BenBee and the Teacher Griefer Read online

  Also by K.A. Holt:

  Rhyme Schemer

  House Arrest

  Knockout

  Redwood and Ponytail

  FOR CHRISTINE BURROUGHS:

  an enigma, a force of nature, and the reason why I will always recognize prepositions as something a squirrel can do to a tree.

  A very special thank you to Christy Stallop, fine artist and friend. Christy creates delightful paintings and sculptures of luchador grackles that you can find all over Austin, Texas (and beyond). When I asked Christy if one of my characters could represent himself as a luchador grackle, she graciously agreed without hesitation. My renderings don’t come close to Christy’s playful energy and skillful talent, so it was extra kind of her to allow me to borrow her ingenious idea. You can find Christy’s work all over Austin, from galleries to billboards to murals to towering eight feet over the grounds of Austin City Hall. You can also find her work online at www.christystallop.com. Javier and I thank you to the moon and back, Christy!

  Copyright © 2020 by K.A. Holt.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available.

  ISBN 978-1-4521-8251-3 (hc)

  ISBN 978-1-7972-0761-2 (epub, mobi)

  Design by Jennifer Tolo Pierce.

  Typeset in Fedra Mono, Cultura New, Air, GFY Ralston, FG Alex, FG Joe, and Karmatic Arcade.

  Illustrations by K.A. Holt.

  Hand-lettering by Isaac Roy.

  Chronicle Books LLC

  680 Second Street

  San Francisco, California 94107

  Chronicle Books—we see things differently. Become part of our community at www.chroniclekids.com.

  Contents

  SAVE UR SERVER

  SAVE UR SELF

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  It's Time to Save Ur Server . Save Ur Self!

  Hello! Welcome to your own curated Sandbox adventure! As you move through your journey, you will be faced with many choices. Will you opt for adventure and danger, or will you choose certainty and likely, though not guaranteed (watch out for those sneaky ghosts!), safety? Who will be your allies? Who will be your foes? Be careful! Sometimes it’s hard to figure out one from the other.

  So!

  Are you ready for your adventure to begin? Great! What would you like to name your server?

  Congratulations! You have created a unique and impressive name for your server. Now you have a big choice to make:

  To allow anyone to play on your server, turn to page 44.

  To password protect your server for invited players only, turn to page 70.

  From Save Ur Server, Save Ur Self: A Many Choices Sandbox Adventure Book by Tennessee Williamson

  BEN B

 

  I don’t like to read.

  There.

  I said it.

  Books have too many words.

  It takes forever to read a page.

  It takes at least infinity to read a chapter.

  This is why

  shhh

  I have never

  and will never

  finish reading a book.

  It’s not that I hate words.

  I don’t.

  It’s not that I hate stories.

  I don’t.

  It’s not even that I hate books.

  I don’t.

  It’s just . . .

  I don’t like to read.

  It’s hard to read.

  When you’re in first grade,

  pretty much everyone has a hard time reading.

  In second grade,

  lots of kids still have a hard time.

  But then,

  in third

  fourth

  fifth

  sixth

  the other kids,

  they figure it out.

  And when you don’t?

  It’s just . . .

  Uuuuuuuugh.

  You know what’s not

  uuuuugh?

  You know what always makes sense?

  (And when it doesn’t, is

  actually fun to figure out?)

  You know what has zero words?

  You know what’s the opposite

  of boring?

  Sandbox.

  With every minute I can spare,

  I build universes.

  I lead alliances.

  I save the world.

  Me.

  I do that.

  Without reading a word.

  The thing is,

  unlike other things,

  you can’t fail at Sandbox.

  It’s a fail-free zone.

  Mistakes become inventions.

  Accidents become lessons.

  You don’t just imagine the

  impossible.

  You make it happen.

  You bring it to life.

  So tell me this:

  if I spend every day

  bringing the impossible to life,

  then why can’t I figure out

  how to pass the dang FART?

  Florida

  Rigorous

  Academic

  Assessment

  Test

  Everyone calls it the FART,

  even though

  even I know

  that’s not how you spell fart.

