Ben Y and the Ghost in the Machine

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Ben Y and the Ghost in the Machine Page 5

by K. A. Holt


  you can tell

  their squirrely shrug

  means they know

  exactly

  what was what.

  Jordan stops jogging.

  I stop, too.

  You make me nervous when you jog backward Ben Y because what if there’s a sinkhole you can’t see and you fall in it? And actually, huh, that’s interesting, I think Ace kind of gives me the same feeling I get when I’m worried about you not seeing a sinkhole and falling in. Does that make any sense at all? Probably not. All I know is something about that kid crinkles my stomach in a WATCH OUT FOR SINKHOLES kind of way even though my brain keeps reminding me that Ace seems fine and nice. It’s like my stomach and my brain are arguing which maybe doesn’t make a lot of sense but is the best way I can think of to explain why I ran after you.

  Fair enough,

  I say,

  and then after a minute,

  Sinkholes are really big, you know.

  I’d see the warning

  in your big yikes eyes

  if one was behind me.

  For the rest of the afternoon,

  I work on my article

  about the value

  and awesomeness

  of shopping

  at thrift stores,

  while I steal glances

  at Jordan,

  who seems to be acting

  maybe

  just a little bit

  stranger

  than usual.

  Most of the time

  I can figure out

  everything Jordan is thinking,

  sometimes even before

  Jordan knows

  what he’s thinking,

  but right now,

  based on his forehead wrinkles

  and his not-smile

  but not-frown,

  I can’t figure it out.

  Maybe he’s having trouble

  with his cardio article,

  or maybe he’s still worrying

  Ace might be a sinkhole

  I could fall into.

  Huh.

  NOW

  0BenwhY: Hi again.

  0BenwhY: in case you were wondering, yes, i am still bald

  0BenwhY: in case you were also wondering, yes, school WAS *that* bad

  0BenwhY: also, earbud invisibility is not nearly as useful as actual invisibility

  0BenwhY: though it does kind of muffle the mean voices

  0BenwhY: and that’s better than nothing

  0BenwhY: i guess

  0BenwhY: not really

  0BenwhY: anyway

  0BenwhY: . . .

  0BenwhY: how was your day?

  0BenwhY: are you very busy now? Doing ghosty things?

  0BenwhY: do you get to watch over all of us? in all our separate places all day?

  0BenwhY: . . .

  0BenwhY: Seems like that would be kind of terrible, actually

  0BenwhY: I mean, why watch us if you can’t help out in any way?

  0BenwhY: and obviously you can’t help us, right?

  0BenwhY: because you would if you could, right?

  0BenwhY: like pull the fire alarm to save me from a pop quiz?

  0BenwhY: or flood the locker room to cancel gym class?

  0BenwhY: . . .

  0BenwhY: ugh

  0BenwhY: . . .

  0BenwhY: did you see that Ace kid today?

  0BenwhY: when you were watching over me but not helping?

  0BenwhY: i wish you could help me figure out if I want Ace to be my friend

  0BenwhY: i mean, i *think* I do? But also . . .

  0BenwhY: Ace is kind of . . . a lot?

  0BenwhY: Also also, for some reason it feels important for Ace to think *I’m* cool?

  0BenwhY: even though I know I can *also* be . . . a lot?

  0BenwhY: I know. None of that makes much sense. That’s why I need your help.

  0BenwhY: that’s why now is the perfect chance for you to wave a wand or send a sign

  0BenwhY: . . .

  0BenwhY: Anything?

  0BenwhY: . . .

  0BenwhY: no advice at all? really?

  0BenwhY: . . .

  0BenwhY: that’s so unlike you, Benicio.

  0BenwhY: . . .

  0BenwhY: As you would say, this has been a delight, but I really do have to go now.

  0BenwhY: smell ya later, ghost breath

  HOME

  I rock back and forth

  squeak squeak squeak

  and I can almost match

  my heartbeat beat beat

  while I sit in Benicio’s chair

  at Benicio’s old desk

  in Benicio’s old room

  and think think think

  about nothing

  and everything

  and how he used to tell me

  how all this school stuff,

  how all this kid stuff

  feels like it’s everything,

  like it powers your breath

  and your guts

  and all your feelings

  and it feeds you

  and makes you sick

  and it’s so much everything

  and how you think you can’t escape.

