by K. A. Holt
how to teach us
to trust her.
We sorted out
(even celebrated)
her piles of mean-wells,
even her full-on mistakes,
until we created
the number-one best
teacher-friend-Sandbox-playing person
that any of us
had ever had.
When she got reassigned
(which, yeah, was totally our fault)
((but also hers too!)),
I wasn’t sure if she could stay
as fun and weird and cool and different
with her new librarian job,
working in the one place at school
none of us ever ever ever
wants to go.
But then she created
Typing Club,
which was really
Everyone, Even Ms. J, Plays Sandbox Together After School
in the Library Club. . . .
And even when Mr. Mann
stormed into the library,
interrupting Typing Club
(after he found out
Typing Club was really
Everyone, Even Ms. J, Plays Sandbox Together After School
in the Library Club),
and he huffed and puffed
in Ms. J’s office
until she promised
we would type stuff
Of Substance
in Typing Club. . . .
Even when she
announced
Everyone, Even Ms. J, Plays Sandbox Together After School in the Library Club
had become Everyone, Even Ms. J, Types Stuff Of Substance Club, aka: Newspaper Typing Club). . . .
EVEN THEN,
I knew.
Yeah.
She’s still
a divergent thinker,
just like she describes us
(the kids from room 113)
(the kids under the stairs).
She’s still the same Ms. J.
Still fun and weird and cool and different.
Still getting in trouble
(almost)
as much as we do.
And she’s maybe the only reason
other than Ben B, Jordan, and Javier
that I don’t haaaaaaaaaate
coming to school every day.
Even if some days,
brainstorming Substance
has to come before
melting ghosts.
I finally make it to class,
finally slide into my seat.
I jam my hands into my pockets,
And . . .
I smile,
shaking out
the tangled-up
earbuds
hiding in my pocket.
My invisibility cloak.
I pop them in, because really,
I never give up
the ridiculous hope that,
like Sandbox,
they can make the impossible
possible,
and poof
I’ll be actually invisible
for once.
Why is Ben Who What Why so . . . like that?
Like, helloooo, if Ben Who What Why tried any harder?
She’d turn into Dress Code.
And what why who would want to look like THAT?
Shhhh! Annabelle! She’s right there. What if she hears you?
She can’t hear me. Look at those ugly earbuds!
You can see them from space.
Too bad she can’t hear me, though.
She could use my fashion advice right now.
So could Dress Code.
It’s been a really long week
and it isn’t even lunch yet.
Hear me out. . . .
Let’s grab our lunches,
take them to the library,
say hey to Ms. J,
maybe eat fast,
sneak in some Sandbox?
Ben B might not be saying,
Let’s protect you from whatever
hideous hideousness awaits
in the stewing stink
of the cafeteria
out loud,
but I can tell it’s what he means.
Probably the lunchroom is going to be a stewing stink today. I mean, not just a literal stewing stink, like it is every day, but also the kind of stewing stink that’s made of eyeballs and whispers and is stirred around by the kind of people my mom says shouldn’t matter and don’t matter, even though somehow they have decided that they are the only people who do matter.
Clearly,
Jordan is reading my mind,
and also clearly,
Ben B and Jordan
do not have to be
invisible
at all
to hear the
constant blah blah hum,
the Ben Y this and Benita that
the chatter chatter chatter chatter
nonstop
echoing
through the halls.
You look older and taller.
Quite severe, actually,
but in a good way.
Like a Roman bust come to life.
I love it!
Ms. J offers her take
before I barely have two feet
in the library
and jeez,
isn’t she breaking
the most important librarian rule
by shouting at me like that
from the other side of the room?
Why is she always so loud?
Fine. Sure.
Sometimes I like it that she’s loud.
I like how her voice
and her hair
and her caftans
and her . . . self
can take over a whole room,
a whole library.
But sometimes I don’t like it.
Sometimes meaning right now.
You’re quiet today, Ben Y.
Part of your new severeness?
Ms. J’s voice,
still loud,
rises and falls
over our lunches,
over the crunching and slurping,
over Ben B’s story
about soccer practice,
over Jordan’s descriptions
of my hair falling out,
over me,
over me,
over me.
Her eyes . . .
they do that thing they do
when they can see right through
my guts
and I know
the little joking bend in her voice
is just for show
because her eyes . . .
they hold me tight,
and they seem
just the tiniest,
smidge-i-est
worried.
I let her eyes hold mine.
For just a second,
before I look away.
I shrug.
She squeezes my shoulder
super fast
before she stands up,
and I can smell her cloud
of very light
and already tired
perfume.
Ten minutes left
before the bell.
Shall we attempt a little . . .
She just cannot wink
to save her life.
It makes my heart smile
maybe for the first time today.
She finishes her question
by loud-whispering,
Newspaper Typing Club,
minus the Newspaper part?
And we all jump up
and run
to the computers.
I start to feel
almost
kind of
maybe
okay
ish.
Ben B laughs
when Jordan jumps up,
wiggling and flailing
&nbs
p; to some weird music
Ms. J says is
calming
and
meditative
and
perfect for creating.
Too bad Javi has B lunch.
I’d like to see his drawing
of whatever it is
you’re doing.
Jordan rolls his eyes
toward Ben B
in a very
non-calm
way.
I’m doing a thing called dancing, Ben B. Ever heard of it? You let your whole body listen to a song and then your whole body tells you what the song is about by moving around.
Oh, that’s what it’s called.
I thought maybe
some fire ants
crawled in your pants.
I would like to point out,
Ms. J says,
without looking up
from her computer,
There is no talking
or dancing
in Typing Club,
even if it’s minus
the Newspaper part.