  This class,

  you know who we are?

  We’re the FART Failures.

  Dang, kid, you have FART Failure again?

  Only cure for that is summer school.

  If you work hard.

  Can you work hard?

  How did I even fail the FART to begin with?

  We spent so many days last year

  practicing

  studying

  practicing more.

  Filling the bubbles

  carefully

  perfectly

  no marks

  out of line.

  But something was out of line.

  My brain, I guess.

  Because even after all of that

  I still failed it.

  My sharp pencil a torpedo

  sinking that test

  to the bottom

  of all the other tests,

  drowning

  in so many

  bubbles.

  At least I’m not drowning

  all alone.

  Jordan J.

  Javier.

  Ben Y.

  Ben B. <— that’s me

  Ms. Jackson.

  Summer school.

  Language Arts.

  Room 113.

  All working

  all summer

  to keep our heads

  above

  this bubbly

  FART water.

  Room 113

  is not even a room

  at all.

  You go through double doors

  to get to the stairs

  and then

  you don’t go up those—

  you go around them

  and then under them.

  Four desks

  crammed in the stairwell,

  a table for Ms. J,

  a whiteboard on an easel.

  Make your Harry Potter jokes.

  We’ve heard them all.

  Oh, Benjamin.

  Again?

  Why do you keep failing?

  Dad’s words

  turned to icy, stabby

  spikes that still

  live in my brain.

  I hear those words

  when I wake up

  when I’m
in class

  when I eat lunch

  when I go to bed.

  Fail.

  Sometimes it shimmers in the air,

  so bright

  I can almost see it

  dancing and laughing at me.

  Pointing at and taunting me.

  Because it knows,

  just like I know

  that I did work hard.

  I do work hard.

  And it’s never enough.

  Never is.

  Never has been.

  Never will be.

  How do my parents not see that?

  It’s like their eyes are so wide,

  looking for so many ways

  I can be better and smarter,

  they can’t actually see

  what’s right in front of them:

  There is no better.

  There is no smarter.

  This is as good as Ben B gets.

  This is just . . . who I am.

  Except!

  When I click on my screen,

  dive into Sandbox,

  become BenBee

  instead of Ben B . . .

  when I am cloaked in yellow and black,

  I actually do a good job.

  Every day.

  I build and create.

  I learn and remember.

  When I am BenBee

  instead of Ben B

  I am

  the best me.

  I am

  the smart me.

  Why can’t BenBee be the real me?

  Why can’t BenBee be the one my parents see?

  Why can’t school be like Sandbox?

  No instructions.

  No manuals.

  You just try stuff.

  Sometimes it works

  and you make a volcano

  to protect your private island.

  Sometimes it doesn’t work

  and you accidentally make a waterfall

  out of chickens.

  See?

  Even when it doesn’t work,

  it’s still fun.

  (And, you know?

  I guess I learn stuff, too.)

  Jordan laughed so hard

  when I told him about my chickenfall

  he fell

  right out of his desk,

  a Jordanfall.

  You know,

  Ben Y said,

  turning around in her chair,

  a chickenfall

  is the most divergent idea

  I’ve heard

  in years.

  Everyone laughed at that.

  About one million times a day

  Ms. J tells us:

  You’re the smartest kids in this school.

  You are divergent thinkers.

  Divergent thinkers change the world.

  Mm-hmm.

  I’m sure all the world-changers

  had summer school classrooms

  under the stairs.

  Today, though, Ms. J

  sounds like she’s got popcorn

  stuck

  in her throat.

  She ahem-ahems.

  She ahem-ahems again,

  while we all laugh at Jordanfalls

  and divergent chickens.

  I can see that you all have a lot to talk about

  right now,

  but when I ask

  questions

  about the reading,

  everyone is silent.

  Why is that?

  That’s because none of us do the reading.

  It’s boring.

  And terrible.

  I don’t say that.

  But maybe I should.

  She seems so hopeful.

  It kind of makes me sad.

  But mostly it makes me mad.

