The Next Great Paulie Fink

by Ali Benjamin

  Diego slips out of the pen relatively unscathed. “Phew,” he says, dropping the bucket. He looks down at the neon cartoon figure stretched across his chest. “Guess this is a lucky shirt!”

  Mr. Farabi asks if anyone else wants to give it a try, and Fiona raises her hand.

  We try to toss the pellets more slowly this time. Fiona manages to fill three bowls. But as she’s moving toward the final bowl, she trips on one of her too-long pant legs. She stumbles and recovers, but by then it’s too late. The goats see her.

  Fiona doesn’t run, and she doesn’t try to protect herself. Instead she leaps up, plants her feet in the ground, and lifts the bucket high in the air, like it’s a sword, or a shield. “Halt!” she hollers. “In the name of Paulie Fink, I command you to—”

  Before she can finish, the big goat smashes into her. She flies backward and drops the bucket, sending food scattering everywhere. By the time she hits the ground, the rest of the animals have surrounded her, and they’re slurping up all the pellets.

  “Halt!” Fiona’s voice rises from the ground. “In the name of Paulie Fink, I say halt!”

  Next to me, the whole class whoops and cheers.

  “You needed the shirt, Fiona!” shouts Diego. “I should have given you the lucky shirt!”

  Mr. Farabi enters the pen and helps Fiona up. When she stands, her hair’s a mess, there’s a tear in one of the arms of her blazer, and her suit pants are muddy and rumpled. Food pellets are stuck to her neck. But she’s not upset at all. She’s actually laughing.

  I remember that hot wave of humiliation that rose inside me when the big goat knocked me down yesterday. It’s almost maddening, the way Fiona doesn’t seem to feel that. Whatever rules Fiona lives by, they’re not the ones that the rest of the world knows.

  In my head, I try writing out some new rules:

  RULES OF LIFE AS LEARNED FROM WATCHING FIONA

  1. Wear whatever you want even if it’s ridiculous.

  2. Be loud even when it’s annoying.

  3. Laugh when what you really should be is embarrassed.

  RULES OF LIFE AS LEARNED FROM WATCHING DIEGO

  1. Believe that an ugly shirt can bring good luck.

  2. Fail anyway.

  3. Fail to notice that you’ve failed.

  RULES OF LIFE AS LEARNED FROM FEEDING GOATS

  1. Create distractions so nobody sees what’s really going on.

  2. Do your best not to get trampled.

  Zombies and Werewolves

  I would’ve figured that everyone knows seventh graders are too old for recess, but I guess that news hasn’t made it to this corner of the world. We get a long recess each day, just before lunch. Today, everyone sort of hangs out at the edge of the soccer field. Henry’s got his nose in his fact book, and Yumi starts strumming away on her ukulele. Diego, still in Paulie’s shirt, is trying to do tricks with a soccer ball, except Fiona keeps sneaking up on him to steal the ball. Every time she gets it, she sprints away cackling until he chases her and gets it back. Sam and Willow and Lydia bring out some cards and twenty-one-sided dice, while the twins start playing a game they call zombie vs. werewolf.

  The game goes like this: (1) On the count of three, each of them shouts out some type of character—zombie, werewolf, cyborg, pirate, rabid megalodon that can molt like a python, whatever—for the other one to play. (2) They pretend-fight as those characters. (3) After a while, they wind up wrestling on the ground, which makes Yumi look up from her ukulele and shout that they’re being annoying. (4) When Yumi yells, they stand up and start the whole thing over.

  I’m pretty sure that’s the entire game, right there.

  As they play, Gabby—whose name, I’m now realizing, is perfect for her—starts telling me everything she thinks I need to know about my new classmates. “Yumi’s family are artists,” she says. “They do these really crazy puppet shows.”

  Yumi turns around. “Excuse me, but we’re a celebrated Shakespeare Festival that happens to use the puppetry arts as our preferred media,” she corrects. “And for the record, we got a great review in the New York Times last summer.”

