The Next Great Paulie Fink

by Ali Benjamin

  “I see,” Glebus says. But she’s eyeing everyone carefully, like she doesn’t know what to believe. “Well, it is true that the goats might like them…”

  “Of course it’s true,” says Fiona. “Why would we lie? There’d be no reason to lie about this, not today, not tomorrow, not ever.” Diego gives her a tiny kick, like he’s telling her to shut up.

  “Caitlyn,” Glebus says, “if that is, in fact, what’s going on here, then I suppose that’s quite thoughtful. There’s no harm in bringing those peels to the goats, but the experiment ends today. I can’t have students rummaging through the trash every day. Go ahead. You may bring these down to the pen.”

  Everyone breaks for the door at once, but Glebus shakes her head. “Not all of you. Caitlyn, you may go, and… Henry, you can help her, since you were so enthusiastic about the idea. The rest of you: to class, now.”

  It’s a pretty awkward walk down to the goats. Henry and I are silent until we pass the fort he built during the Mini challenge. “It’s still standing,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he responds. And then I don’t know what else to say.

  When we arrive at the pen, we begin to pull the peels into thin strips, tossing them in one at a time. It turns out goats do like banana peels. A couple of them eat them, but others seem to enjoy playing with them—tossing the peels up in the air, or nudging them around in the dirt with their noses.

  I keep my eyes on the goats. “Well, I guess this is the second meeting of the Unoriginals,” I finally say. “Is every member present?”

  “Not quite,” Henry says. “Remember, Paulie was an Unoriginal, too.”

  “He’s over there,” I say, and I gesture toward the Paulie statue. Then, after a beat, I add, “I’m glad we’re getting rid of the peels. It was a dumb idea.”

  “It wasn’t dumb,” Henry says. He doesn’t add, It was just mean, but I assume that’s what he’s thinking.

  “Anyway, you kind of saved my butt back there,” I say.

  He peels a long thin strip and tosses it to one of the baby goats. Almost immediately, the big mean goat steals it from the baby.

  “Why’d you do it?” I ask.

  “Do what?” he asks.

  “Save me. From Glebus.”

  He tries again, sending another strip to the baby goat. This time the little goat gets it, and runs away before anyone can take it. “I guess I don’t think you’re a mean person.”

  And that makes my throat tighten a little.

  “I am, though,” I confess. “At least I was.”

  “Nah.” He shrugs. “I shouldn’t have argued with you in front of everyone.”

  “I don’t mean I was mean to you,” I say. “Or at least not just to you. I mean… before. In my old school. I was… kind of a jerk, actually.”

  The words hang there in the air. And… that’s it. The world doesn’t end or anything.

  “It was only to this one girl,” I continue. “I was so mean. I teased her all the time. And it’s so weird, because now, I look back, and I don’t really know why. I keep thinking about it, but I just…”

  I trail off. Then I shake my head. “Anyway, you’re still in the competition, okay?” I say. “I mean, I have to eliminate the twins for how quickly they threw me under the bus, right? So that’s two eliminations right there.”

  The big goat steals another peel from a smaller goat. I watch as he chews on it, then gulps it down. Stupid goat, I think. Don’t you know the difference between funny and mean?

  Henry finally turns to me. “Caitlyn, I have no idea if Paulie would have used those peels if Glebus hadn’t found them. That’s just the thing I wanted to be true.”

  Huh. It’s like Henry wanted the competition to capture the best version of Paulie—his arete, Mags called it—even if it wasn’t necessarily the whole Paulie.

  Henry tosses the final peel into the pen, then wipes his hands on his jeans. “The thing is, I don’t actually want to be the Next Great Paulie Fink.”

  “You don’t?”

  He shrugs. “Not really. I just liked the idea of the competition. I liked that it was something we could do together. Give us some memory we’d all share, no matter what happens.”

  It makes me sad that Henry doesn’t want to be in the competition anymore, but I get it. I mean, figuring out how to be one person is confusing enough. Who wants to try to be two?

