Who was he kidding, anyway?
He didn’t even have anyone to sit with at lunch. Who would vote for him?
He stopped pacing and stared at himself in the mirror.
“Stop the negative self-talk,” he said to himself. “You can do this.”
He shook out his hands and rolled his neck back and forth.
“You just need to relax,” he said.
He knew his speech front-to-back. It was a good speech. On the level of the Gettysburg Address, as far as middle-school speeches went. If he lost this thing, he would lose with dignity. He would go out big. People would remember Ben Boxer after this.
“You don’t need to win the election,” he whispered. “You just need to win this speech. It will still be a victory. It will still be evolution.”
You are a finch.
You are a finch.
When the door to the bathroom opened, he pretended he’d been washing his hands. Two boys walked in—guys he’d never seen before. They snickered at his suit.
“You going to church or something?” one of them said.
“Saint Urinal!” said the other.
Ben dried his hands and left. He didn’t have time for them. He had a speech to conquer and a larynx to hydrate.
He made a beeline for the water fountain, refilled his bottle, and took a deep, deep breath.
Yes, Ben Boxer. You are a finch.
Only
Rabbit Hole: There’s a 43-foot complete fossil specimen of a dinosaur at the Academy of Natural Sciences in Philadelphia. Independence Hall welcomes more than 690,000 visits per year. At the Franklin Institute, children can walk through a giant heart.
Charlotte had gone into the city with her parents before, but she didn’t remember it being this crowded. When the train pulled into the station, people moved like one massive beast and they took her along with them. She could be swallowed whole and spit out, but there was something exhilarating about it, too. Like she was one of them. An adult going to work. Maybe she was a curator at the Academy of Natural Sciences, a tour guide at Independence Hall, or director of the Franklin Institute. Out of the way, people. I have an early meeting.
She kept her eyes straight ahead and walked down the platform like she knew what she was doing. Her heart squeezed as she went past the panhandlers. It plummeted when she breezed by a police officer. But it lifted again as she entered the station itself, that big cavernous building that looked like something out of an old movie.
When she stepped outside, a gust of wind slapped her in the face. This was the part where she was supposed to get into a cab and here they were, parked and waiting. She hesitated.
Breathe, Charlotte. In. Out.
Was this the part where she would get busted? She imagined the driver taking one look at her and saying, Why aren’t you in school? and driving her straight to the police station. Instead, he asked, “Where to?” without a second glance.
“Philadelphia Museum of Art, please,” Charlotte said.
Was it okay to say please? Did that make her seem like less of a city girl?
The driver didn’t seem to notice. He pulled out of the station and she was Lottie Lock. Someone who took cabs and navigated through big cities. A character in a movie who knew secrets and important people. A girl who had it all together.
Only.
There was still sweat on her neck and even though she didn’t want to admit it—especially not to herself—she was having second thoughts. She was like one of those drawings in the puzzle books she had loved in elementary school. Something in this picture doesn’t belong. What is it? Answer on page 100. And the answer is Charlotte Lockard.
Life According to Ben
Part XIX
It would have been a great speech.
They would have cheered.
They would have stood.
They would have pumped their fists in the air and chanted his name.
His speech would have boomed through the microphone and filled the gym with confidence and hope for a brighter Lanester Middle School. His voice would have drowned the smell of dirty sneakers and basketballs and given rise to a new era: the administration of Ben Boxer.
They would have realized how wrong they were. How they misjudged him.
That day, before the speech, he’d walked the halls and discovered that some of his posters had been ripped down the middle. They dangled off the wall hopelessly, like deflated balloons. But he didn’t let that sway him. No: At that point, he still had a speech to give. He still had an opportunity to win them over. They would soon realize how foolish they’d been to dismiss his brand and his ideas, he’d thought.
At that point, his suit was still starched and crisp.
But that was then.
Now his pants and jacket were shoved in the plastic bag next to his chair in the attendance office, where he slumped in the oversized gym shorts Mrs. Carlile pulled from some god-awful lost-items drawer. The shorts smelled like feet and he had to hold them bunched in one hand so they wouldn’t fall to his ankles. To make matters worse, he was wearing his polished dress shoes. No socks. His socks were in the plastic bag, too.
He leaned his head on his hand and imagined how it would have been.
They would have fidgeted in their seats before coming to attention—all eyes on him. He would have been John F. Kennedy. Ask not what your country can do for you. Abraham Lincoln. A house divided against itself cannot stand. FDR. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.
“Your mom is on her way to sign you out,” Mrs. Carlile said. “Do you need anything?”
He didn’t want to look at her because he knew her face was lined with pity, and he didn’t want pity now. He wanted to crawl into the soft comfort of his bed, throw the covers over his head, and disappear. It was a strange feeling. He’d never wanted to disappear before. He’d always wanted to stand out.
I guess you got your wish, he thought.