  “Exactly,” says Gabby. “So Yumi spends her whole summer traveling around on a puppet bus. And Willow’s mom knows about yoga. Also, she and Sam’s mom have been together since we were in first grade. And let’s see. If you want to know anything about bow-hunting, which I never do, the twins are the ones to talk to. Henry’s dad is on the town council, so he can tell you everything that’s happening in town. Diego’s mom runs the Little Critters Day Care—he, Fiona, and I went there together when we were little—and as you can probably tell, he’s obsessed with soccer. You do play soccer, don’t you? Because we’ll need you in the Devlinshire game.”

  Then everyone nearby starts talking at once, telling me about this ritzy town on the other side of the mountain. “Devlinshire’s one of those touristy parts of Vermont,” explains Yumi. “It’s got one of the most expensive ski resorts on the east coast, so rich people come to ski but then decide they like the place, so they build mansions and stay.”

  “There’s a retired rock star who lives there,” says Gabby. “He’s, like, superfamous, and his kids play on the soccer team, so he’s always at the game.”

  “Every house in Devlinshire has a swimming pool,” says Diego, bouncing a ball from one knee to the other.

  “An indoor swimming pool,” adds Fiona. She reaches for the ball, but Diego turns away just in time.

  Yumi frowns. “I don’t know that they’re all indoors.”

  “No, it’s true,” insists Fiona, and then she turns to me. “My mom cleans houses over there, so she knows.”

  “I heard all the kids inherit like a zillion dollars when they turn eighteen,” says Sam.

  “That’s definitely true,” says Lydia. “Although I think it happens when they turn twenty-one.”

  By this point, Timothy and Thomas are on the ground in some sort of alien vs. robot battle. Timothy is sitting on his brother’s back, saying, “I. Have. Defeated. The. Alien.”

  “So annoying!” Yumi yells at them. I guess that’s their cue, because the twins stand up, ready for a new match.

  Henry glances up from his fact book. “You know, you two should try a Paulie vs. Glebus battle,” he suggests. “In honor of our missing classmate.”

  “I call Paulie!” Thomas shouts.

  They begin a new countdown, but Fiona shouts, “WAIT!” She tells Diego to give Thomas the shirt. “He’ll need all the help he can get in the battle against the Gleeb,” she says.

  Thomas puts the T-shirt on—it’s even smaller on him than it is on Diego—and then the battle begins. Timothy, as Glebus, shouts, “My office! Right now, Paulie Fink!”

  Thomas shouts, “You can’t get me, Glebus!” He tackles his brother at the waist, and within seconds, he’s pinned Timothy to the ground. It’s a clear victory for Paulie over Glebus.

  “It works!” Fiona yells. “The Paulie shirt really works!” She and Diego turn to each other, wide-eyed.

  RULES OF LIFE AS LEARNED FROM ZOMBIE VS. WEREWOLF

  1. Attack the thing in front of you until someone knocks you down or yells.

  2. Start over.

  RULES OF LIFE AS LEARNED FROM THE MYSTERIOUS PAULIE FINK

  1. Eat mayonnaise.

  2. Wear ridiculous things.

  3. Disappear without warning.

  4. Become some sort of legend.

  Interview: Sam, Timothy, Henry, Gabby, Yumi, Willow, Lydia, and Diego

  SAM:

  He was from San Fernando, I think. Or maybe San Jose. Wait, what’s the difference between the two?

  TIMOTHY:

  Wasn’t he from Massachusetts?

  HENRY:

  No, Timothy. I’m the one from Massachusetts. Remember, I moved here from Holyoke in third grade?

  GABBY:

  I think Paulie was from St. Louis. Maybe he went back there?

  CAITLYN:

  I don’t understand why yo
u can’t text Paulie and find out where he went.

  YUMI:

  I don’t think he had a phone. Most of us don’t, which is totally Glebus’s fault. A few years ago, she encouraged our parents to sign a pledge that they’d wait until we were in eighth grade before getting us phones. And most of them did. Can you believe that?

  CAITLYN:

  Well, his parents must have had jobs, right? Or friends in town who would know where they went?