  We do a quick elimination ceremony at the end of gym. Still sweaty from class, Timothy and Thomas stand in front of me, pencils in their ears. When I announce that neither of them will be the Next Great Paulie Fink, they shout, in unison, “We come from the stars!” Then they jam the pencils into the soil.

  “I’m out, too,” Henry says. He places, carefully, his nature-facts book at the base of the statue. “Only three competitors left,” he says.

  “Me, Diego, and Yumi,” says Fiona. “The Final Three!”

  This means there are only two more challenges. I don’t want to mess this up again.

  Interview: Henry

  HENRY:

  Remember what I told you? About the time I fell into the river?

  CAITLYN:

  After the rainstorm. Yeah.

  HENRY:

  I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. Remembering exactly how it felt when the ground beneath me was just… gone. There was only a split second between the ground disappearing and my being in the water, getting carried by the current, but it was long enough to understand that it was too late, that I was falling, that I didn’t have any control over what happened next. And you know what I wished for in that moment?

  CAITLYN:

  I don’t know. A life vest?

  HENRY:

  It wasn’t some fact, that’s for sure. I wished that I didn’t feel so totally alone. I think that’s why I ended up telling you my secret.

  The Transcript

  At the end of the day, I’m walking toward the parking lot when Henry catches up with me. “Hold up,” he says. “I have something to show you.”

  He hands me a piece of paper, folded in half. When I try to take it, he doesn’t let go. “Swear,” he says. “Swear on the Unoriginals that you won’t tell anyone.”

  I nod. “Okay. I swear on the Unoriginals.”

  He lets go. I unfold the paper and begin to read.

  www.VT/gov/towns/Mitchell/Council/Mtgs/Trscrpt/0827

  TRANSCRIPT: Mitchell TOWN COUNCIL

  Meeting: August 27

  Page 7 of 12

  Councilperson Cardinali: How can we possibly be talking about this? These are our children.

  Councilperson Gloster: We’re talking about this because we have a $387,000 structural deficit in our budget. We’re in a financial death spiral here. Do you remember what happened over in Marshall Falls? Their deficit wasn’t much bigger than ours is now. Within three years, it ballooned to more than $2 million.

  Councilperson Miller: Cripes. Somebody please tell me how we got into this situation.

  Councilperson Gloster: The usual way, Angie. Higher costs than we bring in from taxes.

  Councilperson Cardinali: We can’t balance the budget on the backs of our kids.

  Councilperson Gloster: The school was an experiment. We gave it our best shot. It’s just too expensive.

  Councilperson Cardinali: What is a community without a school?

  Councilperson Gloster: Plenty of towns don’t have their own school.

  Councilperson Cardinali: No family will move to a town without a school. And some that are already here will move away. We’ll be like a ghost town if we allow—

  Councilperson Miller: We’re a ghost town already, Hector.

  Councilperson Cardinali: How long before we have to vote?

  Councilperson Gloster: We’re committed to funding the school through the end of this year. But if there’s not going to be a school next year, families are going to need time to prepare. I say vote as soon as possible.

  Secrets and Broken Promises

  Standing ther
e with Henry, I read it over three times, just trying to figure it out.

  By the time I finish the third read, my heart is pounding. Ahead of us, kids start to line up at the Good Day Bell. Clang. One kid rings it, then another. Clang. Clang.

  “They’re… talking about here? About Mitchell?” I ask Henry.

  He nods.

  “It’s going to…?” I don’t finish the sentence, but I’m thinking, Close. It’s going to close.

  He nods again.

  “And your dad’s the one who…”

  “Is trying to keep that from happening, yeah. He’s trying, but he’s not succeeding.”

  I look down at the paper again. I feel like there’s something I must be missing, some solution that I could find if I read this right. Balance the budget on the backs of our kids… Financial death spiral… Gave it our best shot…“But… what happens to—?”

  “Us?” he asks. I nod. And I realize that is what I was going to say. Us. Not you. Not Mitchell.

  Us.

