by K. A. Holt
totally ruling out
going to the last
fascinating half
of Earth Science),
I let the brain
or the heart
or whatever the library is
suck me in
so I can find my own
quiet, private place
to take a big deep breath
and maybe another one
after that.
I lie on the floor
between the shelves
in the wayback stacks
hiding from all the everythings
this day is throwing at me,
and also to hide from Ms. J,
who would ask me
a zillion questions
if she saw me,
and who would
look Concerned
in that way she does
that makes me want to cry
and also punch things.
So, yeah.
I’m hiding.
On the floor.
Staring up
at the water stain
on the ceiling
and not knowing
what to think
about
what I just saw at home.
As I lie there,
on the scratchy floor,
breathing in the smells
of books I’ll never read,
listening to the murmurs
of kids who aren’t my friends,
and the cackles of Ms. J
bossing everyone around,
my shoulders finally relax
and my breathing calms down,
and it strikes me,
like a lightning bolt
to my lightning-rod head,
that this floor,
right here
in this library,
right here
in this reference section,
right here
where five-paragraph essays go to die . . .
THIS is the place
where un-beige,
baldy Ben Y
actually feels . . .
safe.
Like, safe safe.
Like, really safe.
Like, deep-breaths safe.
Like, Benicio-hug safe.
The library.
Huh.
Oh my tiny baby cheeses, Ace!
What in the WORLD?
After I hear Ms. J’s shout,
I jam my head
between dictionaries,
hopefully staying hidden,
while I peek out
just a bit.
She’s holding a stapler
next to a gigantic poster
that is almost as hideous
as Ace’s poncho.
The poster is giant.
There are stars.
There are two big planets,
one on one side of the giant poster,
one on the other.
In the middle it says:
Hart Middle School Rockets
Blasting off together
to Planet Safe Space!
There’s also a LOT of rockets.
The rockets are . . . parked (?) on one big planet.
One big planet is empty
and alone.
Smaller words
over the rocket parking-lot planet say:
Fuel up with kindness
and rocket your way
to Planet Safe Space!
Even smaller words under that say:
Every student will put their name on a rocket. For each observed kindness a student performs, the student’s rocket will move closer to Planet Safe Space. This is a zero-tolerance anti-bullying initiative created to end bullying as we know it while rewarding acts of kindness. Participation is mandatory.
Ms. J rubs her temples,
like my mom does
after a long day.
Who made you wear that, Ace?
Ace tries to smile.
It’s pretty wobbly.
Maybe only 40-watt.
I’ll give you three guesses
and the first two
don’t count.
Ms. J nods,
looking like
she might
want to cry
or explode
or both.
Go take it off, Ace.
Right now.
Leave it in my office.
Then get to class.
And if Mr. Mann says
one word to you about it,
tell him to come find me.
Ace runs to her office,
and when Ms. J thinks
no one is looking,
she snaps the stapler
four times
like an angry alligator
while muttering:
Safe space, my butt.
After a while,
the bell beeps its ring
and I make a break for it,
trying to get
to the bathroom
before the crowds,
and also trying to disappear
for a minute or two,
so I can walk back
into the library
as if I had not just been there
for a long time,
lying on the floor.
This was my plan, anyway,
until I hear a voice behind me,
shouting:
Ben Y?
Where did you come from?
Where are you going?
Don’t forget Newspaper Typing Club!
So, yeah.
I go to the bathroom.
And then go back to the library.
But this time
I sit in a chair
instead of
hiding on the floor.
In that short time
Ben B appeared
and Ms. J disappeared
and there are loud rumbles
coming from behind
the closed door
of Ms. J’s office.
What’s going on over there?
I toss myself into a seat
next to Ben B,
who’s typing something
faster
than I’ve ever seen
anyone type anything
ever.
Ben B keeps typing,
says,
Where? Ms. J’s office?
and how in the world
can he type
and talk
about different things
at the same time?
GAH. Ben Y!
You made me type office!
Ha! He can’t!
Jordan flops down,
on the other side of Ben B,
looks to see
where I’m looking,
and says:
What’s going on over there?
That’s what I just said,
I say.
There’s a slam.
We all look over.
Mr. Mann storms
past us,
backs up,
looks at me,
yells:
Cut-off shorts!
DRESS CODE!
and tosses a detention slip
that flutters to the ground
like an exhausted moth.
What?
Why?
It’s after school!
Come on!
He storms off,
nearly crashing into Javier.
No hoodies in school!
DRESS CODE!
He throws a detention slip
at Javi,
whose arms fly up like,
What?
Why?
It’s after school!
Come on!
Then Ace appears,
as if on cue,
rushing into the library
as Mr. Mann rushes out,
and Mr. Mann yells,
WAY too loud
for a librar
y setting:
DON’T THINK YOU WON TODAY, SPORT.
DISTRICT POLICY ALWAYS WINS.
DRESS CODE!
He tosses a yellow slip
that lands at Ace’s feet.
And disappears
out the door.
What’s going ON over here?
Ms. J swoops over,
appearing from nowhere,
eyes in five places at once.
What was going on over there ?
My face points to Ms. J’s office,
and my accidentally
(but maybe not that accidentally)
bossy tone demands
that Ms. J’s many eyes
swivel to me all at once.
Ace shuffles up,
just after Javi,
slumping into the seat
next to me.
Cheers.
Ace holds up the detention slip.
I knock mine into it.
Cheers.
Javi cheerses his
from across the table,
hoodie still on,
and now
with only his nose
poking out.
Done!
Ben B yanks his hands
from his keyboard,
crosses his arms,
leans back in his chair,
and looks at all of us
like a dog that just finished a bone.
