by Ali Benjamin
Gabby nods. “I think what she’s saying is Fake it till you make it, don’t you?” Gabby steps into a diva pose, like the one from Jadelicious’s red-carpet picture. “See? I feel more powerful already. You wanna try?”
Above Gabby’s desk there’s another photo. A crowded room—a party or something. Jadelicious is the center of a swirl of activity, everyone around her a blur. She’s wearing a purple sparkly bodysuit, purple cape. She doesn’t look like she’s posing, exactly. She just looks strong, like a superwoman: Her feet are planted firmly. Her hands are on her hips, her chin high.
I study it, then move into that position.
“Oh, that’s a good one,” Gabby says. “How do you feel?”
“Exactly the same.”
“Well,” she says. “I guess you’re going to have to fake it till you make it, then.”
At recess the next day, I lead the class to the Paulie statue, and that’s what I do.
My First-Ever Speech
Greetings, fellow seventh graders. You’ve successfully completed the first challenge in the reality-style competition that will determine the Next Great Paulie Fink of the Mitchell School.
The winner of this competition will be the student who best embodies the spirit of Paulie. By now, I’ve listened to endless stories of your Great Paulie Fink. I’ve learned that he was a fearless prankster, a mischievous troublemaker who turned the world upside down and left chaos in his wake.
He also sometimes wore a chicken suit and a cardboard box on his head.
He may not have been an Original, but he sure seems to have been original.
Every reality competition has rules. So here are the rules of this competition:
1. I, Caitlyn Breen, will design all challenges.
2. You, Originals, are to participate in every challenge as directed.
3. If you refuse to participate in a challenge, you will be eliminated.
4. If you rat me out to Glebus, you will be eliminated.
5. Hereafter, if you are sent to Glebus’s office as a result of this competition, you have failed your challenge, which means you will be eliminated.
6. My word is final. I am the judge and jury. Don’t like it? Tough.
It is important that I clarify at the outset that this is not remotely a real competition, which is why the official prize you are competing for is, perhaps, the world’s ugliest T-shirt, which may or may not be good luck.
Ah, but there’s a prize that’s even greater than that. It’s the same prize that humans have sought throughout history, ancient Greeks and Megastars alike.
You will have kleos. You will never be forgotten.
Citizens of Mitchell, we have one challenge down, many more to go. Are you ready to hear the next one?
When I finish, there’s a beat where no one speaks. Then Fiona jams her fist in the air. “Yes!” Several of them start applauding.
Behind them, the PICK A WINNER shirt billows a little in the breeze.
Gabby raises her hand. “Um, excuse me, Caitlyn?”
She glances at the others, then steps over and whispers in my ear, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Before you tell us the next challenge, we need to have a formal elimination ceremony. Where you officially kick me out of the competition.”
“Oh, right.” I hadn’t planned on that.
She steps back into place solemnly, her hands straight down at her sides.
“Gabby,” I say, trying to sound stern, like the mean judge they expect me to be. “You… are not the Next Great Paulie Fink.”
She looks at me. “Good,” she says. “Now tell me why.”
“Because…,” I guess, “you didn’t talk like Shakespeare?”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s because Paulie Fink was a kid of many personas. He was like those gods of Mount Olympus who could take endless forms. I failed to demonstrate that particular aspect of his personality.”
“Ohhh,” I say. “Yeah, that. So is everyone ready to hear what the next—”
“Now I’m ready to make the first sacrifice,” Gabby interrupts. She reminds everyone that each time a Megastar contestant is eliminated they have to leave something behind—“some personal object that represents their dashed dreams.”
She digs in her backpack and pulls out a box of thumbtacks and that photo of Jadelicious in her purple bodysuit—the one where she’s standing like a superhero. Gabby holds the photo high. “I sacrifice this photo of the world’s greatest reality-television star,” she says. “Because Jadelicious inspired this whole competition, and also because I think she and Paulie have a lot in common.”
