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Ben Y and the Ghost in the Machine

Page 13

by K. A. Holt


  which sounds weird,

  but wasn’t.

  And the friends I have now

  never knew Benicio

  called me grasshopper

  because they never knew Benicio.

  That is another thought

  I tuck away

  in my brainclouds . . .

  something to think

  a lot more about

  some other time,

  if I’m ever able to

  think about anything

  other than this thing,

  which is that

  Ace

  called me grasshopper.

  Ace did.

  Ace.

  WHY

  NOW

  0BenwhY: hi, creeper

  SBЮBEN: creeper? come on! I thought we sorted that out.

  0BenwhY: we have sorted nothing out.

  SBЮBEN: Is this about me having to disappear before?

  SBЮBEN: i lost track of time and was about to be in big trouble

  SBЮBEN: anyway. that’s a boring story.

  SBЮBEN: how are you? Long time no talk.

  0BenwhY: *has* it been a long time?

  SBЮBEN: what do you mean?

  0BenwhY: I mean, it feels like we JUST had a chat

  SBЮBEN: can’t stop thinking about me, huh?

  0BenwhY: well you ARE still impersonating my dead brother

  0BenwhY: it’s hard not to think about that

  0BenwhY: also, I think you’re reading the chat archives

  0BenwhY: none of those things are great ways to get me to like you here OR irl

  SBЮBEN: very fair point, and also that makes me sound like a huge turd

  0BenwhY: because you are acting like a huge turd

  0BenwhY: tell me who you are.

  SBЮBEN: Not until you’ve had some time to get to know me. And like me.

  SBЮBEN: Plus, I think you already know.

  0BenwhY: tell me who you are.

  SBЮBEN: I think you already know.

  0BenwhY: TELL ME WHO YOU ARE

  SBЮBEN: I THINK YOU ALREADY KNOW. I’VE BEEN LEAVING CLUES.

  0BenwhY: anything can be a clue if you want it to be

  0BenwhY: Everything can be a clue if you want it to be

  SBЮBEN: More fair points. You’re good at those.

  0BenwhY: stop trying to change the subject every time I ask who you are

  0BenwhY: I have to go before I get mad

  SBЮBEN: noooo! you’re getting mad?? Why??

  SBЮBEN: i thought we were bantering . . . joking around

  0BenwhY: that’s what you want me to like about you?

  0BenwhY: how funny you think you are in chat????? While you’re, like, Sandbox-cosplaying my dead brother????????

  0BenwhY: if you can’t figure out why that makes me mad . . . argh!

  0BenwhY: make sure to go back and read THIS chat archive while you’re reading all the rest

  0BenwhY: bet you’ll figure it out

  0BenwhY: also, DON’T actually read the chat archives. Those are private.

  0BenwhY HAS EXITED GAME

  HOME

  You’re in here again?

  Is this your room now, or something?

  Esme stands in the doorway,

  watching me wipe my eyes

  as I turn off Benicio’s computer.

  Do you still have my markers?

  Her chirps are unsure

  as she looks me over,

  trying to figure out

  what’s going on.

  I shake my head.

  No markers.

  I give her my best smile,

  which is only a sideways half smile

  because my face can’t catch up

  to all my different feelings

  right now.

  You should come in.

  I stand up

  then flop myself

  fast and bouncy

  onto Benicio’s bed.

  His pillow is still missing.

  It’s okay.

  He wouldn’t mind.

  Esme squints,

  shakes her head.

  We both know

  if he were alive

  he would probably

  still be dumb

  about letting anyone go into

  his room.

  Well, hey.

  I give her a jokey half smile

  and a giant shrug.

  At least he can’t get mad anymore.

  Esme thinks about this

  like it’s not a really bad attempt

  at a really bad non-joke,

  and she nods,

  very seriously,

  before she bolts

  into the room,

  crashing into me,

  linking her arms

  around my neck

  and whispering into my ear,

  He can’t be mad,

  but he still loves us, right?

  I don’t have a lot of answers,

  but this is one answer

  I do know.

  My squeeze tells her

  just how right

  I know she is.

  This day

  has been a thousand days,

  a million years,

  a forever plus infinity

  and I’m so so so tired.

  But when I want to sleep,

  it stays just out of my reach,

  like in those movies

  with hallways

  that stretch and stretch,

  fooling you into thinking

  the exit door is right there,

  even though it’s always

  not quite ever there.

