His shoulder skimmed the wall as he turned the corner. He flicked the kitchen lights on and scavenged the cabinets.
With a sniffle, he lugged a box of chocolate flakes onto the counter with a slam. His head spun, so he paused to balance it before reaching for a bowl.
His stomach rumbled as he opened the refrigerator. He wrapped his cold fingers around the milk handle. His muscles working against him, the jug felt ten times heavier. Perhaps his body was already preparing for death.
He poured a perfect bowl of chocolate flakes. Filled it nearly to the brim. Seeped the milk in halfway. He left the jug and box of cereal on the counter and raised the bowl with shaky white fingers. When he reached the hallway, he turned off the light with his elbow, spilling a few drops of milk on the floor. They shimmered under the illumination of the fridge he had forgotten to shut.
Benji wiped the droplets with his big toe, running the milk into streams across the floor. He frowned, returned to his room, and dropped the bowl onto his desk. The cereal spun inside like a typhoon in the sea. He reached for the spoon.
I forgot a spoon.
He lifted the bowl unsteadily, bringing the edge to his lips. The chocolate flakes seeped into his tongue. When the sensation came that he was about to choke, Benji pulled the bowl away and leaned over his desk, cheeks puffy and filled with cereal. He did his best to chew and swallow, but it refused to go down. Streams of milk trickled from the corners of his lips until there was a perfect amount for him to eat without gagging. He wiped away the sticky milk with his sleeve.
Any moment now he’d be ready to throw up. He could feel it. In an obscure way, he almost wanted to. It’d be nice to let go of some of the stress clotted inside him. But no matter how much he willed to vomit, all that left him were tears.
They dripped across his cheeks slow enough to wipe away before reaching his chin. At first he could manage to extinguish them, but the more time passed, the faster they came, and he couldn’t keep up with them anymore. He wiped repeatedly, but the tears refused to cease. His face was never dry.
So Benji crawled back into bed, silently sobbing into his pillow. A shimmering bowl of soggy cereal waited on his desk.
The voice in his head echoed throughout the night as he clutched the blankets around him. “This is what you wanted, Benji,” the voice said. “You asked for change. You asked for something new.”
When Benji had calmed the rush of tears and settled his stomach, he peeled away the sheets to see the sun meeting the horizon. Rebecca brushed her teeth in the room next door to the morning weather report chatting through the radio.
He slipped out of bed and changed into the same clothes he wore yesterday. Staring into the mirror with an unfamiliar gaze, he saw the redness in his eyes and the frizziness in his short hair. He rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair until he was a tad more confident about his image.
Benji smiled.
That same old smile he would smile every day. The smile that proved to everyone in town that he was okay. The smile that perhaps was the only thing about Benji that hadn’t changed.
But it didn’t feel like he was smiling.
CHAPTER 18
monochrome
Wishville Junior High was foreign to him. The school he’d been in for nearly three years, the school that bored him with its predictable bells, the school that trapped him for seven hours every weekday he was alive—it was bearable, enjoyable. As he walked down the hall, the blooming worries that plagued him throughout the night withered away.
Benji remembered his first day of sixth grade. It was colorful. The evergreen lockers, the glittering ocean waving at him through the hallway window, the rainbow of colors students wore in their unique styles. The colors were everywhere. Vibrant. He was absorbed by them, but soon enough, school grew old, mundane, and he learned to tune the colors out the way a child forgets learning to walk. Wishville Junior High was no longer colorful, but monochrome, only the occasional color appearing to him if he concentrated hard enough, if he really put in the effort. Even then, it was rare.
But on Benji’s last day of school, Wishville Junior High was back. He didn’t realize the place he’d been introduced to on his first day of sixth grade was missing until it returned.
He saw colors again. The ocean no longer blended into the gray sky. It waved at him. The lockers were as green as the forest. The students wore colors of all shades, even pink and orange, the most subtly obnoxious. He later saw a tinge of red in the sky as he kicked a soccer ball toward Ray in the morning fog.
But what Benji no longer saw were the people who once brought color to his monochrome life. Now they were gray. Fading into the distance, unrecognizable.
He didn’t see Chloe lying alone on the rug in Blueberry. Didn’t see the picture of the four of them hung in her dining room at the same height as her parents’ wedding photo. He didn’t see her chasing everyone with glue, trying to piece them back together.
He didn’t see the pile of sheet music accumulating on Sam’s desk. Didn’t see the blisters on her fingers. He didn’t see her spending every waking hour practicing the songs, humming them, tapping her fingers against her desk, immersing herself.
He didn’t see the books disappearing from James’s locker. Didn’t see the papers get shredded, burned, soaked, released into the wind. He didn’t see the wooden puzzles buried in the backyard of a beautiful home on Main Street.
But at least he saw the colors.
* * *
“Please, sit.”
Mr. Trenton motioned to a chair facing his desk, and Benji sat.
It was lunch. Benji’s last lunch at school, but instead of spending the time how he pleased, Mr. Trenton requested to steal it.
