It wasn’t his mom. It was his father.
“Can I come in?” he said.
Ben didn’t want either of his parents to disrupt the stasis—his appropriately fluffed bed pillows, his smooth Ravenclaw comforter, the Star Wars Lego world he’d built three years ago and still kept in the corner. He didn’t want devolving people in his land of sense and logic. But what can you say when your father asks to come into your room and his eyes are wide and sad looking? You say yes, even though you want to close the door and never come out.
Mr. Boxer sat at Ben’s desk and faced his son, who leaned on the edge of the bed. Ben didn’t want to sit and get comfortable because he didn’t want to give the impression that this would be a long conversation.
“I know you’re upset,” his father said.
The smell of cooked pasta wafted through the open door. Ben secretly cursed his growling stomach. He didn’t want to eat any of that tainted spaghetti, even if his father had added extra garlic and a dash of cinnamon, just the way he liked.
“You should talk about it,” his father continued. “It’ll make you feel better. You can ask us anything you want. You can ask me anything you want.”
You’re a chemist—don’t you know about stasis? Why are you in here?
If you know how to correlate the properties of chemical substances to measure the effects of compounds and study interchemical reactions, you should be able to make a marriage work. Right? Smart people are supposed to do things the smart way, aren’t they?
Where is your new apartment? Is it full of new furniture? Is there even a room for me?
Mom has all these new facial expressions that I don’t understand. Do you recognize them?
How did all this happen without me even knowing? Did I not pay attention enough? Should I have?
Am I one of the reasons why you don’t want to live here anymore?
Is it because I don’t have enough friends and I’m always home when you are and you and Mom never have enough time to spend together?
“I,” said Ben. He swallowed. “I don’t have any questions.”
Mr. Boxer nodded and looked at his feet. He was wearing white socks. He always wore white socks around the house and it drove Ben’s mother crazy. She even bought him slippers one Christmas. But he only wore them on Christmas day.
Was that one of the reasons? Do people get divorced over slippers?
“You’ll have questions eventually,” Mr. Boxer said. “I won’t push the issue. I just want you to know you can come to me or your mother.” He paused. “I’m moving over the weekend. You can help out. Pick which room you want. Or even just come eat spaghetti tonight. We can still eat together as a family. Your mother and I are very amicable, Ben.”
“There is evidence to the contrary,” said Ben.
His father frowned and stood. “Well. If you want dinner, it’ll be there for you.”
After he left, Ben leaped from his bed so he could lock the door.
She Wondered
Rabbit Hole: Lacrosse is French for “the stick.” The earliest game was played by the Iroquois in the northeastern U.S. and could have originated as early as 1100 AD. In addition to the goalie and midfielders, lacrosse requires attackmen and defensemen.
Charlotte couldn’t sleep. She was in bed, still in her school clothes, thinking about tomorrow. She’d memorized the train schedule. She’d googled “how to hail a cab,” and was relieved to learn that Thirtieth Street Station and the art museum usually had cabs parked outside. She knew the price of admission. She was ready. But her heart wouldn’t stop thundering, and instead of getting a good night’s rest, she lay awake, her mind wheeling and turning until she finally walked down the hall on the balls of her feet and went downstairs to the kitchen with her phone.
The pantry was stocked with heart-healthy snacks. She grabbed a bag of almonds, wished they were gummy bears, and had a sudden urge to fling the front door open and go screaming into the night, with nothing but almonds and the clothes on her back. How far would she get? Two blocks? Two miles? The next township? When would her feet start to hurt? What would it be like to leave everything behind?
Even if she ran for hours, it wouldn’t matter. Her dad had a saying: Wherever you go, there you are. She’d once asked him what it meant and he said, “You can never run away from yourself.” She was just a little kid at the time, and she pictured something out of Peter Pan—a shadow trying to escape its owner. But now she knew better.
Instead of fleeing out the front, she crept out the back. She’d never been in the backyard alone at this hour before. It was frightening and fantastic. The whole world was asleep and the stars were hers. She opened the almonds, lay down on the stone wall, and gazed up. The world was enormous, she was small, and so were all her problems.