She sticks the photo to the Paulie statue, then sets the box of tacks on the ground for future eliminations.
“In the name of Paulie Fink,” she says. When no one replies, Gabby whispers to the group, “You’re supposed to say it, too.”
She tries again. “In the name of Paulie Fink!”
This time, in unison, they all follow, like it’s a call-and-response: “In the name of Paulie Fink!”
“Okay.” Gabby turns to me. “Now you can tell them about the next challenge.”
In Charge
“Your second challenge is inspired by the story about Paulie and his Mini-geddon,” I tell them. “As you know, he proved that he could get the attention of younger children. He could see their strengths. He also managed to use those strengths in surprising ways. The question is… can you?”
The challenge, I explain, is a simple one: Tomorrow at recess, they need to engage with Minis. “Find an activity and lead a group of Minis through it. The goal is to get them interested, and to keep them interested. Whichever of you appeals to the fewest Minis will be eliminated.”
“Unless you get sent to Glebus’s office, right?” adds Gabby.
“If you’re sent to Glebus’s office, you’re automatically eliminated.”
Diego sighs. “I want a running challenge,” he says.
I glance at Gabby. She flicks her eyes to the photo of Jadelicious. Reminding me, I guess, that I need to fake it till I make it.
I swallow. “Diego, are you telling me you want a running challenge?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, then. As head of the Search for the Next Great Paulie Fink, I hereby issue a running challenge. Diego, you’re going to run around this field ten times.”
“Wait, what?”
“You heard me.”
“But you mean… just me?”
I nod.
“But that’s not fair!”
I look down at my speech. I ask him to read rules one through three:
1. I, Caitlyn Breen, will design all challenges.
2. You, Originals, are to participate in every challenge as directed.
3. If you refuse to participate in a challenge, you will be eliminated.
When he finishes, I plant my feet a little wider apart, move my hands to my hips. “Ten laps,” I repeat. “Unless you want to skip to the next elimination ceremony right now.”
Fiona points at Diego. “You got in trouble,” she singsongs. I turn to her, lift my eyebrows. She immediately stands up a little straighter and stares ahead innocently.
Diego kicks the grass. “Fine,” he mutters. He starts off running.
I have this strange feeling then, the same one I had during the Shakespeare challenge: I did this.
I don’t just have to follow rules. I can write rules for other people to follow.
I tear the list of rules from my speech. Using one of Gabby’s thumbtacks, I post the list to the Paulie statue, above that image of Jadelicious.
Just so they don’t forget. Or maybe so I don’t.
The Mini Challenge
I feel a little like Glebus as I walk around at recess, monitoring what everyone’s doing in the Mini challenge.
Yumi, standing near the sandbox, starts playing her ukulele. That gets kids’ attention right away. A bunch of them run toward her.
“Can you play that princess song?” asks one
of the Minis, a girl with a tutu over her jeans. “From the movie where it’s winter?”
Yumi shakes her head. “Sorry, but that song was only written so a multinational corporation could make a lot of money. It’s just not part of my artistic vision.”
“‘Wheels on the Bus’?” asks a little boy with a buzz cut.
“Ugh.” Yumi rolls her eyes. “‘Wheels on the Bus’ is so overrated.”
Another kid suggests “Ring Around the Rosie,” and Yumi raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you guys know that song is about the plague?”
“What’s the plague?” asks the “Wheels on the Bus” kid.
“It’s a disease,” Yumi says. “An awful one. It begins with painful sores all over your body. Then your organs rot from the inside, and—”
“Yumi,” I warn.
“It’s a death song,” she finishes with a wave of her hand. “I don’t think children should sing about death.”
“How about the gummy bear song?” a Mini asks.
“Well, I don’t actually know that song, but I’m also not sure that I want to sing about sugar. It’s addictive.”
“What’s addictive?” asks the “Wheels on the Bus” kid.
