“You have to give a speech?”
“In front of the whole school. On Friday.” That part was true, at least. “I’m trying to make the most of the school experience.”
There was an awkward silence that they tried to break at the same time.
“You go first,” said Ben, after they stumbled over simultaneous sentences.
“I was just thinking about IQ tests.”
“What about them?”
“I was thinking it would be interesting if they had tests for other things. Like, instead of an IQ test, there was a popularity test?”
“Hmm.” Ben thought about all those ribbons and mall mannequins. The thumbs-up and the LSU Tigers baseball caps. “What would be on it, you think?”
“I don’t know.” She paused. “I guess you’d have to own the right sneakers. Something like that.”
“And maybe play sports?”
“Yeah. Like soccer.”
“Football.”
“Chess.”
They laughed.
“Hey, maybe we could start playing chess!” Images of BEN BOOT on a leaderboard danced through Ben’s head, even though his chess strategy was sketchy at best. Still, if he practiced enough . . .
“Nah,” said Lottie. “I’m having too much fun beating you at Scrabble.”
The awkward pause returned, until Lottie said: “I thought of a confession.”
“Okay. Go.”
“I could eat gummy bears for the rest of my life.”
“Not good for your teeth.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “I’ll get dentures.”
“They should infuse gummy bears with xylitol.”
“What’s xylitol?”
“It’s a cavity-fighting additive,” said Ben. He looked at his lap and realized his hands were resting there. At some point during their brief conversation, he’d stopped working on his lake.
“X-Y-L-I-T-O-L?”
“Yep,” Ben said.
“Toil, toll, till.”
“Making words out of xylitol?”
“Yep.”
At that moment, Ben was overwhelmed with an aching wish. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wished for something with such ferocity. It almost made him misty-eyed—almost—but he allowed himself to think it once quickly before he swallowed it away and pushed it into the corner of his mind.
I wish Lottie Lock went to my school so I’d have someone to sit with at lunch.
Wednesday
hypothesis n : an assumption or proposed explanation made on the basis of limited evidence
Life According to Ben
Part IX
Ben was suitably dressed and full of adrenaline when he walked through the school doors the next morning, twenty minutes earlier than usual with a bag of perfectly rolled posters on his shoulder.
Mr. Higgins the security guard was sitting behind his desk at the front entrance reading a thick paperback. Ben recognized the cover, even from a distance. Dune.
“That’s a good one,” said Ben, as he walked up. The halls were empty. His voice echoed. “What part are you on?”
“Alia’s just been captured,” Mr. Higgins said. He laid the book face down on the desk and raised his eyebrows. “You’ve read this book? It’s gotta be, what, two thousand pages or so.”
“The paperback is only nine hundred, if I remember correctly,” Ben said. He tapped the clipboard next to the sign that said SIGN IN HERE. “I’m a student, so I’m not sure if I need to sign in or not. I came in early so I could hang up my posters.” He patted his bag. “My name is Ben Boxer and I’m running for student-council treasurer. Trying to work my way up to president.”
“Well, future Mr. President, be my guest,” Mr. Higgins said. He waved his hand toward the empty hallway behind him.
“Thank you,” said Ben.
He liked the sound of “future Mr. President,” so he played it again and again in his head as he clipped through the hallways in his dress shoes. The echoes became a silent chant in his mind, like a military drill: Future Mr. PRES-i-dent, Future Mr. PRES-i-dent. When he reached the first blank wall in the sixth-grade hallway, he stopped, ran his hand over the cinder blocks to make sure the packing tape would stick properly, then set down his bag and pulled out a poster. Black letters. White background.
He didn’t just want to be a brand. Now that he’d jumped full-force into this thing, he really wanted to implement change. He really wanted Lanester Middle School to evolve. A new mascot to replace the red-faced Indian that he found culturally offensive. Lanester Lions, maybe. More vending options. Most important: increased recycling. He wouldn’t be a typical politician. He would be a consummate populist. A president for the people.