If you don’t see anything beautiful, change your viewpoint.
She shoved three almonds in her mouth, even though her mother always told her she should never eat lying down because she could choke to death. She wondered what it would be like to touch the stars and—just like that—they snapped on.
Only it wasn’t the stars. It was the Riveras’ back porch light.
Mateo came out, carrying a jump rope.
Who exercised at midnight?
Charlotte picked up her phone to text Bridget: Guess who’s jump-roping in the backyard right now?!
But then she remembered, so she played a word instead.
SHINE.
She listened to the rope hit the patio. Whoosh-plick, whoosh-plick, whoosh-plick, whoosh-plick. She was superthirsty because of the almonds, but too self-conscious to move. He couldn’t see her from his vantage point, but she didn’t want to get up and go inside because then he might think she’d been spying on him.
Finally he went back inside, and that’s when she got down from the wall and crossed the yard toward the back of her house. She was a few feet away from the back door when he emerged again with a water bottle.
“Hey,” he said. Not hey-how-are-you, but hey-I-have-something-to-ask-you, which was unusual. Very unusual.
Charlotte stopped in her tracks.
Her throat was parched.
Mateo walked up to the edge of his yard. Charlotte turned toward him, but didn’t move. She really didn’t want him to see her puffy, red, and tired eyes.
“I want to ask you something,” he said.
He was wearing a sweaty shirt that said PROVIDENCE HIGH SCHOOL LACROSSE.
Charlotte’s heart stopped beating.
Her body was an enormous block of cement.
“Is it true that the kids at school make fun of my sister?”
Charlotte cleared her throat.
“What do you mean?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
“Like, calling her a freak. ‘Mad Magda.’ That kind of stuff.”
Charlotte heard every cricket chirp in the dark, dark night. Were there crickets before? She could tell that Mateo was waiting for her to say something, but nothing came out of her mouth.
“She says the kids make fun of her sometimes,” Mateo said.
Something plummeted in her chest. Like being on a roller coaster and shooting straight down. She thought of Bridget holding the pear, glaring at Magda, and judging her—the uneven socks, faded shirt, weird habit of quoting poetry. Then Charlotte thought of the times she’d called her “Mad Magda” without a second thought. She had, hadn’t she? Everyone did.
Charlotte had noticed the uneven socks and the faded T-shirt, too.
When had she started noticing those things?
“Some of the kids think she’s weird,” she said. She wanted to say that Magda had plenty of friends and that people never made fun of her at all. Instead, she told the truth. Mateo nodded and scanned the expanse of the yard. He had that look on his face, the one that used to make her and Bridget fake-swoon onto Charlotte’s bedroom floor. It was that squinty-eyed look—the brooding secret he was dying to tell.
“One time my mom foun
d this huge anthill in that corner,” he said, pointing. “Magda accidentally stepped in it and had bites all over the place. We had to soak her feet in the bathtub and everything. My dad nearly busted his top. We have people take care of the lawn and he was superpissed that the anthill was there. The next day, my mom got this big thing of ant killer, like she was going into battle or something.” He paused and faced Charlotte again. “When Magda saw it, do you know what she did?”
Charlotte shook her head.
“Started crying.” Mateo laughed lightly. “She ran into the backyard and grabbed all these twigs and rocks and stuff. She said she was making one of those things—what do you call ’em? Those things that protect a village or whatever?”
“A fort?”
“Yeah, a fort. That’s what it was. She was building a fort to save the ants from mom’s ant killer. She said they didn’t mean to attack her; they were just protecting themselves. She didn’t want them to die. And they were just ants.”
He pursed his lips and fidgeted with his bottle top.
“That’s the kind of ‘weird’ she is,” he said.
Charlotte couldn’t speak. A huge bulb had lodged itself in the middle of her throat.
“I just thought someone should know,” he said. He turned his back to her and set his water bottle on the patio table.
Charlotte didn’t go back inside until he started jump-roping again.
