The Benefits of Being an Octopus

by Ann Braden

  He wipes the tear away and stares down at the sidewalk. “My dad had to hide the phone in the closet so I wouldn’t hear it keep ringing. The crank calling started right after that shooting happened and they haven’t stopped yet. He keeps playing my favorite music super loud, so I won’t hear it.” Then, he looks at me. Like looks at me. “But I shouldn’t have stopped talking to you. You’re not like the rest of them.”

  I don’t say anything—mostly because I’m embarrassed how close I came to starting to think like the rest of them.

  When we get on the bus, Silas takes his normal seat. This time, though, I don’t sit across from him. I sit right next to him. He doesn’t say anything, but he moves his backpack onto his lap to make room, so I know it’s okay.

  Sometimes if you don’t have a jacket and you’re sitting next to someone who does, you feel colder. But sometimes, if the right person is wearing it, you feel warmer.

  The problem is that even if I now know that Silas didn’t have anything to do with the shooting, that doesn’t change what other people think.

  Moments after we get off the bus, Brendan Farley walks by Silas and mutters, “Not in jail yet?”

  What am I supposed to do? Shout: “It wasn’t him!” Only to have him say: “How do you know?” and I say: “I can’t tell you.” I might as well be waving my tiny Q-tip around at the same time.

  Someone like Matt could get away with that. Me? Not so much. Especially since Brendan has turned to me and is looking me up and down like I might as well be arrested, too.

  Fuchsia has my jacket for me when I get to my locker. “You must have been cold this morning,” she says. “Thanks for this.”

  I shrug. “There are worse things.” I stuff the jacket into my locker and then look at her. “I think you need to tell your mom.”

  Fuchsia doesn’t look up from a spot on the floor that she’s staring at. “I’ve thought about it.” She pauses. “But she would side with him. And I don’t think I could handle that.”

  I open my mouth but then close it again. What can I possibly say? Because I know exactly what she means.

  In homeroom everyone is all in a tizzy because today was supposed to be the last day that you could order valentine carnations, but Mr. Bontaff accidentally turned in our homeroom’s envelope early.

  Mr. Bontaff is hunched at his desk doing attendance, while a mob of mostly girls crowds around his desk, almost like they’re threatening to lift him out of his chair and hurl him all the way to the faculty room to fetch that form back again.

  “We’d already ordered twenty-eight flowers,” Mr. Bontaff says without looking up from his computer. “That’s more than one per person in this homeroom. Just divide them up when the order comes in.”

  “But I have seven best friends who all sit at my lunch table with me,” wails Savannah Bobbins. “I need to give all of them a special carnation!”

  “You can’t make me choose between my best friends and my boyfriend, Mr. Bontaff.” Taylor Dixwell says “boyfriend” loud enough to take down the walls. She and Andy Cardinelli were basically the first people to start being girlfriend-boyfriend in a serious middle school way, and she doesn’t let anyone forget it.

  Matt, as the new seventh grade student council president, takes charge. “Mr. Bontaff, can’t you understand what we’re saying? All we need is for you to go get the envelope back. I can even do it for you. Did you turn it in to Ms. Holmes? Because I can go to her room right now and get it back from her.”

  Mr. Bontaff shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

  Matt takes off like he’s got a cape flying behind him and a giant S for Seventh Grade Student Council President emblazoned on his shirt.

  The rest of the kids practically swoon back into their chairs.

  “At least Matt’s going to take care of it.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “Can you imagine having to just split up the carnations that were already ordered? I’ve never heard of anything so unfair.”

  “Ugh, that’d be the worst thing ever.”

  A few minutes later Matt proudly comes back into the room holding aloft the envelope. “Ms. Holmes is even out sick today, but the sub and I managed to find this on her desk!”

  I watch as kids crowd around Matt and the envelope waving their money, but all I can hear is those three words: worst thing ever. Kind of like how not getting to share your Mars colonization idea is so unfair.