  GABBY:

  His dad was… maybe a writer or something? I don’t know, actually. We didn’t see them much. My grandma says they were away people, not from here.

  WILLOW:

  Yeah, they weren’t friendly. Like, at all. And it was weird, because we almost never saw them. Not at the grocery store or anything.

  LYDIA:

  I think he lived over by Sugarbush Lane, but I’m not sure. Timothy, you went to his house, right?

  TIMOTHY:

  Nah, we never went to Paulie’s house, but Diego went there a bunch of times.

  DIEGO:

  Actually, no. I never did. He came to mine a few times. He never wanted to play sports, though.

  CAITLYN:

  Seriously? Paulie’s, like, everybody’s favorite person on earth, and none of you ever went to his house?

  Once upon a Mini

  At lunchtime, I plop down in the seat next to my Mini. “Hey, Fuzzy,” I say. She looks up at me with those big eyes, like she’s waiting for something. Like maybe I’m supposed to do something amazing now.

  I reach over and open up her milk carton. It’s hardly amazing, but it’s all I’ve got.

  At a nearby table, Fiona tosses a cracker in the air, tries to catch it with her mouth. She fails, tries again, and catches it. Then she laughs, spilling cracker crumbs down her chin and onto her shirt. Her Mini is beaming, like Fiona’s the greatest thing on earth.

  “Oh, hey!” I say to Fuzzy. “Nice job keeping our pinkie promise yesterday. With the Good Day Bell. I didn’t ring it, either. A promise is a promise.” I hold up my pinkie and wiggle it. She nods, her face serious.

  Then there’s this empty space where neither of us talks. I know that since I’m the older one, it’s up to me to fill that space, so I just say whatever pops into my head. “Yup, I remember kindergarten. Nap time, snack time, all those hours on the playground… those were the good old days.” I try to remember specific things about kindergarten, but all I really recall is how loud and scary everything seemed.

  How small I felt.

  I try to imagine that I’m seeing the cafeteria through Fuzzy’s eyes. I can see how the room might seem huge to her, the way even this tiny school might seem crowded and chaotic. But the main thing I see is this: I’m big. All the kids at this table probably seem huge to her, but I’m the most grown-up of all of them.

  The feeling only lasts for a second, and then I’m back in my own skin.

  “Hey,” I say, making my eyes level with Fuzzy’s. “Do you think Real Rabbit wants to hear a story?”

  She nods, so I begin. “Okay. So… once upon a time…”

  I pause. I can’t actually remember any great stories. I think about telling her the one Mags told us—the one about the cave and the person who gets out, but a story about prisoners locked in a cave is probably too scary for a nervous kindergartner. So I go for the opposite kind of story. Something stupid and silly, like that PICK A WINNER T-shirt that made everyone laugh.

  “Once upon a time, there was a boy named Paulie.” I start to tell her the story about Paulie getting pizza delivered to school, but she just looks confused, so I change it. I tell her that Paulie lived in a land that was ruled by an evil witch everyone called the Gleeb. Paulie wore a neon superhero cape, and he didn’t just order pizza, he ordered a magic pizza, that made all the children of the land dance. They danced all over happily until the Gleeb released a pack of angry goats to chase them. That’s when Paulie sprinkled the kids with enchanted mayonnaise, which gave them the ability to fly. So they flew away to safety and lived happily ever after, the end.

  It’s not a perfect story, but I use a dramatic voice, and I lean in like I’m letting her in on a giant secret. She gets this faraway look in her eyes, like she’s watching a movie inside her head.

  When lunch is over, she asks me if I’ll tell Real Rabbit another story tomorrow.

  “Uh… sure,” I say. “I’ll try to think of one.”

  She hands me Real Rabbit, then waits eagerly. I look at him, floppy and lifeless. I give him a tiny hug, and I guess that’s what she wanted me to do, because then Fuzzy hugs me. Her hug isn’t so little.

  I feel something behind my ribs then. It’s not a stone, but it doesn’t feel swampy, either. It’s like something is cracking deep inside me. It hurts a little, to be honest. But it also feels good. Like now there’s a tiny bit more room for me to breathe.

