Ben Y and the Ghost in the Machine
Page 8
she might cry
after Ben B’s speech.
Ben B sighs again.
I’ll take:
Hart Middle Voted Best School in District.
I guess.
Jordan mumbles,
I would be so sad if I had to go home and play regular Sandbox instead of Secret School Typing Club Sandbox so I guess I’ll take Hart Middle Offers Most Competitive Academics even though I fell asleep saying that out loud.
Javier sticks his tongue out
like he just sucked on
a rotten lemon
and taps the page.
Th-this one:
Hart Middle Educators Embrace Assessment Curriculum.
Ace says,
I’ll take the one about Hart Middle Sports Blah Blah.
Because I am so sporty.
Obviously.
I look at the list.
Only one authorized topic left.
Oh, come on, you y’alls!
You left the worst one for me!
Admin profile!
Do I have to interview Mr. Mann?!
Jordan punches my shoulder.
Thanks for taking one for the team, Ben Y, you are a true hero.
Ben B holds up two fingers
and nods solemnly at me.
Javier holds up
a quick sketch
of a trophy
that says:
Ben Y
MVP
(of Newspapering)
Ace offers a high five.
Ben Y is showing off
alllll the hero moves today!
I weakly slap Ace’s hand,
then slump back in my seat.
Great.
The glow
that grows
on Ms. J’s face
is so warm
and big,
it makes me
look away
because it feels
private somehow
(even though
we’re all
staring at her
across the table).
Ben Y.
She puts her hand on her chest,
takes a deep breath,
like she’s steadying herself
before diving into
the deep end.
Thank you for that.
I let my glance
catch hers
super fast
so I can say
just with my eyes
and my face
(but not my loud mouth
for once):
Okay, great,
awesome, cool,
don’t make it weird.
But she makes it weird
by running off,
her caftan
flowing behind her
like rippling
stingray
wings.
In a flash she’s back,
with an armload of . . .
what?
She dumps the pile of papers
all over our table,
breathless
as she says,
And there’s more where THAT came from.
We look down.
It’s a bunch of old Hart Times.
Like really old.
For inspiration,
she says,
and the tips of her ears
glow bright red.
Jordan grabs one,
looks it over,
looks up,
eyes wide.
These are from nineteen eighty-eight?? Are they all about dinosaurs?
Ben B laughs,
I bet they’re written by dinosaurs.
Ms. J makes a noise
kind of like
I imagine
a dinosaur might
before it chased you down
to eat you.
Ben B is the first to yell:
NO WAY!
Then Jordan cracks up
so hard and fast,
he falls from his chair
splat
on the floor.
Javier’s deep chuckle
fills the air
and I finally recognize
the reporter photo,
blurry and faded,
appearing on nearly
every front page
in the pile.
No way.
Nuh-uh.
Ms. J!!
Is this YOU???
All of our laughs
fold together,
crashing in on themselves
again and again,
endless waves
as we page through
stacks and stacks
of old newspapers
(and yearbooks!)
Ms. J pulls out of
the dusty shelves.
Her glasses were so giant,
magnifying her eyes,
making her look
constantly surprised
in every blurry photo
we can find.
Those were the STYLE,
Ms. J snorts,
wiping sparkling tears
from the corners
of her laughing eyes.
The coolest of the cool.
That makes us laugh even harder.
So, wait . . .
Ace taps a Hart Times
on the top of a stack.
Your name is also
Jordan Jackson?
Jordan shouts:
No relation! And how did you know my last name, Ace? You ARE a detective, aren’t you?
Ace grins at Jordan
like Jordan is five
and said something
dumb but cute.
Your name is everywhere, dude.
Backpack.
Lunch box.
Your shoes.
Doesn’t take a detective
to see it. . . .
It’s kinda hard to miss.
Well I hadn’t really noticed before,
but, yeah,
Jordan does write
JORDAN JACKSON
in different patterns
and designs
all over . . .
everything.
Jordan’s face scrunches
while Ace’s sandpaper laugh
whisper-scratches
back and forth.
My face scrunches, too.
I don’t like Ace’s tone
toward Jordan.
It’s super not cool.
Ben B interrupts
the suddenly
uncomfortable
moment.
Did you write the whole newspaper, Ms. J?
All by yourself?
Why didn’t you tell us until now?
Ben B holds up a holiday edition.
A headline shouts:
“THE BIGGER THE HAIR, THE BIGGER YOU SHINE”
No.
Not the whole paper.
But . . .
there was a . . .
let’s say . . .
revolving staff.
I might have been a little too . . .
editorial . . .
here and there.
Ms. J shakes her head,
takes the paper from Ben B,
flips through it, smiles.
I had a lot of ideas
about a lot of things
and was never wrong
about anything.
Just like every middle schooler,
amiright?
Ben B, Jordan, Javier, and I
all groan long and loud,
at exactly the same time,
and our voices
link together
one at a time
stringing together the words:
Ms. J, please.
Never say
amiright
ever again.
Yeah!
Don’t be such a . . .
grown-up!
Ace joins in,
interrupting,
not quite understanding
the way
the rest of us
know how
to tease Ms. J
in just the right way
to almost get in trouble,
but not.
I can’t believe
I almost forgot
Ace was even here.
And based on
the awkward silence
and the awkward looks
and Ace’s awkward words
still hanging
in the air
above us all,
it kind of looks like
maybe Ace wishes
not to be here
anymore.
I flip though
paper after paper
and notice—
Ha!
She had a regular feature:
“Jordan’s Hot Takes!”
