’t we about to,

  uh—

  start newspapering?

  Ace’s laugh

  reminds me of

  the smoothing rough

  skritch skritch noise

  of sandpaper

  if sandpaper

  could whisper.

  I didn’t know

  newspapering

  was a verb.

  Ace looks up,

  thinking.

  Or a gerund?

  Ms. J’s eyes

  almost

  actually

  turn into hearts

  as she says:

  Forget the 315.

  Ace, would you like

  to join Newspaper Typing Club?

  And, oh boy . . .

  I can practically hear

  the wildly swiveling eyeballs

  of Ben B, Javier, and Jordan

  as they all swing their eyes

  to Ms. J

  and silently scream:

  HANG ON.

  WHAT.

  Ace shrugs

  in such an easy way,

  such a smooth movement,

  I’m convinced

  for a second

  that Ace invented

  shrugging.

  Gotta ask my grandma, I guess.

  And if she says yes,

  I might be late

  most of the time,

  because, uh,

  I have detention

  like four times a week

  for the rest of my life.

  Ms. J says,

  That’s a lot of detentions.

  Ace shrugs again.

  My fabulous style breaks a LOT of rules.

  According to Mr. Mann

  Supreme Overlord of DRESS CODE enforcement.

  Ace twists a rainbow earring

  staring off into space for a second, then

  blinks back to Earth, saying,

  I do still have to find the 315, though.

  Like, right now?

  I have to be home, stat.

  Ms. J breaks into my thoughts,

  snapping her fingers with each word:

  Ben Y.

  Please.

  The 315.

  So here we are.

  Side by side.

  Walking to the 315.

  Long stride matching long stride.

  I want to fill the spaces

  between our strides

  with all the questions

  that have popped to mind:

  You know what a gerund is, huh?

  When did you move to Freshwater?

  Where did you move from?

  Do you really have THAT many detentions?

  You live with your grandma?

  But somehow,

  I manage to keep quiet

  for once

  while I think of things to say

  that aren’t questions

  and that Ace might think

  are cool or—

  Shorter strides

  pound behind us

  and Jordan catches up,

  already explaining,

  —and I said I’ll be right back I just want to make sure no one gets lost or anything plus also it’ll be good research for my article about the importance of cardio fitness for kids who—who—

  he puts his hands on his knees,

  leans forward,

  huffing and puffing

  —play too many video games.

  Jordan looks up,

  smiles.

  Hi. Good. You don’t seem lost.

  I give him my best

  what in the world? look,

  but he ignores me,

  linking elbows with Ace

  as they walk ahead.

  I have an important question for you, Ace, Did you ever see that old movie about a pet detective named Ace? It�
�s a really terrible movie, which makes me wonder why your parents would name you after someone in it? Unless they didn’t? Unless you’re an actual pet detective? And they always have to be named Ace? Sorry, that was more than one important question.

  Ace’s eyebrows falter in a way

  I’ve seen before

  when people meet Jordan,

  like they aren’t sure

  if he’s joking

  or if he’s sincere

  or if Jordan is making fun of them

  or if they should be making fun of him.

  I am not a pet detective.

  Not named after one, either.

  So, you’re zero for two there, big guy.

  And now Ace is trying to catch my eye,

  I can feel it,

  so we can share a wink-wink, eyebrow-waggle,

  what’s-up-with-this-weirdo-Jordan joke.

  But nope.

  I don’t do Jordan jokes.

  Ever.

  At all.

  Not even when he’s being

  extra strange

  like he is

  right now.

  There’s the 315.

  I say it quickly,

  interrupting Jordan

  before he can launch into

  a whole thing

  about some other thing

  that only Jordan

  would launch into.

  It’s right there.

  I point to the city bus

  already stopped

  at the end of the block.

  Better run.

  That’s it?

  Oh, crud!

  Ace takes off running.

  Jordan links arms with me now,

  as we turn around

  and jog together

  back to school.

  What was that all about?

  I unlink my arm

  and turn around,

  jogging backward,

  so I can face Jordan.

  What was what?

  Jordan shrugs

  and it’s such the opposite

  of Ace’s smooth-move shrug,

  it fills me

  with the warm-squishy feeling

  that comes from

  knowing someone

  so well,

 

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