  But you can,

  he’d say.

  You will, kiddo.

  Trust me.

  You’ll pull yourself free

  from the middle-school ooze,

  and when you do?

  You’ll still be you,

  but you’ll be a new you.

  You’ll realize all this stuff,

  all these swallowing everythings . . .

  they’re nothing,

  in the grand scheme of life.

  Or at least,

  they’re nothing

  in the grand scheme

  of growing up

  and getting out

  and seeing how big the world is

  outside of the only ooze

  you’ve ever known.

  How is it

  that I can’t remember my Earth Science assignments,

  and I can’t remember articles versus prepositions,

  but I will never forget,

  ever,

  in a million billion years,

  Benicio’s words

  from that time he taught me

  everything is really nothing

  and that is the thing

  I should hold on to.

  That is the thing

  I should look forward to

  the most.

  Dinner is ready, Mr. Clean!

  Mom’s voice echoes down the hall,

  along with Esme’s giggle.

  Great.

  Just what I need.

  Mom’s a comedian now?

  A tiny smile fights its way

  to the tiniest corner

  of my mouth.

  At least that joke means

  she’s here with us tonight,

  instead of lost

  in her thoughts

  like every other night.

  It means she’s opened

  her usually tired,

  usually sighing,

  usually closed,

  eyes,

  and she’s seen me.

  But also?

  It means she’s thought about me

  long enough

  to make a joke.

  You can’t make a joke

  if you aren’t paying attention,

  at least a little bit.

  And if Mom’s paying attention?

  To me?

  Even if it’s a little bit?

  I’ll take it.

  So.

  Mom leans over her plate,

  sawing her knife

  back and forth,

  back and forth,

  like she’s getting revenge

  on a chicken thigh

  that treated her wrong.

  How did your—

  she waves her hand at me

  like a magician


  trying to make a rabbit

  disappear—

  this—

  work out today?

  Esme blows her giggle

  through her straw

  making giant

  gross

  milk bubbles.

  Great,

  my voice says,

  ahead of my brain,

  as usual.

  Really awesome

  and great.

  Greater than you’d think.

  The idea

  of reliving this day

  out loud

  in detail

  so that Mom and Esme

  can laugh about it . . .

  The idea

  that my awful day

  could make their day

  funnier and better

  makes my guts bubble

  with rage.

  In fact,

  I’ve changed my mind.

  I actually DON’T want Mom

  to open her tired eyes

  to notice me

  or see me

  or anything

  if this

  is what will happen.

  IT WAS GREAT.

  My heart pounds so hard

  I’m afraid it might

  shake loose

  the tears

  I’ve hidden

  on the highest shelves

  in the darkest corners

  of myself

  all day today.

  Mom swallows

  the last bite

  of her chicken,

  looks up,

  and says:

  You already said that, mija.

  But what made it so great?

  Her eyebrows are high,

  expecting more words

  to escape from me.

  Esme’s big eyes peer

  over her teetering milk bubbles

  as the bubbles threaten to drip

  and slide

  down the side

  of her glass.

  One bubble

  has had enough,

  and the slimy white goop

  breaks loose,

  a cascading escape

  rushing to create

  a puddle

  on the table,

  messy

  and gross,

  and for some reason

  that broken bubble

  breaks me, too,

  and my gross mess

  starts to drip

  and slide

  from my nose and eyes

  as I stand up,

  choke out the words:

  Everything, okay.

  Everything made it great.

  And I make it to the bathroom

  just in time

  to turn on the shower,

  to see the last remnants

  of yesterday’s hair

  make a mucky swirl

  in the still-cold water,

  just in time

  to drown out

  the heaving

  hiccupping cries

  bubbling over

  after my

  really great

  and awesome

  day

  at school.

  When I leave the bathroom,

  Mom’s bedroom door is shut

  and that means no knocking

  unless there is blood

  or guts

  or more than one barf.

  When I get to my room

  (which is also Esme’s room,

  which is never not annoying

  because there’s a room

  right there

  across the hall

  that could be MY room

  and MY room alone,

  but it never will be,

  so uuuggghhh) . . .

  when I get to OUR room,

  Esme is in her bunk

  humming a song

  I’m pretty sure she made up

  with the highest of high notes

  and the lowest of low notes

  and the thought crosses my mind

  for the millionth time

  that maybe Esme is

  actually

  half bird, half girl.

