by K. A. Holt
which one
will it—
What happened to you?
I blurt out,
not realizing
how loud
my voice will be
as I immediately
lose control
over all the other questions
that tumble out
next.
Like, for real?
Ms. J clears her throat,
taps her shoe against mine,
but I can’t stop now.
This storm has been brewing
for a really long time,
and you can’t cram
booming thunder
back into the clouds
once it lets loose.
Did space aliens steal your soul?
My voice keeps getting louder,
but no one tells me to be quiet.
Mr. Mann seems stunned,
like he’s trapped in MY web
of questions
for once.
I read this article.
I pull the folded Hart Times
circa 1988
out of my pocket
and spread it out
on his desk
in front of him.
I read a LOT of these articles.
And trust me,
I HATE to read.
But I read them all.
You know why?
I point at the blurry picture
of Malcom Mann’s
thirteen-year-old
face.
Because I couldn’t believe
THIS kid.
This NICE kid
could
POSSIBLY
be you.
But it is, isn’t it?
And you wrote this article, didn’t you?
It says right here that you—
YOU—
were worried about students feeling safe at school?
Like you say you are now?
Except . . . you aren’t worried about me feeling safe, are you?
Or Ace?
You do know our clothes literally can’t hurt anyone, right?
I glance at Ms. J.
She is not smiling.
She isn’t even blinking.
She’s staring at Mr. Mann.
Hard.
Maybe that’s why her eyes
are watering
like that.
Were YOU bullied in middle school, Mr. Mann?
Is that why you became a vice principal?
So you could stop bullies?
Or so you could become one?
Ms. J’s head whips around
at exactly the same time
my hand flies up,
covering my mouth
and Mr. Mann growls,
ENOUGH.
He leans forward in his seat now,
clasping his hands
on his desk,
almost like
he’s about to start
praying.
Or preying?
I’m SORRY,
but I thought
BENITA—
excuse me—
MX. Ybarra,
was here
to APOLOGIZE
for the
INSULTING missive
she used to DISRUPT
the ENTIRE school.
There’s a long pause.
No one says anything.
Mr. Mann’s eyes flash,
and he smiles just a little bit.
It’s the combo punch stare
grown-ups are so good at:
simmering danger,
camouflaged with a smile
that really means
Caution: danger ahead.
He points his next words
directly at me:
I SHAN’T respond
to ANY questions
until I get the APOLOGY
I DESERVE.
Ms. J blinks
about fifty-five times
like she’s trying to blink back
rage lasers
from shooting out
and frying Mr. Mann
right there
in front of us.
No, I’M sorry.
she says,
through gritted teeth.
We have a deadline to meet
if we are to get this
ADMIN-APPROVED
newspaper out on time.
Ben Y is currently working on the
AUTHORIZED article
profiling YOU
that YOU
requested.
She takes a deep
deep
breath,
like she’s breathing in
all the air in the room
so she can blow it out
like dragon fire.
The other matter is . . .
still under investigation.
And it will be
for quite some time,
I’m afraid,
as there are no witnesses
to the . . .
creation . . .
of the anonymous work.
Ms. J smiles politely.
There it is again.
Caution: danger ahead.
Mr. Mann opens his mouth.
He shuts it again.
He smiles at me,
like maybe
he wants to eat me.
MX. Ybarra?
Could you step into the hall for a moment?
I need to speak with Ms. Jackson.
Privately.
I leap up,
dash out,
and try not to feel guilty
for leaving
Ms. J in there
all by herself.
I mean,
have you ever seen a snake
unhinge its jaw
to eat an egg
or a mouse?
That’s what I’m worried is happening
right now
as I hear muffled shouts
coming from
behind the closed door
of Mr. Mann’s office.
Ms. J swings open the door,
motions for me to go go go,
so I go go go
and we are out of the front office,
breezing back to the library
before I can even ask:
Did he unhinge his jaw?
Or did you?
As we walk past
the Planet Safe Space poster,
I manage to ask,
What happened?
Back there?
Am I still writing the profile, or . . . ?
Ms. J whips around,
says nothing.
Then . . .
That was a little . . .
MORE
than I expected, Ben Y,
in terms of . . .
an interview.
I open my mouth
to let reasons
(and excuses)
tumble out,
but she holds up
her Stop hand
so I shut my mouth again
and stay quiet.
Mr. Mann,
well,
he didn’t enjoy your
interviewing . . .
style.
And while he admits that, yes,
he is requiring the admin profile,
he is now, frustratingly,
refusing to agree
to the required interview,
unless . . .
until . . .
well . . .
She sighs deeply,
gazing up at the ceiling
as if the answers
might fall from
the dusty
AC duct.
Why don’t you just . . .
continue using
the old Hart Times
as research
for your Admin Spotlight.
This newspaper is coming out,
if I have
to print it
my own hooverdamself.
I nod.
She nods.
For a minute,
neither of us
says anything else,
both lost
in our thoughts.
You know how
a cartoon character
has a dark scribble
floating over their head
when they get mad
or frustrated?
I’m pretty sure,
if I squint right now,
I can see
an extra-scribbly scribble
vibrating
over Ms. J’s
already
vibrating
pouf of a ponytail.
Get to work, Ben Y.
The time is nigh.
I don’t know what that means,
but I nod anyway
and I jog away
before I get tangled up
in that expanding
angry scribble.
Jordan, Javier, Ben B
huddle around a table
as Javier draws fast,
his deep chuckles
making Jordan giggle
and Ben B cackle,
and none of them look up
to see me as I walk past,
heading to the stacks
to read as many
circa 1988 Hart Times
as I can find.
Ace waves a book at me,
and I think
if Ace thinks
waving a book
is the way
to get me to come over,
then Ace
really doesn’t know me
at all.
