Ben Y and the Ghost in the Machine

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.