“This doesn’t have to be long.” The teacher wheeled his chair closer to his desk, tightening the gap between them. “I’d just like to check in.”
Benji spotted one of the soccer boys standing outside the classroom window. He was too far for Benji to gauge who he was, considering Alex and Ray’s strange similarities. The boy jumped and waved at Benji through the glass, threw a soccer ball into the air, and kicked it down the field.
Mr. Trenton set his elbows on the desk, leaning closer. “Losing someone you care about is one of the most challenging experiences in life. And knowing someone who has to go through loss is often equally challenging.”
He peeled his eyes from the window, facing Mr. Trenton’s tight grin.
“But I have a feeling this might not be about Nina.”
Benji blinked.
Mr. Trenton allowed him the opportunity to speak, but when Benji didn’t acknowledge it, slid a single paper toward him. On it was the number 83.
Benji raised his chin with a smile. “I don’t get it.”
“This is your English grade exactly one week ago. May 12th. The day you heard the news.” He flipped a second page on top. “And this is your grade today.”
On it was the number 64 written boldly in red.
“You haven’t been keeping up with the reading, turning in any of your daily assignments, participating in class discussions, and now you’re missing two weekly reflections in a row. You also had an essay due today, which I didn’t receive. And if that’s not enough, Mrs. Crowley told me you turned in a blank paper for your bone-naming test yesterday. She’s been reviewing with your class for months.” Mr. Trenton raised a fresh pencil from his desk, rubbing his thumb against the unsharpened end. “Look, I know this isn’t easy, but there’s less than three weeks until the end of the year. If you continue at this rate, you won’t be able to graduate.”
Three weeks. Only three weeks until he’d be finished with the year and preparing for high school, but he wouldn’t make it. He was so close that it left his blood boiling. Today was his last day of school. That was hard enough. But now Mr. Trenton was reminding him of graduation, a day he had looked
forward to since the colors disappeared, but would never reach.
“Benji?”
“Sorry. There’s been a lot on my mind.” He leaned back in his seat, watching Mr. Trenton’s forehead in hopes that it’d pass for eye contact.
“Does this have to do with your friends?”
Benji shook his head.
“I hardly see you four together anymore.” He spun the pencil around a few more times before tossing it onto the two stacked papers. “If you’d like to talk to me about something—whatever it is—I’m open ears.”
Benji relaxed his fist, regaining control. “Sorry about the work. I’ll turn everything in next week.” The words flew effortlessly off his tongue. Smooth. They were almost sweet.
Mr. Trenton’s brows drooped, and his eyes lost that shimmering charm. “Okay.” He pursed his lips and nodded his head. “But I hope you keep my words in mind.”
“Well,” Benji said, “I will admit that I haven’t been feeling well lately. I think I might be sick. It’s been kinda hard to focus during class.”
“I see.” His voice was higher than usual, a touch of skepticism. He raised his wrist to check the time. “In that case, you should get some rest. Why don’t you head to the office and give your mom a call?”
Friday. May 19th. His final school day as an eighth-grader, and it ended three hours early.
CHAPTER 19
paint
“So, how’s it going?”
“Easy.” Benji sat on Oliver’s living room couch. The house smelled of friendly dust. He had been here only yesterday, yet he missed the place already. Each visit he felt more at home, and slowly, this little hut on Eudora had evolved into his new secret hideout. The new-and-improved Blueberry.
“Is that so?” The man stood in front of him, his arms crossed.
He wanted to nod, to tell Oliver that everything was fine, but the tension built until he erupted in a sigh.
“I’m not having the best day.” He peeled himself from the backrest of the couch and stared at his sneakers. “I left school early. Was supposed to call my mom first, but I snuck out to the ocean instead.”
Oliver wanted to say something, but his jaw shut, and he sat next to Benji. “Why?”
“We graduate on June 6th.”
Silence.
“I won’t even—I mean—I never had the chance to—”
“You don’t have to say it.” Oliver set a hand on Benji’s shoulder as he stood. “Wait here. I have something for you.”
Benji froze. Each breath was another handful of life taken away. So he held his breath, not that it would help.
He was dealing with a tight pressure building in his throat when something pounded onto the floor in front of him, shocking him into breathing. He leaned forward, squinting at the object.
A bucket of paint.
Oliver set a second bucket down. Gentler this time.
“What’s it for?”
“Well . . .” Oliver grinned. “That’s up to you. Thought it might spike your creativity.”
Benji folded his fingers, waiting for a breakthrough. Nothing came.
“I thought your plan was to bring some change to this place before you left. And I hate to say it, but a little haircut’s not enough to put this town through metamorphosis.”
The sample color on the lid was a bright green. “Why neon?” Benji asked.
“Cause it’s obnoxious.”
While Benji thought of an idea for the paint, Oliver sat next to him again. The man’s presence was enough for Benji to feel as though all of Wishville was on his side. Finally, he spoke.
“You’re a brave kid.” Oliver folded his hands on his lap. “But is this really what you want?”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something you should know. You see, there’s a reason why I live on Eudora. A reason why everyone hates me.”