The hallway was different with no one in it. The lockers stretched on forever with their mouths closed. None of the classroom doors were open. When he yanked the first length of tape from the roll, the sound bounced off the walls. He had an urge to call out his name just so he could hear it echo, but he didn’t want Mr. Higgins to come charging toward him, wondering what all the fuss was about. Plus, he didn’t want to interrupt Dune.
Sound was a strange phenomenon. Ben thought about this as he stood on his tiptoes to hang the poster. When the hallways were full, there were too many surfaces for the sound waves to bounce from, so no echo. But now he could yell anything he wanted and hear it reverberate through the wide space around him.
Nothing makes you feel more alone than an echo.
That Minnesota Feeling
Rabbit Hole: Many people report having feelings of dread before something terrible happens. Scientists aren’t sure what causes this. Some think we receive subliminal clues without knowing it, through things like body language or peripheral vision. Others believe that our minds are constantly working through problems and solutions unconsciously, which is why we sometimes have hunches we can’t explain.
There once was this woman who lived in Minnesota. She took the same route to and from work every day. Then one August afternoon she was in her car and had a feeling something bad was going to happen, so she took an alternate route instead. Later she found out that a bridge had collapsed into the Mississippi River—the same bridge she would have taken home.
Charlotte read about her in a rabbit hole about the science of premonitions. One scientist said that some human beings had an inherent sense when something was wrong. He couldn’t explain it. It was just there, like a mental beacon that stayed quiet until it suddenly perked up and sounded the alarm.
When Charlotte walked into school before the morning bell, she had one of those mental beacons. Bridget had texted her that morning to say she was running late and wouldn’t be at the benches, and Charlotte’s morning routine always felt weird when Bridget wasn’t there. Like she was the lady who’d been cut in half at a magic show, and her head was floating around, waiting for the magician to put her back together again.
Then she saw Sophie putting stuff in her locker and decided to talk to her about the art club.
Charlotte acted like she was passing by Sophie’s locker unintentionally, even though her homeroom was in the other direction.
“Hey, Sophie,” said Charlotte, smiling. She shoved her hands in her pockets, trying to look natural—or “devil-may-care,” as her dad always said.
Sophie looked surprised, but smiled warmly. “Oh hey, Charlotte.”
“So . . . Bridget told me about the art club.”
“Oh, yeah. She comes up with the best ideas, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah, she’s really creative,” said Charlotte. She bit her bottom lip. “I was wondering . . . I mean, I know the club’s for the artsy types, but I wouldn’t mind trying it. I’m not that great an artist, but it sounds fun. So maybe you’d consider letting me join, too?” She added quickly: “It could just be a trial membership.”
Sophie’s smile disappeared slowly. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“Oh. Um . . . ,” she said. “I’m not really in char
ge of membership.”
“I thought you were the president-elect.”
“Well, kind of, I guess. We haven’t officially elected officers.”
“Oh.”
“We’re having our first meeting at lunch today,” she said. She closed her locker. “I’ll see what everyone thinks. You know, like if we’re gonna have membership rules or something. I don’t really know what the plans are.”
“Sure,” said Charlotte. “Thanks.”
She watched Sophie walk away and immediately replayed the conversation in her head, like a premonition.
She comes up with the best ideas, doesn’t she?
But Bridget had said the art club was Sophie’s idea.
Anyway, premonitions were for things that hadn’t happened yet, not stuff from yesterday.
It didn’t mean anything.
Who cares whose idea it was?
You’re thinking too much, Charlotte told herself. That’s all.
Life According to Ben
Part X
Middle school was overrun with plastic water bottles, but Ben couldn’t bring himself to drink from disposable materials. Not when every square mile of the ocean contained more than forty-six thousand pieces of plastic. So he brought a reusable bottle from home and filled it with water from the school fountain, which tasted like he’d shoved a handful of pennies in his mouth, but he needed to stay well hydrated for the big speech on Friday.