  I can’t stop thinking about Ace

  and the bus

  and the grasshopper

  and the chat I had with Not-Benicio tonight

  and the last chat I ever had with Real Benicio

  and the thing is,

  I know I ask a lot of questions

  and I know I complain

  when I don’t have answers,

  but right now,

  even though

  I’m pretty sure

  I have the answer

  to a really big question,

  I kind of wish

  I didn’t.

  There’s no use trying to sleep,

  so I climb off my bunk,

  sneak past Esme,

  who chirps

  even in her sleep,

  and into Benicio’s room

  where I left my backpack

  when I got home from school.

  I pull out the folded sheet

  Ms. J gave me,

  to help me research

  my authorized admin profile,

  and I sit at Benicio’s desk,

  turning on the lamp

  that looks like

  a Sandbox torch.

  It’s a page

  from an old Hart Times

  with a few things circled . . .

  and . . .

  ooooh.

  Whoa.

  Is this what she meant?

  About paying attention?

  We were all so busy laughing

  at Jordan’s Hot Takes

  and Ms. J’s giant glasses

  that we missed this,

  completely.

  Malcolm Mann.

  Deputy Editor.

  Not bald yet.

  No mustache yet.

  But those eyes don’t lie.

  It’s him.

  For sure.

  And the title of his column?

  “Fight the Mann:

  Students’ Rights are Human Rights.”

  WHAT.

  < NEWSPAPER TYPING CLUB CHAT >

  JJ11347: Whoa whoa wow! What happened in here? I hardly recognize this place!

  BenBee: shiitake mushrooms! WHO did all of this?

  jajajavier:): Look at this over here!

  jajajavier:): hahaha, check it out!

  jajajavier:): the sign says
LOUD ROOM instead of STUDY ROOM.

  jajajavier:): You can blow stuff up in here! Cool!

  BenBee: And look at this! It’s like that accidental chickenfall I made once, but with books.

  jajajavier:): A bookfall! Don’t stand at the bottom of it.

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!: A library really CAN be magical. Just like you said, Ms. J.

  JJ11347: Oh, you y’alls.

  BenBee: seriously, though. Who built all of this?

  BenBee: 0BenwhY, *you’re* super quiet.

  Who’s ready for some Newspapering?

  Ace’s voice echoes toward us

  as an Ace-shaped blur runs top speed

  through the library,

  interrupting our chat,

  making us look up,

  eyeballs peering over monitors

  like we’re all . . .

  what are those animals

  that peek their eyes

  out of the holes in the ground

  where they live?

  Prairie dogs?

  Like that.

  PlanetSafeAce ENTERS GAME

  JJ11347: Hello, Ace. Nice of you to join us . . . THIRTY minutes late.

  PlanetSafeAce: Sorry about that, Ms. J.

  PlanetSafeAce: dress coded AGAIN. I told Mr. Mann to talk to you

  PlanetSafeAce: like you said to do

  PlanetSafeAce: I hope that’s ok

  JJ11347: Absolutely ok, Ace. Thank you for listening to me.

  PlanetSafeAce: Hi, everybody.

  0BenwhY: someone better take credit for all this cool stuff, before Ace does

  JJ11347: Ben Y!

  jajajavier:): Hi, Ace.

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!:

  JJ11347: Jordan!

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!: sorry. my hand slipped on the keyboard.

  JJ11347: Time for some newspapering, everyone.

  JJ11347: Those authorized articles aren’t going to write themselves.

  JJ11347: Let’s save and exit and get to work.

  jajajavier:): Aw, really?? But there’s still a bunch of new stuff we haven’t even checked out yet.

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!: hahaha, get it?? Checked out?? And we’re in a library??

  PlanetSafeAce:

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!: that high five was for Javi

  PlanetSafeAce: oh. sorry.

  Ms. J stands,

  smoothing her caftan.

  Ben Y.

  Can I see you for a second?

  Ms. J tilts her head,

  resting her giant hoop earring

  on her turquoise shoulder

  as she sneaks her way

  into looking at my face.

  Did you look at the . . .

  research . . .

  I provided?

  For your authorized article?

  I . . .

  Uh . . .

  A smile sneaks

  to the corners

  of my mouth.

  I did.

  Her eyes catch mine,

  holding them

  for just a second

  so I can see

  the sparks.

  And?

  she asks.

  Did you prepare some questions?

  We’re staring down a deadline, so . . .

  how about we go

  conduct

  that

  interview?!

  She looks excited

  and maybe angry?

  But not angry with me.