  Then Fuzzy runs off to Mr. Twilling. As I watch her go, I imagine a new list of rules:

  RULES FOR DEALING WITH YOUR MINI

  1. Open their milk carton.

  2. Tell a story if you can think of one.

  3. Remember you’re bigger than they are.

  These rules, at least, seem like things I can do.

  I Figure Something Out

  That night after dinner, Mom’s on the sofa, doing a bunch of paperwork from the clinic. I’m staring at my own paper, the one with Mags’s question:

  What do you think Plato’s allegory of the cave is about? What might it mean in your own life? Please provide at least one example. Be specific.

  I pick up my pen, set it down, and lift it again. I count the lines on the page. Twenty-seven. I hope Mags doesn’t expect me to fill them all.

  What would it be like to be stuck inside a cave? Boring, that’s what. And also painful. Wouldn’t you need to stretch, and how would you go to the bathroom, and also, isn’t there some kind of sore you get if you don’t change position frequently enough? I think I learned that from Mom.

  In my head, I rewrite the assignment as multiple-choice questions:

  There once was a Greek philosopher named:

  a. Jadelicious

  b. Glebus

  c. Plato

  d. Paulie Fink

  Plato liked to talk about:

  a. an ugly T-shirt

  b. a jar of mayonnaise

  c. evil goats

  d. a cave

  When the prisoner walks out of the cave he:

  a. rings the Good Day Bell

  b. orders pizza

  c. gets blinded by the sun

  d. plays zombie vs. werewolf

  Why couldn’t Mags have given us questions like that? I could just pick the right answer and be done, instead of having to make up some story about what Plato’s cave means to me.

  Probably the closest I ever came to discovering that the things I thought I knew were actually wrong was last year, when I started sixth grade. I’d been so excited to start middle school. But then when I got there, it’s like I realized I didn’t know how to do the most basic things. Like, what was I supposed to do with my hands when I stood in the hallway laughing with friends? And how loudly should I be laughing, and did I look like an idiot when I smiled? It was like I suddenly needed an instruction manual that no one had ever bothered to give me.

  But it’s not like I’d ever admit that in a homework assignment.

  I look back down at the empty page and sigh. Across the room, Mom looks up from her notes. “What are you working on?” she asks.

  “Homework.” I make a face. “I have to write an essay about some dumb philosopher named Plato.”

  “Plato, huh? That’s fancy,” Mom says.

  “It’s ancient, and I don’t get the point.”

  Mom sits up a little straighter. “Tell me what you’ve got so far.”

  “It’s fine, Mom,” I snap. “I don’t need any help with my homework.” In my head, I add, I really just need different homework. And while I’m at it, I could use a different school
, and a different life.

  I close my eyes. I try to imagine being inside a cave, looking at flickering shadows. But I can’t picture the cave, and I can’t picture the shadows. All I see is the cafeteria—Fiona catching crackers in her mouth and not even caring about the crumbs.

  I open my eyes and begin to write:

  Plato’s cave is a way of thinking about what it might feel like to find out that the world is a lot more complicated than you realized. It’s also about how sometimes one person might know things that they can’t explain to anyone else. One example of Plato’s cave might be if you never left elementary school, and so you stayed surrounded by little kids even though you were way too big. You’d never know what a real middle school is like. If you had to go to a real school, you wouldn’t even know what to do. You might even totally freak out.

  It’s a pretty good answer, actually. And it’s true. Fiona and Lydia might have been joking about how the Originals were stuck in a cave and Paulie got out. But they weren’t wrong.

  The Mitchell School is a cave. And it’s possible I’m the only one in my class who’s ever been outside of it.

  Suit of Armor

  That night, I keep thinking about the answer I didn’t write down: how starting middle school last year really did feel like leaving a cave and entering the real world. There were so many new rules that nobody had ever bothered to teach me. Like about what you could wear. I’d show up to school in what I thought were normal clothes. Then someone would sneer, Nice shirt. Just like that, I’d see what they saw: My shirt was ugly. As soon as I got home, I’d shove it in the back of my closet.