When I start laughing,
I don’t think I can stop.
Not many things
are worth reading,
at least not to me
when I have to
chase down the letters,
flip them around,
solve new puzzles,
over and over,
until I forget
what the story was
to begin with. . . .
But this?
This is worth it.
“Jordan’s Hot Takes”?????
Ms. J pinches her nose
right at the bridge,
like she might be regretting
this source
of inspiration.
Just some thoughts
about pop culture.
That’s all.
That’s all??
She blisters movie stars
and musicians
and a bunch of people
I’ve never heard of,
but who must be famous,
because no way
would anyone ever
ever
allow a kid to say these things
about other kids.
She goes after their clothes,
she goes after their acting,
their song lyrics,
their hairstyles.
It’s so funny.
It’s so mean.
It’s giving me
a LOT
of inspiration.
HOME
I don’t think you should be in here.
Benicio would hate it.
Are those my markers?
You should ask before you use my stuff.
And you can’t even ask Benicio,
so you probably shouldn’t use his stuff
ever
at all.
Esme’s chirps
twist and bend
behind me,
accusing,
alarmed,
almost . . .
hurt-sounding.
I turn around,
Benicio’s chair
squealing in protest.
You’re right, Esme Esme bo-besme.
Can I use your markers?
Esme hugs the doorway,
quiet for a second,
before whisper-chirping:
I don’t think so.
I want them back.
Right now.
She holds out her hand,
but doesn’t walk through the door.
Also, you have a desk in our room.
You should find your own markers and sit there.
Also also, Mom said to tell you dinner is ready.
She hangs on to the doorframe
for a few more seconds,
making a grabby hand at me.
I hold up the markers.
If you want them,
come get them,
Esme Esme bo-besme.
Benicio’s ghost won’t eat you.
Esme flings herself back,
like the doorway is suddenly
on fire.
She squeaks down the hall,
yelling:
Mo-om!!!
Benny took my markers!!!
I spin the chair
to face my mess again.
I know that was mean . . .
to say the thing
about Benicio’s ghost.
But I’m almost done.
And I don’t want
to work at the desk
in our room.
I want to sit here.
At this desk.
Benicio’s desk.
For inspiration.
Esme can have her markers back
in, like, five minutes.
For a second I think maybe . . .
maybe . . .
I should call a meeting
before school
in room 113
under the stairs
so I can show this to Jordan.
And Ben B.
And Javier.
What if they want to help?
What if they can make it even better?
But also . . .
it’s so much easier
to do it myself,
to finish tonight,
to not argue about anything,
to make my own choices
about what to say
or what to draw.
It feels really nice,
actually,
to just do my own thing
with no rules
and with no one
to boss
or be bossed.
Mom yells,
DINNER, BENNY!
like it’s a
red-alert
category-five
emergency
instead of just . . .
dinner.
I sweep everything off the desk
and into a drawer
to hide it
until I get back,
and I run down the hall
before Mom screams
any more.
What’s going on?
With you?
These days?
Mom rolls her words
around the spaghetti
in her mouth
before saying:
Sorry.
Should have waited
until my mouth wasn’t full.
Esme says,
Well, she’s stealing my markers,
she’s sneaking into Benicio’s room,
she’s . . .
her chirps become
background sounds,
just like
the little baby birds
outside.
I stop twirling my noodles,
think about Mom’s question,
because there are
so
many
things
going
on. . . .
Bald head.
Newspaper Typing Club.
The beige blob.
That jerd, Mr. Mann.
Ace and . . . Ace things.
Skipping class too much.
Skipping school that one time.
Seeing Mom crying.
And and and and—
and maybe I
should be asking Mom
what’s up with HER these days,
except I don’t want to ask,
because I’m afraid
of what sad feelings
that might jiggle loose,
and and and—
By the look on your
beautiful
but stunned face,
my guess is:
Nothing, Mom.
Everything is great.
Mom imitates me,
and her voice sounds like mine,
but twisted down,
like Eeyore’s ears
in voice form.
She puts her hand on mine,
looks up from her plate,
says in an Eeyore voice,
Even when everything is not gr
eat,
remember, You Are Loved.
Mom makes me wonder
more times than not
what she actually means
when she tells me,
You Are Loved.
Right now, it feels more like:
You Are a Joke.
Or worse,
it feels like
she’s just saying words
that are sounds
to fill up the air
before the quiet
can swallow us
whole.
Esme’s voice
squeaks
around the edges
of my conversation
with Mom.
Is anyone even listening to me?
Does anyone
want to know
about anything
going on with me?
I drop my fork,
stand,
take my plate,
smash it into the sink,
walk away.
What??
Mom calls after me.
I’m serious, mija.
You are loved!
I want to make sure you’re doing okay.
I really do want to know . . .
what is going on with you?
For real.
Nothing, Mom!
I Am Loved!
That solves everything, right?
Right!
So, yeah. Fine.
I’m always great,
just like you’re always great!
Everything is the greatest great
that ever greated.
Happy now?
I yell the words
as I march down the hall
slam the door
and hurl myself
back into
Benicio’s chair.
I like it in his room.
It’s quiet in here.
And it’s the only place
free free free
of Mom’s questions
and Esme’s chirps.
I think . . .
I hope . . .
Benicio’s ghost
won’t eat me.
I think . . .
I hope . . .
Benicio’s ghost
would understand.
BEFORE
0BenwhY: sometimes I would like to stuff mom in a T-shirt launcher like those ones at basketball games
0BenwhY: and I would like to blast her into orbit
0BenwhY: could you make a potion for that?