  Because that’s the difference, isn’t it? For them it’s like an easy life is automatic, and when it’s not, they’re all ready to pour on righteous anger and think they can do something about it.

  Probably because they’re armed with more than a measly Q-tip.

  I picture myself with that imaginary Q-tip. Honestly, what else do I have going to bat for me?

  And then Ms. Rochambeau’s words burble up from inside me against my will.

  Suck it up.

  CHAPTER 22

  I manage to avoid Ms. Rochambeau for almost the whole day. Because what am I going to say when she asks me why I ran away before the mock debate yesterday? Lie and say my stomach hurt, but that, yeah, I was still able to walk all the way across town?

  Social studies is my last class of the day, and I purposefully slip into my seat right before it starts when Ms. Rochambeau is busy answering questions from that girl who keeps getting 97s on things and wants to get 100s. And when I see her starting to zero in on me toward the end of class, I quickly stand up, mumble something about needing to go to the bathroom, and sign myself out before she can reach me.

  There are ten minutes left to class, but I can totally stay in a bathroom stall for ten minutes.

  I slip into the stall that has you’re a slut carved on the side. I used to like to look at it sideways and pretend that it says you’re a slug and that it was carved by a cockroach who was just trying to help his slug friend who was having some identity issues.

  I hear two girls come in and then another one join them soon afterwards. None of them even use the toilet—one of those prearranged meetings. They’re talking about the Valentine’s Day carnations, of course.

  “I sneaked a peek at our homeroom’s form, and Jeffrey ordered just one carnation. Who’s he going to give it to?”

  “Ooh, I don’t know. He was sick for the last dance, so we don’t know anything really about who he likes.”

  “Maybe it’s Nellie. I saw him watching her when she was giving her book report in English and he looked more interested than he should have.”

  “I don’t know. Remember how he moved out of the way to let you get ketchup during lunch yesterday? What if it’s you that he likes?”

  The second lets out an excited squeak like a giddy hamster. “Do you think he could?”

  The first girl squeaks back. “Maybe that one carnation is for you!”

  “Ooh eee!” the third girl exclaims.

  I can hear them jumping around together.

  Suck it up totally means hide in the bathroom and listen to a hamster mosh pit, right?

  Finally, they leave, and I exhale. I get what Fuchsia said yesterday about needing to be alone. The only problem is it feels good for the first two seconds, but by the third second, all I can think is:

  I’m all alone.

  Except when I hear a noise in the stall next to me and suddenly realize that I’m not.

  It’s like a muffled sob. How long has someone been in there?

  I peek underneath the stall. The other girl is wearing pink sneakers. Specifically Fuchsia’s pink sneakers.

  “Fuchsia?” I say.

  No response.

  “Are you okay?”

  Another muffled sob.

  I push open my stall door and come around to knock on hers. “Are you okay?”

  I hear her slide the lock out of the way, and the door swings open to reveal a puffy, tear-stained Fuchsia.

  “No,” she sobs. “I’m not.”

  It’s been years since I’ve seen Fuchsia cry. She was stone-
faced when she was taken from her mom after that rainy day in second grade. And since then she’d get pulled from one foster family and plunked down in another, but did she ever cry? Did she ever do anything except roll her eyes and sigh and act like the world was just giving her a headache?

  But here she is sitting on a toilet with tears pouring down her face like that outer shell of a person has been kicked aside and all that’s left are her quivering, crumpled-up insides.

  I squeeze right into the stall and wrap her up in a hug. A good one. Like the ones that Connor sometimes gives me.

  Her chest is shuddering against me, and I keep holding her tight.

  “I’m just so scared,” she finally whispers into my shoulder.

  “Are you scared of Michael?”

  She gulps in air and pulls away from the hug to look at me. “It’s not just that. I was thinking about how you said I had a choice. Well, let’s pretend I somehow find the courage to actually call DCF—and it’s the wrong thing to do?”