Needles filled the air.
“I helped your dad leave.”
Benji wasn’t as surprised as he expected himself to be. He stood, rubbed his hands over his face, and took a deep breath. “I should go.”
“Benji, are you—”
“No, I just need to process this.”
“At least hear my side of the story first.” Oliver raised his voice. “Benji, sit down.”
Hesitantly, he did.
“When I was in high school, I got into fights with Arthur all the time. I didn’t believe we could assume leaving town was dangerous without some kind of test. But Arthur, being the know-it-all he was, called me stupid for questioning his belief. At the young age of seventeen he decided that his goal in life was to keep Wishville safe. His emotional public speaking skills made people fear the outside even more. And in place of his overqualified sister, who had other issues she found more important, he became Mayor. What a joke.”
Benji shifted in his seat. Oliver sensed he was uncomfortable, because he spoke at a much faster pace. “Of course, it wasn’t only Arthur. All kinds of kids laughed at my ideas. Claimed that if I loved the outside so much, I should take a sprint to the other side. Test my own theory.”
Benji’s body collapsed from his control. He leaned against the back of the couch, face numb, fingers cold.
Oliver continued. “Twenty years passed. I was working at Sequoia Bank on Main Street, finally living a normal life. One day, your dad walked in to withdraw some money. He came to my stand by choice. And as I handed him a fifty-dollar bill, he leaned over and whispered, ‘Meet me at Eudora. Tonight at six.’”
“And you went?”
“Of course I did. That night, he apologized to me. Said he had the same questions I did, but never had the heart to ask them. He was scared of what people might think. Scared of losing Arthur as a friend. And after all these years, he was still guilty he never told me I wasn’t alone. He promised to make it up to me. That the next week, he’d leave. I helped him create a way to pitch his idea to Arthur.”
“The ten-day experiment,” Benji whispered.
“Scott said he’d do everything in his power to return in ten days. Arthur was devastated by the idea of losing a close friend, but ultimately, he knew the experiment would finally provide firm answers to anyone who questioned leaving. He believed Scott wouldn’t survive the trip back. Everyone did, even Rebecca. She was an absolute wreck, a widow before his death.”
“But you thought he’d make it, right?”
He chuckled lightly.
“Right?”
“Benji,” Oliver said softly, “your dad never intended on coming back.”
He covered his face with stiff hands. “Oh, god.” His mind was racing a hundred miles an hour, and he couldn’t keep up with them.
“The morning of the ten-day experiment, he stopped by the bank to deposit the same fifty-dollar bill.” He shut his eyes. “That’s when he said goodbye.”
Benji’s head was buzzing now. He tried to gather his thoughts into a sortable pile, but they slowly slipped into the abyss until his mind was blank. He could hardly focus as Oliver concluded the story.
“After ten days, the town was devastated. All of his friends needed someone to blame. Including your mom, Arthur, the Kois. The whole town, really. They needed a punching bag.”
The room was cold.
“I don’t know whether they had evidence I was involved or if they simply assumed I was. Either way, the fact was true. I helped Scott leave, and they found it fit that I stay far, far away. They wouldn’t let me hurt anyone else. They wouldn’t let me kill anyone else. So Arthur spoke to me on the thirteenth day. Said it’d be best if I moved into the abandoned house on Eudora. That I could quit my job. He would supply me with the money to live from, as long as I stayed out of everyone’s way.”
Benji shook his head.
“Listen to me,” Oliver said. “This entire time I’ve
lived here on this hill, I have never regretted my decision to help Scott leave. But I do regret that I didn’t explain my actions better. Maybe if I did, I could have helped my friends deal with losing him. Maybe Arthur wouldn’t hate me.
Benji gazed into his eyes, and although he tried, he couldn’t look away. “I don’t want you to go through the same thing. To have regrets.”
“I’m fine with how things are.” His answer required no thought. “I won’t have any regrets.”
“What about your friends? Your mother?”
Benji stared blankly.
Oliver dropped his chin. “I see.”
“But really, thank you for telling me. It’s nice to have answers for once.” He gulped. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“I don’t need any sympathy.”
“Do you think you’ll ever make up with them? Move back to town?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “But that’s enough about me. It’s time you break out of this little rut you’ve hit.”
“I think I already have.” Benji stood, lifting a bucket in each hand. “I’ve got an idea.”
* * *
A short boy stumbled through the square, swinging the buckets of paint in his hands to keep them from feeling too heavy. Townspeople stepped aside as he passed with a mischievous glare in his eyes.
Benji stopped at the front door of Ms. Camille’s flower shop. A new window had been put in, and familiar flowers peeked through it, welcoming him. With a quick breath, he set the buckets on the walkway and stepped into the store.
Ms. Camille sat behind her counter, knitting. Her needles froze as the door shut behind him, and she raised her chin with a smile. Thankfully, there was no lipstick on her teeth this time. “Need some flowers for a girl?”
“Actually,” Benji said, “I was wondering if you like green.”
Leaving Wishville Page 11