“Okay, Yumi,” I say. “Maybe you should just play them your favorite song.” But Yumi’s favorite song sounds sort of like a ukulele version of a funeral dirge: depressing and oddly cheerful at the same time. One by one, the Minis grow bored and return to their games.
I spot Lydia and Willow leading some Minis toward the soccer field, but Fiona’s closest to me, standing at the bottom of a slide, shouting to Minis as they come down.
“What I’m saying is that the world will ask you to sit still, be quiet, follow their rules. But you don’t have to!”
If the Minis are listening, they don’t show it. They go down the slide a couple of times, then dash off toward the swings, like Fiona’s not even speaking.
Fiona follows them. “Have you noticed that it’s girls who are expected to be neat and organized? Girls who are expected to resolve conflict peacefully? How is this in your interest?”
The Minis pause to listen only for a second. Then one of them says, “Wanna see how high I can swing?”
Fiona keeps trying, following groups of kids who basically ignore her. “You are our future Eleanor Roosevelts! Our future Malalas!”
Finally, Fiona flings her arms wide and shouts up to the sky. “What is the matter with everyone? Don’t people know that they should listen to strong and powerful women every chance they get?!”
But apparently they don’t.
Gabby comes running over. “Okay, so Henry is building a really great fort with some Minis,” she says. “He’s got six Minis gathering sticks, and he’s explaining about building structures as they go, so he’s doing great. And Diego’s showing four Minis how to do soccer tricks, and Timothy and Thomas…” She points to a part of the playground where a crowd of Minis are cheering. “You’ve got to see them.”
The twins are doing their zombie-werewolf game, but they’re letting the Minis call out the characters. Thing is, the Minis don’t seem to understand the game at all.
“Puppy!” one of the Minis shouts. Timothy starts romping toward his brother on all fours with his tongue out.
“My mommy!” shouts another.
Thomas tries to make himself look taller and glides around, wagging his finger. “Did you do your homework?” he says in a high voice, while the puppy, his brother, bounds into his shins. “Clean your room!”
The Minis seem to love it.
Gabby tells me that the pom-poms have gotten permission to take some Minis over to see the goats. But when I walk over to check out what they’re doing, I realize… they’re not just at the goat pen. They’re actually inside.
Willow leads everyone into a yoga pose. She balances her left foot against her right thigh. Presses her hands together at her chest, almost like she’s praying. Sam and Lydia and the Minis—at least ten of them, maybe more—wobble as they move their bodies into the same position.
Even Fuzzy’s there, eyes closed. She loses her balance, then stands again.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Goat yoga,” Sam answers.
“Goat yoga? That can’t possibly be a thing,” I say.
Inside the pen, Willow smiles, her eyes still closed. “It’s a thing. My mom teaches a goat-yoga class over at Morning Glory Farm in Devlinshire on Saturday mornings,” she says. “Tons of people come.”
“To do yoga with goats?” I scratch my head. “Because these two things go together… how?”
Sam shrugs. “Oh, who knows with rich people. They love that sort of stuff.”
Willow moves into a different pose. She bends down, places her hands on the grass in front of her, and then walks her legs backward until her whole body forms an upside-down V. “This is usually called downward-facing dog. Today, we call it ground-facing goat.”
Fuzzy follows, bending her little body into an inverted V.
The whole thing is absurd, but the Minis are happy. Actually, even the goats seem to like it. They’re calmer than I’ve ever seen them. A couple of the little goats wander among the Minis, stopping to sniff them curiously, but for the most part, they’re still.
Huh. Apparently Willow’s the Pied Piper of both Minis and goats.
“Take a moment to feel your breath,” she says. “In. Out.”
She lowers herself into something she calls child’s pose: on the ground, legs folded beneath her. She stretches her fingers out in front of her and presses her forehead to her knees.
“Really feel the stretch in those arms,” Willow is saying. “That’s right. Don’t forget to breathe. In. Out.”