  “Tons of schools close,” he says. “Happens all over, all the time. Happened to Mitchell once already. Kids go somewhere else. We will, too, I guess. Anyway, I think you should make the last few challenges really fun. For everyone’s sake. Kind of a last hurrah, you know?”

  Ahead of me, the kindergarten class takes its turn at the Good Day Bell. Mr. Twilling hands the bell’s rope to a girl whose backpack is almost as big as she is. “Serena,” he says, “did you have a good day?” Clang. Another kindergartner. “Max, how ’bout you?” Clang.

  And then it’s Fuzzy’s turn. Mr. Twilling offers her the rope. “You read three different words today,” he says. “Sounds like a good day to me!”

  She shakes her head. No. Mr. Twilling smiles at her. “Maybe tomorrow,” he says.

  That pinkie promise. It seems so stupid now. Why would I ask a five-year-old not to ring a bell? What did I think I was accomplishing? For her, or for me, or for anyone?

  I don’t know what to do about what’s on the paper I’m holding. I don’t know what to do about the next couple of challenges. But I do know what to do about the kid in front of me holding a stuffed bunny.

  I hand the paper back to Henry, then jog over toward the Good Day Bell. “Hey,” I say to Fuzzy, squatting down. “Did you really read three words today?” She nods.

  “Do you know how many words I could read when I was just one month into kindergarten? Zero, that’s how many. Sounds to me like you did have a pretty good day. I’m thinking maybe you should ring that bell.”

  She looks down at her feet. “I promised.”

  “Huh. Well… then… what if we both break the promise? Both of us? At the exact same time?”

  She considers this.

  “With Real Rabbit, of course,” I add. “Because I’m pretty sure he’s really, really been wanting to ring that bell.”

  Mr. Twilling mouths the words thank you to me as he hands us the rope. Fuzzy positions Real Rabbit, and I count to three, and then we ring the bell together. It makes a loud, satisfying clang.

  Fuzzy skips down the path and she doesn’t look back.

  I’m not ready for this to be over, I think as I watch her go. Not yet. Not when I’m just getting started.

  Gone Is Gone

  “I’m just getting started, Jadelicious!” Rexx Rowdy shouts through the dressing room door. He’s locked her in there even though she’s supposed to take the stage in mere minutes. It’s a dirty trick, as dirty as they come.

  Next to me on the sofa, Gabby’s jaw hardens. “Rexx Rowdy is the worst.”

  Her grandmother, on the other side of Gabby, nods. “He’s a bully, that’s for sure.”

  It’s two days after Henry told me about the school. Gabby and I are at her house watching Megastar for inspiration, because I don’t have a clue what I should do for the last couple of challenges. All I know is that Henry was right when he said I think you should make the last few challenges really fun.

  I’ve kept my promise to Henry, by the way. I haven’t told anyone about the school closing. I haven’t mentioned it to my mom, or to any of the kids, or anyone else. But I think about it all the time. I wonder what Gabby would say, or her grandmother, if I just blurted it out: The school is broke. It might close.

  I look around Gabby’s living room. There are a million pictures of Gabby on the wall, so I walk over to take a closer look, quickly scanning the chubby-baby and toddler shots and locking my eyes on a group shot. My class, Mini-sized, lined up in front of THE MITCHELL SCHOOL sign. There’s a tiny Diego. There’s a young Yumi, not a speck of pink in her dark hair. There’s little Fiona. She’d be almost unrecognizable in that pink dress if it weren’t for her wild hair and glinting eyes. They’re all standing with a happier-looking Glebus, holding a banner: OPENING DAY: HISTORY IN THE MAKING!

  “Oh wow.” I peer at it. “Is this kindergarten?”

  “Yup,” Gabby says. “First day.”

  Her grandmother smiles. “Now, that was an exciting day. Finally something opening for a change. Breath of fresh air after everything closing—the mill, then the hospital, then all those shops…”

  “There used to be a hospital around here?” I hadn’t known that.