  I don’t need to disappoint anyone else

  in my life.

  I don’t need to watch the light

  dim in their eyes

  when they figure out

  what I can’t do.

  I can’t do a lot of things.

  Even though I’m always busy

  trying to do All Of The Things.

  Tune up those fine motor skills,

  Mom says,

  with art classes!

  Strengthen those gross motor skills,

  learn teamwork,

  be social,

  Dad says,

  by playing soccer!

  Pass the FART,

  Mom says,

  tutoring will help!

  Handwriting practice,

  Dad says,

  will complement those art lessons!

  And music,

  Mom says,

  music activates your brain in such

  important ways.

  Don’t forget music!

  So.

  Art Class Monday.

  Soccer Practice Tuesday.

  FART Tutoring Wednesday.

  Handwriting Thursday.

  Piano Lessons Friday.

  Soccer Game Saturday.

  House Cleaning Sunday.

  All of this

  extra

  bonus

  helpful

  learning

  is so exhausting,

  my brain mostly wants to

  hide in a corner

  of my mind

  and think about chickenfalls

  until I fall

  asleep.

  Now that I think about it,

  all of my extracurriculars

  make a weird thing happen:

  even with . . .

  the reading,

  the tests,

  the failing,

  the struggling,

  the blah blah blah,

  the same same same,

  sometimes school’s like

  a dang

  vacation

  from everything else

  in my

  lined-up,

  signed-up,

  piled-up

  minivan

  on the way

  backseat burger

  can’t be late

  here and there

  never good enough

  never smart enough

  everyday

  life.

  Dad wants me to

  practice this,

  study that,

  listen up,

  never quit,

  Do you hear me, Benjamin?

  Do I need to take away your screens, Benjamin?

  But even when I

  practice

  study

  listen

  never quit,

  even when I

  try to read better

  try to pass every test

  try to win win win,

  Dad never says,

  Good job.

  He never says,

  Nice try.

  The look in his eye

  only ever dims

  instead of brightens.

  So maybe summer school

  isn’t so bad.

  Maybe it’s actually a break

  from the summer vacation

  I could have had,

  disappointing Mom and Dad.

  Maybe it’s a chance

  to finally get better

  at something

  even if that something

  is just

  getting away

  from them.

  That’s a weird thing to think,

  right?

  A screechy noise

  snaps me back

  to the stairwell.

  What can I dooooooo?

  Ms. J throws her arms in the air.

  Very dramatic.

  What can I do to get you to read?

  This is important.

  She taps the book on Javier’s desk.

  It’s required.

  No one

  in this class

  can fail

  the Assessment

  again,

  you hear me?

&nbs
p; Do you want me to yell?

  Do you want me to fail you?

  She takes a deep breath.

  She looks up at the underbelly of the stairs,

  the zigzag lid to our too-tight space,

  as if the answers are written there.

  This class was created

  for divergent learners . . .

  just for you!

  To help you,

  not to punish you.

  But you all have to help me, too.

  Now.

  Can anyone tell me about the reading?

  No?

  Her mouth scrunches up.

  She smacks the book onto her desk.

  BAM.

  Get out your spelling lists.

  I think what Ms. J doesn’t understand,

  what she totally

  totally

  doesn’t get

  is this:

  the FART Failures?

  We still fail even when we do try.

  So why not skip the frustrating part

  when we can just stay at zero?

  BEN Y

  <0BenwhY>

  They’re renovating the teachers’ restrooms.

  Ms. J’s mouth—

  a tight line.

  Her dangly earrings

  quiver.

  This means teachers must use

  the student restrooms.

  Her breath comes in short bursts.

  The tops of her ears glow bright red.

  And THAT means, I found this.

  She holds up a sopping wet book.

  It shakes in her hand,

  matching the quiver

  of her earrings,

  a danse

  macabre

  that maybe

  might just

  have something

  possibly

  to do with

  me.

  Uh-oh.

  Uh-oh.

  UH-OH.

  I found it,

  she repeats,

  lurching toward me,

  in a toilet.

  Ms. J slams the book,