He tried to shake his head, but he had no energy for interaction, so he didn’t respond. He listened to the imaginary roar of the crowd. In his imaginings, they laughed at his joke, the one he’d practiced again and again (pause for laughter, his notes said).
When his mom showed up, he was still sitting in the same position. Her eyebrows furrowed at the sight of him. He sensed her confusion. What’s wrong with my perfect pineapple?
“Ben?” she said.
He didn’t move. If he moved, everything would be real. And he didn’t want anything to be real. He wanted to push himself into the wall and become part of the building.
“The principal would like to speak to both of you before you go,” said Mrs. Carlile to his mother. “I’ll walk you over.”
She and Ben’s mother made their way toward the main office.
What goes on there that doesn’t happen here?
I guess you’re about to find out, Ben Boxer.
Mr. Finch.
Straight Ahead
Rabbit Hole: Art has been proven to improve emotional well-being. It can also spark innovation and provide healing. Art is a fundamental component of a healthy community.
Art was supposed to make you feel something. That’s what her dad always said.
“It’s in our lives every day, if you look for it,” he’d say, pointing at a crack in the sidewalk, a spray of graffiti, or a drift of wildflowers sprouting in a parking lot. It had irritated Charlotte, the way he thought everything had deeper meaning. Wildflowers were wildflowers. Graffiti was graffiti. And that crack in the sidewalk? Tree roots pushing their way up, making room for themselves.
Her mother said he was “overly romantic” in how he approached the world. Charlotte’s mother buried herself in numbers, research, and facts. When Charlotte asked how they ever got along, her mother said, “Someone has to be looking straight ahead instead of at the clouds.”
Maybe her father was right. But as Charlotte walked up the massive steps of the art museum, she only felt small.
She understood chlorophyll a
nd isotopes and erosion. She understood that sedimentary rocks were formed by the deposition and cementation of material at the earth’s surface. When she stood in front of Van Gogh and Gauguin, she just saw paint on canvas. Not that interesting. No science. Nothing she could slide under a microscope or pull from the earth.
She should have paid more attention when her father talked.
Played more Scrabble.
Walked into the room.
Life According to Ben
Part XX
“You could have sworn a gun went off, but it turned out to be bang snaps,” said Mrs. Yang, the principal. She was a kind-faced woman. If Ben was feeling more like himself, he would ask about the photos on her bookshelf and the accolades on her wall, but instead he sat and stared at a nick in her desk that reminded him of the dark mark from Harry Potter. Seemed fitting.
Mrs. Carlile sat to his left, his mother to his right. All eyes on him.
Mrs. Yang frowned. “They threw them just as Ben started his speech. They were sitting in the front row on the bleachers, right in front of the podium.”
“Who are ‘they’?” asked Mrs. Boxer.
“Theo Barrett, Derrick Vass, and David Landry,” said Mrs. Yang.
“Sherry Bertrand, too,” Mrs. Carlile added. “Bunch of little tyrants.”
“It could have been complete chaos, what with the popping sounds and everything. A few kids screamed, but not everyone heard it, and Ms. Abellard took action right away. She realized they were just firecrackers and really averted what could have been a disaster.”
Just firecrackers, Ben thought. The word just dug into his skin.
“I don’t understand,” Ben’s mother said.
Ben simultaneously wanted to hug his mother and tape her mouth shut.
He slunk down in his chair and kept his eyes focused on the dark mark. He decided to think of something else. Was Mrs. Yang’s desk oak or pine? How do you tell the difference? Maybe it was cherrywood. . . .
“They threw the bang snaps just as Ben was getting started,” Mrs. Yang said. Her voice was hesitant, like she wanted the words to land as softly as possible.
“Did they interrupt the other kids’ speeches, too?” his mother asked.
There was a pause. A long, giant, heavy pause.
“No,” Mrs. Yang said. “Just Ben’s.”
Ben heard his mother exhale.
“It terrified several of the students.” Mrs. Yang paused. “And I’m sure Ben was already nervous, giving a speech in front of the school and all.”
The air choked him.
Mrs. Carlile leaned over and put a hand on Ben’s shoulder. It felt like hot coal. He wanted to shake it off.
“We immediately hauled them to the office,” Mrs. Yang continued. “One of our teachers noticed something was wrong with Ben, so she walked over, made a very nice announcement that all the speeches would be postponed.” Mrs. Yang picked up a pencil, put it down again. “She got him out of there. I don’t think anyone noticed anything out of place.”
Not true, Ben thought. People noticed. He’d heard them laughing, snickering. All it would have taken was one person to see. Ms. Abellard had done her best to block their view, but there’s only so much you can do.
Just one person. That’s all it takes.
“Students of Lanester Middle School—” That’s all he’d been able to say.
He didn’t think he’d ever talk again.
His beak had been stitched together.