  She leans her head

  over the edge

  of her bed

  so she can look up

  at me

  as I climb the steps

  to my bunk,

  and her bird voice

  chirps:

  Are you okay?

  Is everything still great?

  I fling myself into bed,

  my bald head sliding

  across my pillow,

  bonking into

  the metal bed frame

  with a clang

  as deep as a church bell’s

  on a funeral day.

  A-OK,

  I say.

  And then . . .

  Ow.

  Ow,

  Esme echoes.

  And then she goes back to her song,

  humming quietly

  until we both

  fall asleep.

  SCHOOL

  Beige is a color, sure.

  It blandly blends,

  and it blends blandly.

  It isn’t happy.

  It isn’t sad.

  It’s just . . . beige.

  There has always been beige.

  There will always be beige.

  It is what it is.

  Because it’s beige.

  But beige isn’t just a color.

  Beige is also

  a state of mind.

  Embrace the beige

  so you can blend blandly,

  and blandly blend;

  so you can join

  the one big Everyone

  that fills the halls

  like a soggy glob

  stuck in a throat,

  that can’t be coughed out

  no matter how hard

  you try.

  There has always been beige.

  There will always be beige.

  It is what it is.

  Because it’s beige.

  And if you don’t embrace it?

  If you don’t easily blend?

  Beige tries to swallow YOU whole—

  or worse, you’ve already been devoured

  and you don’t even know.

  The beige has this way

  of seeping into your brain,

  of making you wonder—

  if there’s so many of them,

  and not very many of you,

  maybe

  just maybe

  you are wrong or bad

  for not fitting

  into the blob,

  and maybe

  just maybe

  the safety

  of being the same

  is better than

  the danger

  of being you.

  When I climb the steps

  to the front door of school,

  I can barely squeeze through;

  the glob of beige

  feels particularly chokey today.

  At the edge of the glob

  I hear laughing,

  and as I push my way around,

  the laughing gets louder

  and my stomach drops

  and I feel my head go light

  from surprise

  because I see why the blob is laughing.

  Standing out

  in the sea of beige is:

  Ace.

  Ace, wearing a see-from-space

  orange poncho

  with the words

  DRESS CODE

  painted in red

  across the chest.

  Watching the crowd,

  hearing the laughs,

  the shouted comments,

  the whispered hisses . . .

  I feel like I’m the one

  being pointed at,

  laughed at,

  humiliated,

  over and over

  in a boiling s
tew

  of taunts

  that trap.

  Feet glued

  to the spot,

  you know you should run;

  you want to run,

  but something about

  everyone surrounding you

  catches you,

  holds you there,

  like an invisible net

  made of loud words

  that wrap around

  your legs

  and mind,

  holding tight.

  It’s a terrible feeling

  to be surrounded

  by a crowd

  and to know that

  even with

  so many people there,

  you’re actually

  completely

  alone.

  No way,

  no how,

  will I let the beige blob

  have an Ace feast

  for breakfast

  today.

  I grab Ace’s elbow,

  huffing under my breath,

  Part of being a We

  is not letting anyone

  eat any of you

  for any meal

  ever

  at

  all.

  Ace gulps,

  Huh?

  as we push our way

  through the blob.

  You think we’re a We?

  We cut through the blob,

  careening past the laughs,

  make it down the hall

  where we hide for just a second

  while the bell beeps its ring

  and the blob dissolves.

  We duck into room 113,

  and even though it’s just a stairwell now,

  even though it’s crammed full

  of desks and broken chairs,

  it still almost feels like the safe space

  from last summer,

  when we learned that being divergent

  was a thing to be proud of,

  not a thing to hide.

  I drag Ace all the way to the space

  way back under the stairs,

  dark, hidden from sight,

  where we have to bend our necks

  to see each other’s eyes.

  Ace looks off-balance,

  almost scared,

  no sparkle,

  no glam,

  no smirk,

  no gold,

  just a stunned face

  I barely recognize.

  Ace swallows,

  and the words

  scatter out,

  like gravel

  dumped from a shoe:

  Th-thank you.

  This was . . .

  unexpected.

  I mean . . .

  Mr. Mann said

  if I got one more DRESS CODE,

 

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