  I think.

  Shouldn’t we, like—

  call first or something?

  My heartbeat doubles

  at the thought of

  walking right into

  Mr. Mann’s office.

  That’s like

  walking right into

  the belly of a beast.

  Are we even allowed to . . .

  just . . .

  show up . . .

  in Mr. Mann’s office?

  He’s always in the halls.

  How are we supposed to find him?

  Unless . . .

  we could use Ace as bait.

  Haha.

  Sorry.

  Not funny.

  I keep talking

  because there’s no way,

  no way,

  I can tell her

  I don’t have any questions.

  Ms. J’s face looks pointy,

  flashing,

  almost like Benicio’s

  when he knew

  he was starting an argument

  just for the fun of it.

  We will NOT be using anyone

  as bait.

  We WILL be using

  your smart questions

  and journalistic intuition.

  Ready?

  Let’s go!

  I nod.

  I hold my breath,

  feeling my heart pound.

  I’m sure I can think of some questions, right?

  I mean, that IS my specialty.

  We walk down the hall,

  and it’s like her swooshing caftan

  carries us both

  on a breathless breeze.

  I can’t believe you both

  went to school here,

  I manage to stammer

  as we blow through

  hallway

  after hallway.

  Ms. J slows her pace, nodding.

  Malcolm Mann,

  Hart Times

  Deputy Editor,

  and I . . .

  we go way back.

  The sparks

  from Ms. J’s eyes

  turn to bursting fireworks.

  It feels a little bit

  (or maybe a lotta bit)

  like Ms. J wishes she

  was the one

  about to conduct

  the Malcolm Mann Admin Profile.

  As we wait

  to get called back

  to Mr. Mann’s office,

  a thought pierces my brain.

  Maybe it’s weird

  this never occurred to me

  before I saw all those old

  Hart Times circa 1988,

  but:

  Ms. J was my age once.

  She lived in this town

  as a kid

  like me.

  Maybe she rode the 315.

  Maybe she hated gym.

  Maybe she waded through beige

  every day

  and dreamed

  of swimming through

  sparkles and rainbows

  instead.

  How could she not dream of that?

  How could she not plan her escape?

  How could she still be here?

  Still working on the Hart Times?

  Now??

  A hundred thousand years AFTER

  1988???

  Still spending nearly every day

  looking into the weasel face

  of Malcolm Mann,

  former Deputy Editor,

  current

  [fart noise]????

  A shiver

  spills down

  my spine

  as I wonder,

  Will I still live here,

  in this

  same small town

  when I am

  as old

  as Ms. J?

  Will I still be

  a Hart Rocket,

  never blasting off

  to a new world

  or a new life

  or a new anything?

  Will I still have to face

  [insert name of anyone

  from the beige blob

  here]

  nearly

  every

  day?

  I shudder

  like I just drank

  orange juice

  after brushing my teeth.

  Well, HELLO.

  Mr. Mann stands

  in the doorway

  leading back

  to all the admin offices.

  What a . . .
/>
  lovely SURPRISE.

  Ms. Jackson,

  MX. Ybarra,

  come on BACK.

  I throw a look at Ms. J

  that says,

  This feels like a terrible idea.

  Ms. J throws a look at me

  that says,

  This is about to be an ADVENTURE.

  And I don’t know how

  she can make fun of him

  with only her eyes,

  but she does,

  and it makes me relax,

  just enough

  to almost make me

  smile.

  Thank you for seeing us,

  Mal— Mr. Mann.

  Mr. Mann leans back,

  his chair squeaking,

  his eyes narrowing.

  We won’t take up too much time.

  Ben Y has some questions for you.

  For the—

  authorized—

  admin profile.

  Ms. J continues.

  Her voice is

  as easy-breezy

  as her caftan.

  I thought I’d tag along

  to listen in.

  Take it away, Ben Y.

  They both stare at me.

  I stare at my hands,

  which miraculously hold

  both a pencil

  and a piece of paper.

  When did that happen?

  Uh.

  I clear my throat.

  The paper in front of me is blank.

  I close my eyes.

  I think of all the questions

  crashing into each other

  between the walls

  of my skull

  last night,

  when I saw

  the old article

  about students’ rights

  being human rights,

  and how Malcom Mann,

  Deputy Editor

  of the Hart Times

  circa 1988,

  seemed to be . . .

  a nice

  and thoughtful

  kid.

  If I reach out

  and grab one,

  just one

  of those questions,

 

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