He had just closed his locker and taken a big swig of coppery water when Theo and a group of like-minded boys (including Derrick Whatshisname) sauntered up to him. Theo’s expression reminded Ben of something from The Chamber of Secrets: Severus Snape standing in black robes, smiling in a way that told Harry he and Ron were in very deep trouble.
Theo wasn’t wearing a black robe, but still.
“Hey, Benny,” said Theo, standing right across from him. Ben wondered if he would be shoved into his locker. Isn’t that the kind of stuff that happened in moments like this? “Nice tie.”
Yes, it was. His mother had bought it for a mathlete competition the previous year. Both of his parents had watched Ben take first place that day. Afterward they ate at the Olive Garden. They told Ben he could order whatever he wanted, so he got lobster ravioli. He remembered the ravioli, but he couldn’t remember what they talked about over dinner.
He should have been paying more attention.
“I hear they’re serving shrimp for lunch today,” Theo said.
The boys laughed. But the joke was on them. They would never serve shellfish in the cafeteria, not with the potential for food poisoning. Millions of Americans had food allergies and shellfish was the most common. Not to mention the cost.
Only.
“Do you play any sports?” asked Theo.
Ben thought of his conversation with Lottie the night before. Soccer. Football. Chess. He knew better than to say “chess,” but he didn’t know enough to say something else. So he stood there.
“Do you know how to play basketball?” asked Theo.
“Uh,” said Ben.
Theo stretched his neck and said, “Let me teach you how to dribble.”
And suddenly Ben felt Theo’s hand on his forehead. It was a strange feeling, like having a cockroach crawl across your toes or feeling the pinch of a hermit crab on the soft part of your foot. Only this didn’t feel like a crawl or a pinch. Theo’s hand was clammy and it was only there for a moment, enough to push Ben’s head back until it slammed into the locker. Then it was gone.
“That’s how you dribble,” Theo said.
Ben’s ears rang from the impact. A sudden headache shot from the back of his head to his eyes as Theo and his friends disappeared into the crowded hallway. Ben thought the sound of his head hitting the locker was the loudest crash on earth. It buzzed through every part of his body. But no one else seemed fazed. Middle-school hallways were full of so much activity. Who would notice such a small little thing?
Not Proud
Rabbit Hole: Henry VIII, the last Tudor king, had figures of himself carved into the eaves of the Great Hall at Hampton Court. The early sixteenth century was a time of great turmoil and unrest for the paranoid king. The “eavesdroppers” were meant to discourage gossip.
Charlotte had never been so ashamed to stand in nonfiction A–J in her life.
Nonfiction A–J was directly behind the collection of tables in the school library where Charlotte knew Bridget and the art club would meet. Bridget, like most humans, was a creature of habit. Charlotte knew she would sit at the four-top near the Cs. Charlotte had been to the library with Bridget dozens of times and she always chose the same table. So here Charlotte was, pretending to be completely enthralled by the Civil War, waiting for the club to show up.
Charlotte was in disguise. Well, sort of. She had one earbud in—muted—and she slouched her shoulders in a general pretense of nonchalance. In other words: She was acting casual. If she were discovered, she would pretend to be totally surprised. What a coincidence, she would say.
She wasn’t proud of herself.
In fact, she felt pathetic.
Charlotte couldn’t see the library doors from where she was standing, but they were heavy and had a push bar so she could hear when they opened. If the art club sat at the tables nearest the windows, they would be too far away, but if she knew Bridget, she would sit right within earshot. Charlotte peered through the books—casual, casual—and hoped no one snagged the spot.
Sure enough, Bridget walked in and sat at her table. Charlotte saw the back of her head. Sophie and Dee Dee sat directly across from her.
Charlotte pulled a book from the shelf and opened it like she was reading. A grainy black-and-white picture of a man with a bushy mustache stared back at her. According to the caption his name was LaFayette C. Baker.