Whoosh-plick.
Friday
aberration n : an unwelcome departure from what is expected or, in astronomy, the displacement of an object from its true position
Life According to Ben
Part XVII
Ben was drinking a lot of water to keep his voice hydrated. He’d also kicked things up with his wardrobe. He wasn’t just wearing a dress shirt; he was wearing the crisp blue suit that cost ninety-eight dollars at Macy’s. His mother had bought it for his fifth-grade graduation. Unfortunately, it still fit.
It took Ben twenty minutes to decide which tie to wear. Blue or black? Blue or black? Blue or black? He alternated one with the other until he was dizzy and color-blind, but finally decided on blue. President Truman, considered one of the best-dressed presidents of the twentieth century, was fond of deep blues, and people considered him one of the greatest leaders of the modern age. The scab on Ben’s chin was noticeable and dark, but the blue tie said: Yeah, I have a scab, so what? You wanna make something of it?
“Did you practice in front of the mirror last night?” his dad asked, when Ben emerged fully dressed from his bedroom on Friday morning.
Ben straightened his tie, even though it was already straight, and acted like he hadn’t heard the question. He refilled his water bottle.
“Rehearsal is key. You want to memorize as much as you can,” Mr. Boxer continued. He was rifling through the basket near the front door, where they kept the mail and the car keys. He snatched up the keys and jangled them in the air. “You need a ride to school?”
“Mom is taking me,” Ben mumbled.
His back was turned to his father, so he couldn’t see the expression on his face. But it was probably a frown.
“Good luck today,” Mr. Boxer said.
There was a pause before the front door opened and closed.
If Anyone Asks
Rabbit Hole: About 143 million Americans commute to work each day. A study in 2013 showed that more than 70 percent of them didn’t like their jobs. Studies also show that most people don’t pursue their dreams. There are many reasons why, but one of them is lack of support or encouragement. Researchers at Ohio State University said any one person can often make a difference in another person’s life, giving them the boost they need.
Charlotte was usually awakened each morning by the sound of her mother hitting snooze and wandering half-dazed to the kitchen downstairs, but on Friday Charlotte woke up thirty minutes earlier than usual, dressed in the outfit she’d placed on her chair the night before, and left a note that she was going to school early with Bridget. She felt like a criminal when she stepped into the morning light. Her heart raced. Her throat tightened. She walked fast, fast, faster on her way to the station, certain that her mother would suddenly wake up and chase her down the street. But it was early and quiet. No mothers.
By the time Charlotte stood on the train platform, beads of sweat had collected on her hairline and neck. She looked at everyone around her—grown-ups cradling coffee, mostly—and felt like jumping out of her skin. Surely a twelve-year-old traveling alone would be suspicious, right? She had a cover story, of course. But she was sweating now, so did she look as nervous as she felt?
Should she embellish her story to explain her nervousness?
Count to ten, Charlotte.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
One, two, three, four . . .
It felt like a million eyes were on her, but no one was paying attention at all. They were on their cell phones. Sipping coffee. Edging toward the platform to crane their necks toward the tracks.
She was invisible.
She walked toward one of the benches all casual-like and sat down. No one else was sitting; they were too impatient for the train. She pretended she was playing a role in a movie. Casual twelve-year-old girl. Kind of like the role she had played in the library when Bridget called her a parasite.
She tapped her feet on the concrete.
This bench wasn’t unlike the one at school. The one she shared with Bridget.
Or used to, anyway.
All the grown-ups looked bored and miserable.
I hope that’s not how I look when I’m grown up.
Or do I look like that already?
She heard the train before she saw it. There was a slight rumble under her feet, and her heart tumbled out of her body and onto the tracks as it pulled up, screeching to a stop. Everyone huddled toward the sliding doors. They gravitated toward the same ones, even though several others opened at once. Charlotte wondered what she was supposed to do. Should she stand in the long line, or hurry to the open doors with no one waiting? Why did they all follow one another to the same doors when there were other open doors three cars away? Did they know something she didn’t?