Silence swelled inside the office—an uncomfortable nothingness that radiated toward Ben and threatened to suffocate him, until it was broken by a faint but distinct buzz.
It was his phone, which was in his pants, which were in the plastic bag at his feet. When Ben didn’t move, Mrs. Carlile rummaged around, looking for it. He felt faintly sorry that she had to stick her hand in his damp clothes to stop the buzzing, all while he sat there. But he was incapable of moving.
“It’s a Pennsylvania number,” she said, softly.
You weren’t supposed to have cell phones at school. If you did, they had to be turned off and stowed away. Ben never bothered with that because no one ever called or texted him during the day anyway. He wondered if he would get a reprimand. Ben Boxer, I realize you are the biggest dork in school and now the district’s—no, the state’s—greatest laughingstock, but phones are not allowed.
The phone stopped buzzing. There was a pause. Then it buzzed again. It wasn’t Lottie’s number.
He didn’t want to talk to anyone. He wanted to become part of the carpet or Mrs. Yang’s desk. But Lottie Lock had skipped school today. She was taking the train into the city.
“There’s a text,” said Mrs. Carlile. “It says it’s an emergency.”
The word emergency replaced the uncomfortable silence in the room with anxious static.
The phone buzzed again.
“Do you know anyone in Pennsylvania?” his mother asked.
“Yes,” Ben said.
He took the phone and answered it.
Soldier at Attention
Rabbit Hole: Sunflowers are the subject of two series of still life paintings by the Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh. The earlier series (painted in 1887) shows flowers lying on the ground. The second series (from 1888) shows bouquets of sunflowers in a vase.
Charlotte was standing in front of the sunflowers again.
She had visited Gauguin, seen Degas, and squinted at dozens of portraits and sculptures. She stood in front of them with her hands behind her back, just like her dad did. For some reason—she wasn’t sure why—she kept coming back to Van Gogh.
She looked as hard as she could.
She tilted her head to the left.
She tilted her head to the right.
She saw a painting of sunflowers. Paint on canvas. That was it.
The gallery was quiet except for a few older couples who moved from painting to painting with their hands behind their backs and a man in a jacket who kept an eye on everyone.
Charlotte took a step closer.
Vase with Twelve Sunflowers.
That was the name of the painting, and that’s exactly what she saw.
She took another step and leaned forward.
“You have to keep a distance of at least one foot between you and the work,” said the man in the jacket, who was suddenly standing next to her.
She stood up straight, like a soldier at attention. “Oh.”
He hovered near her as if she were a criminal, and now she was too self-conscious to keep looking at the painting. The whole trip was a mistake. The scab on her knee ached after climbing all the museum stairs and it felt wrong being out of school. She wasn’t a new person at all. She wasn’t Lottie Lock or a character in a movie. She was the girl from the puzzle who didn’t fit in the picture.
Who didn’t fit anywhere.
She didn’t know who she was.
Plus, she was hungry. She’d forgotten about lunch.
“You keep coming back to that painting,” the man in the jacket said. He reminded her of her father, only he was older. Her father had deep brown eyes and a long face. Not like this man, whose name tag said JOSEPH. But there was something about him. Or maybe there wasn’t.
“I was trying to . . . ,” Charlotte began. “I was waiting to feel something.”
It seemed like a ridiculous thing to say, but Joseph nodded like he knew exactly what she was talking about.
“But I just see sunflowers,” Charlotte said.
“Well, that’s what they are,” said Joseph.
The truth was, she did feel something. She felt like she should have invited her father to Red’s. She felt like she should have gone to school so Magda wouldn’t have to dissect the starfish alone.
“Some people see things just as they are,” said Joseph. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“But how do—” Charlotte stopped. She heard the determined click-click-click of shoes against the museum floor. The walk of someone with a purpose.
Her mother.
Charlotte was suddenly hollow. Exposed. Stupid. Scared. And she couldn’t read the expression on her mother’s face. She’d never seen it before. She’d never seen her mother walk so quickly. The sound of her shoes bounced off the walls.
Charlotte opened her mouth, but her voice had disappeared. Her throat was a knot.
My father’s dead.
Her mother’s eyes were rimmed, glistening, and pink.
That’s why she’s crying.
“What are you doing here?” her mother said. She grabbed Charlotte and hugged her. She spoke into Charlotte’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”
Charlotte sputtered, “I wanted . . . I thought . . .” then hugged her mom back and said, “I don’t know.”
“You scared me to death.” Her voice was muffled against Charlotte’s shirt.
Was she crying?
Her mother never cried. There could only be one reason.
“Is Dad dead?” Charlotte asked. She hadn’t meant the words to sound so definite, so raw. But if he was dead, she needed to know now.
Her mother let her go. Her eyes glistened. “No. Oh no. That’s— He’s in his new room. He’s asking for you.”
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