by K. A. Holt
the consequences would be DIRE,
but I just thought
extra detention,
not this. . . .
Ace looks down at the poncho.
A sticky stain drips down
between the word DRESS
and the word CODE,
and there are other
unidentified
blotches, too. . . .
Maybe mold?
Grosssss.
Ace’s face twists,
dissolving
into the blackest hole
of frowns.
Mr. Mann grabbed me,
like actually grabbed my arm,
and dragged me,
like actually dragged me,
into the front office
and said I had to wear this
or . . .
or . . . he’d call my grandma.
And Ben Y,
that is NOT a thing
that can happen.
I had no idea
they could DO this
to someone.
Did you?
Ace takes a breath
that’s also
a bit of a hiccup.
Hey,
I say,
That jerd can eat my farts.
No, he can eat OUR farts.
Our farts.
Because we’re a We.
Ace’s head tilts to the side
just a smidge more
to see me better
I guess
in the shadows
under the stairs.
A tiny tiny half smile
sneaks into the corner
of Ace’s mouth.
Are you wearing a belt under that thing?
Ace nods.
Excellent.
I have an idea.
Hand it over.
Okay. Yes.
I can own this look.
Ace laughs,
looking down
at our belts crisscrossed
over the words DRESS CODE
in a Conan the Barbarian
kind of way.
Then,
out of nowhere,
Ace hugs me tight
and whispers,
Thank you.
Over Ace’s shoulder,
I see Jordan on the stairs,
looking down,
twirling a bathroom pass.
Jordan starts to wave,
but brushes his bangs
from his face instead
and then walks back
the way he came.
Ace lets go quickly,
saying,
Sorry.
I probably should have asked first.
Before the hugging.
Not everyone likes that.
It’s okay,
I say.
But my mind is on Jordan now,
and why he didn’t say hi.
Jordan never
doesn’t say hi.
For a second
we both stand there,
under the stairs,
saying nothing,
lost in our own worlds.
I snap back to now,
nod once,
put my hands on my hips,
and do my best
Ms. J impression:
Looking good, Ace.
Now go to class.
Own it.
Flaunt it.
Make it work.
Ace grins,
runs back into the main hallway,
and disappears
with a see-it-from-space
poncho swoosh
(that reminds me
just a little bit
of Ms. J’s
swooshy caftans).
When I’m five seconds
from class,
I take a corner too fast,
and I smash into
a glob of girls
outside the bathroom.
Hey, it’s Ben Who What Why!
someone says.
Hey, you’re right,
IT is Ben Who What Why!
someone else says with a sniff
like the word IT has a smell
no one likes.
Hey, how’s IT going, Ben Who What Why?
The first voice asks,
like I would actually answer.
Fire crawls,
crackling up my face,
sizzling my eyes
as I try
to push by
the glob.
Ben Who What Whyyyyy are you so rude?
Can’t you hear us talking to you?
The edges
of my vision
go dark,
a closing circle
of rage
as I turn,
delivering
one
gentle
dead-leg bonk
to the back
of Annabelle’s knee,
tumbling her
to the ground,
so I can easily
twist her around
to look up at me,
squeezing her lips
between my fingers
like I’ve grabbed a fish
and am about
to pry out
a wriggling mess
of words
or worms
from
ITS
mouth.
Oh, am I rude?
Sorry about that!
My words smile at her surprise,
while she squeals through her nose,
while her friends squeal at her side,
and my pinpoint
refocuses.
How now
to cram my sincere
and heartfelt
apologies
via my fist
down Annabelle’s
vibrating,
car-alarming
throat?
Miss Ybarra.
Get lost on your way to class?
Mr. Mann
appears
out of nowhere,
arms crossed,
voice loud:
RELEASE Miss Smith.
[very short pause]
Immediately.
I give Annabelle’s mouth
one
last
twist
before I let go,
with maybe
possibly
a bit of a shove
away from me
for emphasis,
releasing her
back into the beige sea.
You can call me Mx. Ybarra.
The sparks fly from my mouth.
Their heat burns my eyes.
It’s spelled M-x.
And it’s used for anyone:
boys, girls, everyones.
Mr. Mann sighs deeply,
and uh-oh.
Mr. Mann’s deep sighs
only mean one thing:
A speech is coming,
and it cannot be stopped.
MX. Ybarra,
I know this is a NEW concept,
BUT . . .
listen CAREFULLY.
Mr. Mann likes to
EMPHASIZE
certain WORDS
during
his SPEECHES
so that YOU
feel extra
DUMB.
He points his pointy nose
right at me
while he sniffs loudly
and barks out:
We are ALL
on a JOURNEY
TOGETHER
to Planet SAFE Space.
KINDNESS
is our fuel,
and without
KINDNESS FUEL . . .
He shrugs
like he can’t help
what’s about to happen,
YOU,
MX. Ybarra,
will be
LEFT BEHIND.
His chest puffs out
like that explains that.
I wipe Annabelle’s lip gloss
off my fingers
and onto the concrete wall.
My eyes start to water.
Probably from all the burning
in my face.
I look at the smirks,
I hear the laugh-snorts
disguised as short coughs,
in the blob of beige.
I imagine a whole planet
made of Annabelles.
Fine by me!
My voice is louder than I expected.
PLEASE leave me behind!
I mean . . .
who wants to live on a planet
filled with mean boring monsters?