After a second
his face morphs into
the one a kid makes
as he realizes
he just shouted a thing
while other people
were talking.
You first.
Ms. J crosses her arms,
glances out the window
at the empty hallway,
glances back at Ben B,
who sits up straighter
and flashes a smile.
It’s all done.
When no one says anything,
Ben B huffs,
“Using Sandbox Skills to Make Real Life More Awesome.”
My article.
For the newspaper.
That was due today.
Don’t we all have articles due today?
Not me!
Ace’s smile
is not quite as
fresh-mint sparkly
as usual.
Today is my very first day
of newspapering.
Jordan sighs deeply.
Newspapering is our word.
I don’t know if anyone
other than me
can hear
the soft mumbles
he aims at his shoes.
Just like you y’alls is our thing, and meeting under the stairs is our thing, and . . .
He trails off,
swinging his feet
and scuffing his heels
into the scratchy old carpet.
I’m surprised
spidery lightning
doesn’t shoot out
from Ms. J’s eyes
and nose
and mouth
when she says:
I’m sorry, Ben B.
It appears your time has been wasted.
She clenches her jaw,
and I look for
angry sparks
flashing between
her grinding teeth.
Her low voice
thunders,
I have just learned
Mr. Mann
is demanding
oversight
of the entire newspaper.
Or else he’s shutting it down.
Her giant hoop earrings quiver
as she watches her words
settle into our ears.
Wh-what does overs-sight m-mean?
Javier asks the question for all of us,
and if Javier is worried enough
to say something out loud,
before anyone else,
well,
that makes my stomach twist
into about ten extra knots.
All eyes
are on Ms. J
as we all seem to
swallow back
a burpy feeling
of Yikes and Uh-oh
and What’s going on
all rolled up
in one.
He claims administration
needs to preauthorize
all newspaper topics,
per new rules
about ensuring
all student-created content
fits Planet Safe Space
anti-bullying criteria.
Jordan’s confused HUH??
speaks for all of us.
Ms. J unrolls the papers
I didn’t notice
she was crushing,
and she holds up
a page
with a typed list.
These are the authorized topics.
So . . .
I have to start all over again?
On something new?
But I just finished!
Ben B sinks his head
into his hands
like he just found out
someone added
six more hours
to every school day.
Wh-what even i-is th-this list?
Javier’s nose crinkles
through the hole
he’s pulled tight
in his hoodie.
Wh-what i-is P-p-p—
Planet Safe Space??
Javier whips around,
his scrunched nose
pointing at Jordan now.
Jordan should really
really
know better
than to finish Javi’s sentences,
especially after last summer.
Sorry, Javier. Sorry. I got excited. Well, not excited in a good way, excited in a confused and wondering way. And I didn’t know if maybe you missed the announcement even though it didn’t explain much and . . . never mind. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put words in your mouth. I know you hate that.
Jordan holds out his fist
for an apology fist bump
and after a second,
Javier knocks it with his elbow.
We just invented a fistbow bump, Javi. Hahaha. Good job us.
So we have to write about this stuff now?
Hart Middle Voted Best School in District??
Is that even true?
How can we write about it if it isn’t even true?
Ben B’s bottom lip sticks out,
an impressive pout
probably perfected by years
of unfair moments,
and probably none of them
worse than right now.
Ms. J looks so droopy,
so sad,
so mad,
all at once,
I think maybe she’s invented
a new emotion
all on her own.
Authorized topics only.
It’s that, or no newspaper.
New rules are still rules.
My hands are tied, you y’alls.
Can’t we just say thank you for your service to the newspaper part of Newspaper Typing Club and just have Typing Club again? None of us really liked the newspaper idea anyway.
No offense.
You forget, Jordan,
Ms. J sighs.
Adding the newspaper part
to Newspaper Typing Club
is what allowed us to keep Typing Club
in the first place.
Remember: no newspaper,
no substance,
and no substance
means no typing club.
Ben B sucks in his pout,
growling,
But Sandbox is MADE of substance!
It’s, like, ONLY substance!
Ms. J holds up
her Stop hand.
I know, Ben B,
believe
me.
And watch your tone.
Her Stop hand
turns to a pointing finger
at Ben B’s
mad mouth.
Mr. Mann is my boss,
and . . .
She lays her head
on the table,
forehead down.
And whoa.
I don’t want to see that.
Not today.
Not any day.
Ms. J never gives up.
And neither do I.
Neither do any of us.
Give me that.
I make a grabby hand
for the list of topics,
and Ace throws a page at me,
folded like a paper airplane.
I look down at the list,
and watch the letters
swirl and jump
until their dance
(mostly) makes sense.
If we could survive summer school,
and read a whole
entire
book
out loud,
and retake the FART,
and teach this one—
I jab my thumb at Ms. J
and roll my eyes
in a jokey way
—to play Sandbox
like she’s a pro,
then we can do this, right?
If working on
a boring
dumb mess
of a Mr. Mann–approved newspaper
means saving
all of our fun and awesome
Typing Club time with Ms. J—
then we have to do it, right?
Ben B stares at the table,
looks up,
sighs,
and says:
I mean,
she doesn’t even know
how to spend all her gold yet,
and she’s still really terrible
at killing pigs for pork chops,
and who knows
how the Sandbox library would turn out
without any of us here to help . . .
Okay. Fine.
Ms. J still really needs Typing Club.
Obviously.
And besides, if I quit Newspaper Typing Club,
my parents will freak.
I’ll have to go back to language arts tutoring
TWO times a week.
And I hate tutoring
more than anything.
Jordan whispers:
Tutoring
as he makes a quiet fart noise
and gets shushed
by Ms. J,
who looks like