I know what you’re doing, weirdo, his eyes said.
Charlotte made word scrambles out of LaFayette while Bridget called the meeting to order.
Featly.
Fettle.
Latte.
“I talked to Charlotte this morning,” Sophie said. Her voice sounded apologetic. Maybe she regretted making the club so exclusive. “She asked if she could join.”
Blood rushed in Charlotte’s ears.
“What did you say?” asked Bridget.
Sophie didn’t answer. At least, not that Charlotte could hear.
“I can’t believe she talked to you,” Bridget said.
She’s right. I should’ve made my case directly to Bridget, Charlotte thought. She’s my best friend, after all. Even if she’s going to Red’s and wearing Vans.
Then again, so was Charlotte. She’d convinced her mother to buy her a pair. The sneakers had been rubbing blisters into both heels for the past hour.
“Why don’t we just let her join?” said Dee Dee. “It might be good to have one of the TAG kids in the group. She could . . . I don’t know, come up with smart stuff for the club.”
“It’s no big deal to me, either,” Sophie said.
They were both looking at Bridget.
Charlotte got a sinking feeling in her gut.
“Ugh,” Bridget groaned. “Why does she have to make things so awkward?”
Charlotte looked at the guy with the mustache. She suddenly felt very stupid, naive, and clueless. She also felt pathetic. Stupid, naive, clueless, and pathetic.
She felt exposed, too, even though she knew they couldn’t see her.
“She’s like a parasite, I swear,” said Bridget. “I feel bad saying it, but it’s true.”
Charlotte had heard Bridget say those same words about other kids so many times. Dee Dee is such a terrible gossip. I feel bad saying it, but it’s true. Sophie wears too much makeup sometimes and it makes her look trashy. I feel bad saying it, but it’s true.
Dee Dee yawned. “She doesn’t seem that bad to me.”
“Don’t you think it’s kind of desperate how she waited until you were alone to talk to you?” Bridget said to Soph
ie. “It’s like she went behind my back or something.”
Sophie shrugged. “I guess.”
“I know I’m being a terrible friend saying this, especially since her dad is in the hospital, but lately I’ve felt like a babysitter,” said Bridget. “It’s like . . . I don’t know. We don’t have anything in common anymore.”
“You’re not a terrible friend,” said Sophie. “You’re just being honest.”
“I didn’t know her dad was in the hospital,” said Dee Dee.
“Yeah. He had a heart attack. Her parents are ancient, so it was bound to happen sometime. He was driving when it happened.” She paused. “He crashed into Old Navy and almost killed like three people in the process.”
That last part wasn’t true.
Charlotte’s body was on fire. The heat came in an instant, like she’d stepped into an oven. She didn’t want to listen anymore, but she couldn’t stop.
Dee Dee gasped. Charlotte could hear the news traveling through the school hallways now, growing as it went. Did you know Charlotte’s dad had a massive heart attack while he was driving, and he flew off the overpass and landed on top of a tractor-trailer and killed seventy-five people?
All those times Charlotte had confided in Bridget about her dad’s heart, and his pills, and how she worried because her parents were older than everyone else’s, and Bridget had said over and over that it didn’t matter, everything would be okay. “Sure, your parents will be around when you graduate from high school and college,” Bridget had said. “They’ll be there when you get married. Sure.”
“I know I sound harsh, but I can’t take it anymore,” said Bridget. “How do you break up with friends, anyway? Is it the same as breaking up with boyfriends?”
As if Bridget would know. She’d never had a boyfriend. Over the summer she’d said she didn’t want to graduate from middle school as the only girl who’d never been kissed. Charlotte had said, “I won’t kiss anyone either, then. You won’t be alone.” And Bridget had just rolled her eyes and said, “Of course you won’t. That’s not what I’m talking about.” At the time Charlotte had wondered: What are you talking about, then? Middle school seemed like an endless aching game where everyone knew the rules but her.
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