Ace appears in the stacks,
watching me dig through
a million Hart Times.
My article is almost done.
How’s yours coming along?
Need any help?
I don’t look up.
Nope.
A wave of curls
turns toward me,
the fresh-mint smile
looks serious,
then falters
for just a second,
like a tightrope walker
who wobbles
but doesn’t fall.
Question for you:
I don’t, uh, guess you speak Russian, do you?
My faces scrunches up,
saying huh?
before my mouth
can catch up.
Out of all the questions
I would guess Ace might ask,
THAT was not one of them,
not even in the top
billion.
I definitely do not speak Russian.
There’s a long pause
and I wonder if maybe
Ace is speaking some kind of code
I don’t understand.
My mom is a professor.
Ace’s fingers drum on the book.
She teaches Russian history, so
there are a lot of Russian books
all over my house.
I don’t know enough Russian to read them,
but Mom taught me the Cyrillic alphabet.
What is Ace talking about?
Sorry . . . what are you talking about?
The what alphabet?
Ace blinks for a long time,
summoning something.
Patience?
Courage?
A nap?
I know you’re busy writing your article, but . . .
Can you log into your cabin right now?
So I can show you how I did it?
And maybe you can forgive me?
For that, at least?
And maybe at least half
of all the uncomfortable weirdness can stop?
And maybe we can be friends?
Even if it’s just half friends?
To start?
It’s like Ace just dumped ice water
over my head
and down my back
and into my shoes.
I try not to gasp.
But I do.
My last secret hope
flutters out
from the shadows of my guts,
exploding bright within my chest,
making me gasp shallow breaths
that darken the edges of my sight,
because of course
of course
I believed Benicio that night.
He said he would be right back.
Why wouldn’t he be back?
And it’s a million years later
and he never came back,
not until the other night in our chat,
and now Ace is staring at me,
not smiling anymore,
but eyes still sparkling
because I don’t think Ace can ever
not sparkle.
And I close my eyes,
my turn for a long blink,
so I can really feel the feelings,
so I can ride the one last wave
of hope as it crashes
and dies
and fades away.
I’ve always known.
But now I really know.
Ace reaches over
and squeezes my hand,
quickly and just once,
and now I’m riding a new wave,
new feelings
I don’t recognize
or understand.
I open my eyes.
Ace’s smile wobbles again.
It’s a softer, quiet smile.
No 24-carat shine,
no teeth-whitening commercial.
I want to jump up.
I want to run
and run
and run
until I get ahead
of the feelings,
the waves,
the deafening roar
of everything
crashing toward me.
I don’t run, though.
I stay.
And I say,
We have to wait.
And Ace says,
Wait?
And I say,
Until Newspaper Typing Club is over.
I don’t want anyone thinking we’re playing Sandbox,
and I don’t want to explain—
And Ace says,
Okay.
And we stay at the table,
far away
from everyone,
and we don’t work on anything
and we don’t say anything
and we don’t look at each other,
and we wait.
< NOT FUN CHAT >
PlanetSafeAce: the Cyrillic alphabet has a lot of cool letters our alphabet doesn’t have
0BenwhY: . . .
PlanetSafeAce: one of them sounds like *you*
0BenwhY: like me? huh?
PlanetSafeAce: no, like U
PlanetSafeAce: it looks like this: Ю
0BenwhY: okaaaaay?
0BenwhY: Ace I really really feel like I want to kick your butt to the moon right now, so—
PlanetSafeAce: here look: my way: SBЮBEN
PlanetSafeAce: the old way: SB10BEN
PlanetSafeAce: see how it looks almost exactly the same?
PlanetSafeAce: it was easy to create a new avatar name that—
0BenwhY: very divergent thinking Ace, congrats, no wonder Ms. J loves you
0BenwhY: but figuring out a way to fake Benicio’s avatar doesn’t explain WHY you did it
0BenwhY: WHY
0BenwhY: that’s the real question
0BenwhY: does the Russian alphabet explain that?
PlanetSafeAce: i wanted you to notice . . .
PlanetSafeAce: the tiny difference in the name
PlanetSafeAce: see it, ask me about it
0BenwhY: so you wanted, what? You pretending to be my dead brother to be a GAME?
0BenwhY: or, worse . . . you wanted it to
be some kind of TEST I had to pass?
0BenwhY: you realize that makes it extra mean and terrible, right?
0BenwhY: asking the kid with the dead brother
0BenwhY: AND dyslexia
0BenwhY: to find a RUSSIAN LETTER IN A FAKE AVATAR NAME?
I push away from the computer.
I can’t even look at Ace.
I can’t see anything.
Tears, snot, puffs of angry breath,
all of it streams out of me
as I finally
run
run
run
like I wanted to
in the first place.
RUNNING
I try to erase Ace
and everything
out
out
out
of my mind
as I
run
run
run
past every bus stop
past every house
past every thought
past every feeling,
until the only things
that survive inside me
are my pumping heart
and churning stomach
and all the sweat
and all the tears
still leaking out.
I stop when my side hurts
too much
and my breath comes
too fast
and I can’t figure out
if I’m going to barf
or pass out
or both.
Ben Y?
I look up
from where I lie
in a bed
of cool grass.
Why are you lying in Mr. Oppenheimer’s yard?
Jordan squints and frowns,
kneeling down,
putting his face
closer to mine.
He has a puppy
on a leash
that also puts its face
close to mine.
And licks it.
A lot.
Are you feeling okay? You don’t look like you’re feeling okay?
Should I go get my mom? I think I’m going to go get my mom.
Jordan stands,
turns fast,
pulling the puppy away,
but my hand shoots out,
grabbing the back
of his shorts
and my words shoot out,
grabbing his attention back
to my face:
No.
Jordan.
It’s okay.
Please don’t.