  “Used to be a lot of things around here,” she says. Buster runs into the room and starts barking for attention. “Okay, okay. Come on, Buster.” She lifts herself off the sofa and takes Buster outside.

  I turn back to the photos and peer at a picture of baby Gabby seated on some concrete stairs with a man and a woman. The man’s skin is much darker than Gabby’s, but his eyes are the same: brown and warm and wide and earnest.

  “Is that your dad?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “He died—you heard that, right?”

  I shake my head.

  “He was a refugee. From Kinshasa. Came here when he was six. He had the best laugh out of anyone in the whole world; just hearing it was enough to make you laugh, too. But he got stomach cancer. I was in fifth grade when he died.”

  The woman in the photo has long hair and very dark eyeliner. Her face is frozen mid-laugh. She’s thinner than Gabby, and very pale, but the smile is unmistakably Gabby’s. And her grandmother’s, too. “That’s…”

  “My mom, yeah.” Gabby keeps her eyes on the screen. “She’s gone, too. Longer than my dad.”

  I don’t know if she’s gone, too means gone away, or gone the way her dad is gone. Maybe it means something else altogether. After a beat, Gabby adds, “A different sort of sickness, I guess.”

  She doesn’t say anything more, and I don’t ask. Maybe it doesn’t matter what kind of gone it is. Gone is gone.

  On the television, Rexx Rowdy takes the stage. The audience has been expecting Jadelicious, and you can see this ripple of shock go through them. As soon as they realize what’s happening, half of them cheer like crazy, while the other half boo and flash thumbs-downs.

  Gabby shakes her head. “I wish I could beat that guy with a stick and chase him away forever.”

  “Like that thing that Mags talked about,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Gabby says. “Pharmakos. If only.” When Rexx Rowdy starts to sing, she makes a face and hits mute. “So what about you? How come you live only with your mom?”

  “It’s always been just the two of us.”

  “You never had another parent?”

  “Nope. Mom decided that she wanted a kid even if she didn’t have a partner. So when she turned thirty-five and she was still single, she did.”

  “Huh,” Gabby says. “Don’t you ever wish you had more people in your family?”

  I shake my head. The truth is, I can’t really imagine anything else. It’s not like Gabby, who had a dad she adored, and then lost him. It’s always been just me and Mom. I guess you can’t miss something you never had. It’s like everyone just assumes that their own life is the normal one.

  “Gabby, I have to tell you something,” I say. She waits.

  “I’m not really from New York City,” I admit.
It’s not the biggest secret I’ve been keeping from her, but it’s the one I can confess without breaking a promise to someone else. “I am from New York, but not anywhere near the city. I don’t know why I lied on the first day. I guess it’s because nobody was all that interested in me. I made something up to make myself feel special. It was dumb.”

  “Nobody was interested in you? Are you crazy? People were so excited when you got here.”

  I shake my head. “No, remember? Everybody kept talking about Paulie all morning. And then you were dancing, and then you were chanting about the goats…”

  She waves her hand sort of dismissively. “Well, sure, we were shocked that Paulie wasn’t coming back. But people were totally showing off for you. That whole morning. You couldn’t tell? Like when Fiona and Diego kept leaning over you to fight? And then Yumi started playing her music in the middle of class? Everyone was, like, freaking out that you were there. Wait, hold on, I love this part.”

  Gabby unmutes the TV as Jadelicious, freed now from the dressing room, steps onto the stage. Her eyes are glinting, and her gown falls in layers. Something about the way she’s standing—the lift of her chin, maybe—makes her seem almost like one of those ancient gods from humanities. She begins to sing, and Rexx Rowdy’s eyes go dark with rage. She’s not only turning Rexx Rowdy’s solo into a duet, she’s making it seem like his whole song was just a warm-up for her all along. The audience roars.

  “Anyway, I already knew you weren’t from New York City,” Gabby says. “My grandma told me after she saw your mom at the clinic last week. It doesn’t make any difference to me.”

  I sit back against the sofa, wondering if anything is ever really how it seems.

  The Fable of the Elephant