I would like to point out this is technically lunchtime and not technically Newspaper Typing Club or any kind of Typing Club at all, and also that you are technically playing dancing music, Ms. J.
Now Ms. J looks up.
I would like to point out
you, sir, are technically
on thin ice.
Her halfway smile
is also a halfway
GOTCHA,
and Jordan sits back down
with a small
grouchy
fart noise
and a halfway smile
of his own.
I bet, if he were here,
Javier’s hand would hurt
after drawing all of this.
For a second,
I wonder if he’s glad
he has B lunch.
But nah.
No one’s glad to have B lunch.
They run out of pizza halfway through.
Plus, we’re not there
to make his hand hurt
from drawing
all our dumb stuff.
Plusplus, he’s missing out
on spontaneous
Not Newspaper, Yes Typing Club,
which must be a huge bummer,
even with
calming
and
meditative
(so-called) music.
An announcement,
loud and crackly,
bounces down
from the ceiling speakers,
drowning out
Ms. J’s
supposedly calming
music.
Hellooooooooooo,
Hart ROCKETS!
I couldn’t WAIT
for tomorrow morning
to announce this SURPRISE!
I’m positively BLASTING OFF
with good NEWS!
Ugh.
Mr. Mann.
Anything that gets him
this excited?
It has to be
baaaaaaad news.
Hart Middle SCHOOL!
We can hear him breathing
into the microphone.
[loud exhale]
Has been OFFICIALLY approved!
[loud inhale]
To join IN!
The National!
ZERO-Tolerance!
ANTI-Bullying!
[loud inhale]
Planet Safe SPACE CAMPAIGN!
[loud exhale]
More details FORTHCOMING
in the FIRST edition
of our own REVIVED
school newspaper,
the Hart TIMES!
Uh. WHAT?
We all stare at the ceiling speakers,
but no explanations crackle out.
Only Mr. Mann’s voice,
still booming:
ALL boys and girls will SOON get a chance
To FUEL UP!
With KINDNESS!
And BLAST OFF!
To Planet SAFE SPACE!
ToGETHER!
[pause]
Participation
is mandatory.
I can feel my face
twist in a confused knot
as I mutter,
Am I the only one
who thinks
Mr. Mann
is the only human
in the history of humans
to make kindness
seem like something . . .
annoying?
Jordan nods,
very seriously,
and says,
Maybe because he’s such a . . .
I say:
Jerk?
at the same time
Jordan says:
Turd?
And we both
bust out laughing.
A JERD!
Jordan giggles.
We just made that up, Ben Y! And it is the truest truth ever.
Mr. Mann is SUCH a jerd!
Jordan pauses
for a super-quick
half of a half second
before his face crinkles,
and he says, confused:
What even is a space campaign?
Ms. J
is so bad
at trying not to laugh
and trying to be mad,
but she tries anyway.
And when her face
does the thing?
Where her eyes chuckle?
But her mouth
frowns?
It fills me up
with little bubbles
that explode behind my nose
and make me snort.
(And then I snort more
when she gets
(not) mad
about that, too.)
When I stop snorting,
I start talking,
because, yeah,
I have a lot of questions now
(just like always).
Here’s a question
for everyone in this room
who’s smarter than me,
which might be everyone:
(Ms. J tosses me a look
that says, Oh come on,
you know you’re smart.
And I admit,
maybe
I said the thing
about not being smart
just so I could see that look
and tuck it away
to remember later.)
I pretend like I don’t see
that look, though,
because no way
do I want Ms. J
to know
I think about the things
she tells me
with her eyes
(and even her face).
That would be . . .
ugh . . .
super embarrassing.
I look up at the ceiling,
as if it has all the answers.
Why do we have to
BLAST OFF
to Planet Safe Space?
Like, you already blast off into space, right?
Why do you need to blast off to
Planet Safe Space?
Why can’t you just blast off
into space that is . . . safe?
You know?
Blast off into Safe Space?
Doesn’t that make more sense?
Ms. J’s mouth opens,
but I keep talking,
because my questions
make me think
of new questions.
And another question . . .
Who exactly
is writing about this
in the Hart Times?
We have our assignments already,
so . . . ?
Everyone stares at me.
ALSO! What if you’re not a boy or a girl?
Are you not invited to Planet Safe Space?
Those are . . .
&
nbsp; a lot of great questions.
Ms. J’s words slide together,
like she’s piecing together
the puzzle, too.
I’m sure Mr. Mann means
all genders are welcome.
Her crinkled face doesn’t look very sure, though.
As for the Hart Times article . . .
She shrugs.
No earthly idea what that’s about.
And really interesting point,
about Safe Space
minus the Planet part.
Great observation, Ben Y.
She puts her hand up for a high five.
But is this really
a high five
kind of moment?
Sometimes
Ms. J is so dorky,
it almost
actually
hurts
to be near her.
There’s a blur,
then a smacking sound
as Ms. J staggers back
before standing straight again
and out of nowhere,
Ace is here,
out of breath,
gasping,
Never—
leave—
a high five—
hanging—
Ace’s pink wig
is crooked
from the sudden running
and jumping
and high-fiving.
Ace’s smile is
also crooked
as it fades
almost as fast
as Ms. J’s smile did
one (post–high five)
second ago.
I’m sorry . . .
did you just RUN across this library?
Did you just SMACK ME unannounced?
Ms. J sucks in both of her lips,
turning her mouth into a line
that looks a lot like
the deep line
forming across
her Very Concerned
forehead.
Ace swallows hard,
adjusts the wig,
seems to need
a search party
to find the shining smile
from a second ago,
and in this flash,
I see something familiar
instead of fancy and new.
I see a kid in combat boots,
wearing a dirty pink wig,
and panicking
because
a teacher
just snatched control
of the moment
in a snap,