Charlotte took a few steps toward the doors down the tracks, but decided to turn back and stand in the line instead. She thought there must be a logical reason why no one wanted to go through the other doors until a girl with a Swarthmore College sweatshirt zipped in without a second thought. That’s when Charlotte realized that the only reason people shifted toward these particular doors was because they all followed one another.
Like cattle, thought Charlotte.
Still, she stayed put. People were behind her now and she was getting on the train already. She rubbed the back of her neck to wipe away some of the sweat, and then sauntered up to the line.
Was she really going to do to this?
Was her mother awake?
Was her mother in line behind her, ready to pull her back?
She slid into a seat and hoped no one sat next to her, but two stops later, a guy in a suit who reeked of cologne took the empty space. His cologne soaked into Charlotte’s tongue. She leaned her head against the window, closed her mouth, and watched the Philadelphia suburbs tick by—Primos, Clifton, Gladstone.
She was breathless, but why? Was she scared? Elated? Nervous? Surprised? Anxious?
Maybe all of the above.
If anyone asked: She was going to see her dad in the city. Her parents recently got divorced, and her dad was in Philly for a work conference. This was the only day they’d be able to spend together, so she had to miss school. They were meeting at the art museum, then having lunch. Tonight he flew back to Cincinnati, so it was now or never.
Another suburb: Lansdowne.
The conductor came through the sliding door that connected the train cars. He snapped up pre-purchased tickets and made change.
“Fernwood, next stop!” he hollered.
He was big and burly. Charlotte pictured hi
m leaning over scrawny Cologne Guy, narrowing his eyes at her, and growling: What are you doing on this train by yourself, little girl?
Her tongue and throat were dry as he made his way down the aisle. She wished she had water. She wished she was sitting next to a sweet grandmother. Then she could turn her body toward her and pretend they were together.
The conductor was closer.
The train rumbled.
Now he was at her seat. She barely heard anything except whoosh-thump, whoosh-thump—her heart.
Sweat beaded the back of her neck.
Cologne Guy flashed his ticket. The conductor looked at Charlotte. He was waiting for her to say something. Or he was about to pull her out of her seat by her hair and call the police. She didn’t know which, so she sat there.
Get it together, Charlotte.
She suddenly had to pee.
The conductor stared at her. “Where to?” he said.
Open your mouth, idiot.
Speak.
Say it: Thirtieth Street Station.
Thirtieth Street Station.
“Where to?” he repeated. He looked completely annoyed now.
Cologne Guy side-glanced her way without picking up his head.
She sat up straight and handed the conductor her money. “Thirtieth Street Station,” she said.
She was amazed at how normal she sounded, like she did this every day. Oh, sure. Thirtieth Street Station, if you please. I have business to attend to.
The sweat evaporated. The heat in her cheeks disappeared.
She was Lottie Lock and she was going to Thirtieth Street Station. Any questions, mister?
Apparently not.
The conductor gave her a ticket and some change, and then moved on.
Life According to Ben
Part XVIII
Did President Grant’s heart beat this loudly before a big speech? What about FDR? John Adams?
Ben liked to think the answer was yes.
The boys’ bathroom wasn’t exactly the ideal place to prep for the biggest speech of your life. Eisenhower and Ford probably didn’t have bright pink soap in half-broken dispensers hanging from the walls while they prepared to address Congress, but this was the best Lanester Middle School had to offer. There was an hour before speech time, and Ben hadn’t been able to calm down. Sure, he looked like a normal kid breezing down the hall, but he was a jumble of nerves inside. Every part of him trembled. He’d never had this problem before. He was no stranger to the spotlight. He’d received awards in front of crowds, competed in academic championships, won best cosplay at the Potter Festival in Houston two years ago. But this was different. He paced in front of the urinals and thought: How did I get into this? Why did I do this? How did this start? He thought of how far behind he was. Only four days into the race and he was already giving a speech. He secretly resented Mrs. Carlile for letting him register late. Why did she have to do that? Why couldn’t she just follow the rules?
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