I choose
to blast off,
to literally
any
other
planet,
thanks.
I channel a smidge of Ace
as I face the blob,
stick out my tongue,
and give a small bow
before I turn and run.
But where am I running?
To gym?
No way.
I’m already gonna be soooo late
and I just cannot EVEN
with that hot mess today.
So I keep running.
Not to gym.
Not to room 113.
But out.
Out.
Out the school doors.
Down the sidewalk.
All the way to the bus stop
where I stop,
even though
I feel like
I could keep running
for days.
Humid heat
melts the last
of the school AC
off my skin
as I breathe deep,
and decide
to keep running after all,
(to the next bus stop
at least)
so I can keep
smashing my feet
harder and faster
in front of me,
and I can keep
enjoying the feeling
of the seeping beige
melting off me,
in what I imagine
looks like
streaming steam,
billowing and huge,
being dissolved
and swallowed
by the deep blue sky
above me.
The 315 pulls up
and I hold back
for just a second,
because this is
something
I never do,
like, ever.
Despite taking a vacation
from gym
every now and then,
I’m really not
a class-skipping
kind of kid.
But here I am
not only skipping class,
but about to skip
the whole rest of the day
of school?
That’s like,
big-time trouble
if I get caught.
Except . . .
A thought explodes
in my brain,
opening my eyes
to the idea that . . .
honestly?
In-school suspension
would be kind of nice
if it meant no beige,
no hallways,
no comments my way
for a whole day
or week
or whatever
the punishment
would be.
I fling myself
up the stairs
and onto the bus,
and I do the scan I always do.
But this time,
none of the faces on the bus
belong to the regulars I see
in the mornings.
There are none of the smiles or nods
I’m used to getting
in the afternoons.
That makes me feel extra alone,
and it’s a little scary, actually,
like I took the wrong bus,
or like the world becomes
a different place
during the day
when I’m in school.
At my stop,
I leap off,
keep running,
and thank goodness
my house is still there,
not different
or weird
or gone.
Not that I
really thought
it would be,
but I’m relieved
just the same.
I put in the garage code,
throw my hip into the door,
burst into the kitchen,
and wow.
I haven’t been at home
in the middle of the morning
in the middle of the week
since,
I don’t know,
maybe ever?
I guess I really am,
technically,
a class-skipping,
school-skipping
kind of kid
now.
Is that a benefit,
or a side effect
of my new look?
I go to Benicio’s room,
leap on his bed,
thinking maybe
possibly
I could take a nap,
even though,
weirdly,
his pillow is missing,
but then—
wait—
what was that noise?
There it is again . . .
like a cat’s howl,
but quieter,
more sad,
stretched-out,
and close by,
like,
right here,
in the house,
coming from
just down the hall.
Mom’s bedroom door
isn’t closed all the way
for maybe the first time
in the history
of ever,
and I can tell
from the shiver down my neck,
and the rising hairs on my arms
that the
stretched-out
quiet
sad
howl
is coming
from inside.
Of course I think,
AHHH GHOST
because that’s
the first thing
anyone would think
when they hear
a stretched-out
quiet
sad
howl
coming from
a barely open door
at the end of the hall.
(Even if it’s the door
to their mom’s bedroom,
and even if,
previously,
there have been no ghosts
heard
or seen
in the house.)
But as I get closer—
(Why, feet?
Why would you think
it’s okay
to bring me closer
to the sound
instead of away???)
As I get closer—
the sound slides
into my brain
and chisels away
at a memory
buried deep.
I know this sound.
It’s not a ghost.
It’s Mom.
Crying.
On her knees.
Overcome with grief.
Just like that day
that feels like yesterday
but also a million years ago,
Benicio’s funeral,
where we all made sounds
like animals
because none of us
knew how to be a human
in a world
without him.
I peek through the crack,
where the door
isn’t quite shut,
and watch Mom,
kneeling by her bed,
like she’s praying,
but instead,
her face is buried
in Benicio’s pillow,
muffling her howls,
but not hiding
her grief at all,
and I back away,
the hairs on my arms
still standing,
the back of my neck
still tingling,
because this is—
worse?
scarier?
more surprising?—
than finding
a real live ghost
in the house.
Mom doesn’t cry.
Not anymore.
Mom is tired, sure.
Mom gets lost in her thoughts, sure.
Mom prays for our souls, sure.
And, sometimes,
on good days,
Mom makes bad jokes.
Sure.
But she never cries.
Not anymore.
At least,
that’s what I thought.
That’s how it seemed,
day after day
after day
after day.
But this?
This means what?
Does she come home from work
to howl before lunch?
Does she do it a lot?
I back my way
back down the hall
back through the kitchen
back to the garage
back outside
back to the bus stop
back to the 315
and back to school
where everything
might be awful,
but at least it isn’t
cat-howl terrifying
in the middle of the morning.
BACK AT SCHOOL
The library
at Hart Middle School,
Home of the Rockets,
always has a low rumble
made of laughing
and chatting
and kids making stuff
or working on puzzles,
or even studying.
Before school,
during school,
after school,
it’s like the brain
or maybe the heart
of the building,
sucking in
and pumping out
laughs and thoughts,
nonstop.
As soon as I escape
from whatever
just happened
at home,
(and after realizing
my backpack
is still taking a nap
on Benicio’s bed
without me,