  The hair around her face is matted with tears, and I use my finger to gently comb some of it back behind her ear.

  “I know what foster care can be like,” she continues. “It wasn’t that bad for me when I was in it, but it could have been so much worse. And what if I go back and it’s a nightmare, and the whole time all I can think is: ‘I did this to myself.’”

  Her eyes are so scared, and I have no idea what to say. I pull her back into a hug.

  “I always thought I hated having random people in control of my life.” Her words are muffled against my shoulder. “But it’s like I need that. I don’t want it up to me. I don’t care who it is, I just want someone to decide.”

  The bell rings, but I don’t stop hugging her. I can walk all the way home if I have to.

  “It’s just too hard,” she cries.

  “But,” I finally whisper, “that doesn’t mean that you don’t know the right thing to do.”

  Fuchsia pulls away and rubs her forehead. “Yeah, the right thing to do means getting my mom so mad that she’ll never forgive me and pissing off an angry guy with a gun.” She closes her eyes. “I’ve even memorized the DCF person’s phone number. I just have to be brave enough to call it.” She opens her eyes and looks up at the ceiling. “And I’m not.”

  I stare at her, at her eyeliner-streaked face and her swollen eyes. Why should anyone have to be that brave?

  “Okay,” Fuchsia finally says, standing up. “My mom’s probably waiting for me outside. I’ve got to go.”

  “Is there something I can do to help?”

  She shakes her head.

  At least I can help her clean up her face before she leaves the bathroom. The eyeliner streaks are damp enough that a paper towel wipes them away. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen Fuchsia without makeup, though, and suddenly I feel like I’m looking at her second grade self again.

  I didn’t really know how to help back then, and I’m not sure I know any better now.

  Fuchsia doesn’t want company when she heads out to the parking lot—and since, when we pass by the doors next to the locker room, I can see her mom’s car waiting there for her in the space where the buses had been, I don’t argue. I didn’t really have a choice, but it sure would have been a good day to catch the bus rather than having to walk home again. My feet still haven’t forgiven me for turning them into chunks of ice.

  As I pass the entrance to the library, I peek inside. The two music stands are set up again for a mock debate. An eighth grade boy is already at one and standing at the other is Matt Hubbard.

  I tuck myself behind the giant cardboard cutout of Harry Potter saying, “Read!” that Mr. Herd has set up on the side of the entrance.

  “Guns are used exclusively for killing,” Matt is saying, “and why should we trust people with that ability when clearly the statistics show that people cannot be trusted?” His voice is so confident. Like he couldn’t possibly be wrong. After he goes through all the horrible statistics he copied into his notebook, he finishes with a triumphant, “Guns are evil, and that’s why we should take the steps needed to make our society safer and outlaw them completely.”

  “And wouldn’t that be wonderful,” the eighth grader starts in, “for all law-abiding citizens to be unarmed and defenseless at the mercy of criminals, who, by the way, don’t follow laws and will have all the guns they want.” He’s reading from his notebook, too, like he did the same thing as Lydia and copied down NRA talking points word for word. “No, ladies and gentlemen, the answer is not outlawing guns. Instead, we need to be eliminating gun-free zones where innocent people can be picked off like pigeons on a power line. We don’t need fewer guns. We need more guns in the hands of more people. Only that will make us safe.”

  “Not if those people are bullies.” The words came out of my mouth, and not in a whisper either, but in a shout loud enough to get the whole debate club to turn and look at me. I’ve knocked over the friendly Harry Potter cardboard cutout, but I can’t get myself to pick it up, mumble “Sorry,” and run from the room.

  There is too much inside me that’s screaming. That eighth grader might not believe that stuff, but Frank does. And we deserve better than having everything decided by people like Matt and people like Frank. What about everyone in the middle?