The grumpy old goat moves toward them slowly. They’ve even tamed my archenemy, I think. When he reaches Willow, he bends his back legs, lowering his backside toward the ground, almost as if he’s moving into the pose, too.
Instead, the goat sends a long stream of pee right onto Willow’s outstretched hand.
Her eyes pop open. As soon as she understands what’s happening, she shrieks and scrambles to her feet.
Startled, the big goat jumps backward. This rattles every other goat. They bleat and dash all over the pen, which freaks the Minis out completely. A couple of Minis scream.
Teachers look up and start sprinting toward the pen.
Amid all the commotion, Fuzzy is still. She’s gone rigid, her eyes huge and wild, like Henry’s were on the day he got trampled.
I’m through the gate before I even realize what I’m doing. I scoop her up. She’s lighter than I expect, and her skinny little limbs curl around me like she can’t cling tightly enough.
“You’re okay,” I tell her. She buries her face in my neck, and I smell coconut in her hair. “I’ve got you.”
Fuzzy doesn’t let go. Not once we’re out of the goat pen, not as we cross the soccer field, not when we reach the sandbox. Not even as Mr. Farabi marches the pom-poms toward the building, where Glebus waits, frowning. I let Fuzzy cling to me, and I sway her back and forth.
After a while, I feel her limbs start to relax. She lifts her face from my neck, and she sniffles and wipes her nose. There’s a wet spot on my neck, and my arms are heavy from holding her. But even then, I don’t put her down. I can feel her heart thumping away behind her ribs. I picture it there: tiny and strong, just inches from my own.
Bad Luck
In the morning, everyone’s still laughing about the goat-pee disaster—goat-geddon, everyone’s calling it—when Mags arrives. She picks up Paulie’s hat filled with index cards. “Good morning, Originals! Take your seats, because today we’re going to talk about…” Next to me, Diego does a drumroll on the table.
“Well, isn’t this quite the coincidence,” Mags says. She looks at Lydia, Sam, and Willow and holds up the card. It says in big, block letters: GOATS.
It turns out goats were pretty important in the life of the ancient Greeks.
Mags explains tha
t goats were a huge source of food for the Greeks, which is probably why they’re all over Greek mythology. Zeus, the king of the gods, was raised on goat’s milk, Athena carried a goat’s hide, and there was even a god, Pan, who was half-goat/half-human. “Pan was the god of wild things,” Mags tells us. “Of untamed creatures and mountains and such. I suspect he’d fit right in here.” Then she tells us that goats were also commonly used in ritual sacrifices.
“Sacrifices?” asks Gabby.
Mags nods. “Yup. To some degree all of us are affected by circumstances outside of our control. That was especially true in the ancient world. Back then, a single drought could destroy an entire community. Famine was common. The ancients lacked the medicines we now have, so epidemics were rampant.”
She turns then, and writes on the board:
pharmakos
And beneath that:
“So during especially hard times,” Mags continues, “they’d select someone from the community to be what’s called a pharmakos. They’d parade that individual through town. Community members were encouraged to beat the person with twigs and branches. Finally, they’d chase them out of the village and demand that they never return.”
“But… why?” asks Fiona.
“The idea was to transfer all the bad luck onto a single person. So when that individual left, all the misfortune would disappear with them.”
Mags writes on the board:
katharsis
“The process was called katharsis, which is the Greek root of the modern word catharsis, with a c. When we use the word now, it means a great release of powerful negative feelings, the kind that ends with a sense of relief—like a good cry, or a primal scream. Chasing out the pharmakos was a way of trying to find relief.”
“What’s that got to do with goats?” asks Gabby.
“Later, the humans were replaced by animals, usually goats.”
“So…,” says Yumi, “like, actual scapegoats.”
Mags smiles. “Exactly,” she says. “The word scapegoat doesn’t show up until much later, but that’s what we’re talking about here. Scapegoats.”