  “What do you think should happen when a kid is threatened by a grown-up with a gun?” I say, taking a step forward. “Is she supposed to whip out her own and kill him? Because that’s the kind of decision she needs weighing on her, right?” I turn to face Matt Hubbard, and I don’t care that he has nice brown eyes. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe guns aren’t evil and that most of the people who own them aren’t evil either? You’re all so happy to decide Silas Fletcher is a monster just because he wears camo. Can you even fit into your brain the possibility that he’s actually one of the most interesting people that goes to this school? And am I a monster, too, just because I have a camo jacket? Are you happy to imagine the drool dripping off my monster jaws? Do you want to pretend I ate a whole bunch of BABIES for BREAKFAST?”

  Matt’s mouth has dropped open, and the eighth grade boy is looking at me like I just beamed in from space. I can see Lydia peering from behind him, trying to see better, her eyes wide.

  “You need to wake up!” I’m really shouting now. “We’re not living in some sort of black-and-white pretend world. You act like it has to be all or nothing, like it’s some kind of game. But there are actual people dealing with this. Actual people who have to say goodbye to their kittens. Actual people who have to hide their phones in the closet. And it’s not a game to them!”

  “Zoey,” I hear Ms. Rochambeau say. “I’m so—”

  But I don’t hear what she says next because I’m setting the Harry Potter cutout back upright and running out the door.

  I didn’t mumble sorry. It probably wouldn’t have made much difference at that point.

  Since I totally just told off Matt Hubbard and some eighth grade boy.

  I stop running when I reach the sidewalk. I look up at the sky. I don’t know if anything I said made sense, but somewhere between the gray sidewalk and the gray sky, a laugh burbles out of me.

  And it’s such a loud laugh against that gray sky.

  I can see the headlines: Zoey Albro Delivers an Unhinged But Epic Smackdown to Two Confused Boys Who Thought They Were Better Than Her.

  It’s been so long since I laughed, and it feels amazing. Like there’s a whole big beautiful open ocean of freedom inside me. A tear drips down my cheek. A laughter tear. Not that other kind.

  Who’s clueless now?

  I start walking, but I don’t feel the cold like I did yesterday. It’s like releasing all those words set off fireworks inside me, and they’re still exploding all warm and bright.

  How on earth did I do that?

  And then I realize: Matt and that boy were just two screaming monkeys.

  And I’ve had plenty of practice with those.

  CHAPTER 23
r />   Now that I know how long it takes me to walk home, me and my warm, fireworks-exploding insides decide I can take a short detour up toward Route 14 where Family Services is. Because there’s a question I need them to answer.

  I find the office in a building that used to be a house. The front part is an insurance company, but a sign leads me around back. Once inside, I go up a few stairs to find a room with three desks squeezed in, surrounded by big happy posters of kids.

  The woman at the closest desk looks up. “Hi. How can I help you?”

  “Hi … um … I just wanted to make sure that my family is all up to date. You know, with the forms we need to file for electricity help.”

  “Did your power go off?”

  “Oh, it’s on now. I just wanted to make sure that last form we filed was all correct.”

  She turns to her computer. “It probably was if your power is on, but let me pull up your records.”

  I give her my address and then wait, shifting between my feet as I stare at a poster offering free tax help to qualifying families.

  Maybe someday our family won’t “qualify” for everything.

  “Yup, it looks like your form was turned in about a month ago, and that it was all filled out correctly.”

  “Who turned in the form? Does it say?”

  “A Kara Albro. Is she your mom?”

  It’s like another burst of fireworks has gone off inside me.

  “She sure is,” I say.

  I don’t walk the rest of the way home—I run.

  When I get there, Frank is in his usual spot, but now Lenny is also there, sitting on the couch surrounded by classifieds with the phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear. “Are you still looking for someone to do deliveries?” he asks. “Nope. Okay then.” He hangs up, swears, and then starts dialing the next number.

  My mom is home, too, since Friday nights are the best tip night and always go to the more senior waitstaff. I watch her in the kitchen as she works on getting Hector’s formula ready. “Mom, I need to talk to you.”