BenBee and the Teacher Griefer Read online

  eavesdropping, Benita.

  Ms. J pulls me to her desk,

  hands me a folded note.

  We can start the process now,

  so your teachers next year

  have to let you type.

  Have to?

  Ms. J smiles.

  Yes.

  By law.

  Now, it won’t be in place this summer,

  but your typing

  accommodation is in your file.

  I’ll make sure admin grants you permission

  to use the computer

  for your retake.

  Whoa, whoa.

  What.

  I can typemy FART retake

  answers?

  Hey! Not fair!

  Ms. J and I snap our heads up,

  Ben Y’s head still

  leans down.

  Ben Y!

  GOOODBYYYYEEEE!

  Ms. J doesn’t wave,

  she shoos her hand at Ben Y,

  who laughs and runs off.

  Give this to your parents, okay?

  We’ll set up a meeting,

  get the process started.

  I’m not even sure what to say.

  It doesn’t feel real.

  She holds up her hand.

  Can I have an extra high five and bye?

  I slap her hand,

  and let her squeeze mine

  for one more second.

  High five and bye, Ms. J.

  I round the corner,

  out of the stairwell,

  but lean back

  just a little bit,

  and see her

  gathering up papers.

  Ms. J?

  She looks up.

  Thank you.

  And then I run

  before I can see her face.

  I lie in the grass,

  stare up through the willow fronds,

  wonder where Javier is.

  It’s been two whole days now.

  But.

  Even with the Javier stuff

  clouding the edges of my mind,

  I’m still savoring this minute of nothing,

  a gobstopper on my tongue.

  A 504, huh?

  Typing every day?

  It does sound like jeans.

  It sounds like a comfortable fit,

  sized perfectly just for me.

  BEN Y

  <0BenwhY>

  Can I help you, Benita?

  Ms. J stops in the hallway.

  She tilts her head to the side,

  her earring hoop landing on her shoulder,

  twisting just like a Jordan J pirouette.

  Early evening light

  pushes through high dusty windows,

  rolls over lockers,

  makes the hallway glow,

  apparently

  erasing the shadow

  I snuggled into

  after I finished spying.

  It’s Ben Y.

  And, actually,

  I was looking for you.

  Wait. Was I?

  Why would my mouth say that

  before my brain could catch up?

  Is my dino butt brain back?

  Protecting me

  before my real brain kicks in?

  Ms. J’s eyebrows

  meet wrinkle speed bumps

  as they slowly climb

  the stumbly cliff

  of her forehead.

  She doesn’t say anything.

  Her starfish-shaped dress

  matches the orange light,

  catches the glow,

  looking like Esme’s cheeks

  when she puckers around a flashlight,

  trying to be a reverse firefly.

  It’s just . . . I’ve been thinking. I can tell you’re working hard,

  and don’t get me wrong,

  you’re definitely getting better, just . . .

  you could still use some Sandbox help.

  I keep my eyes on her eyes.

  She keeps her eyes on my eyes.

  Am I bluffing?

  Am I not?

  Even I don’t know.

  I just don’t want to go home.

  Not today.

  Not now.

  Not with tomorrow looming.

  Maybe you need,

  I don’t know,

  some after-school tutoring?

  Ms. J sucks her bottom lip,

  watches me stumble over my words.

  She looks down at her watch.

  She looks back up at me.

  It’s getting late.

  I look at my wrist,

  where a watch would be.

  I look up at her.

  It’s never too late to get better

  at Sandbox.

  I give her my just joking, mostly, crooked smile.

  Those eyebrows again.

  This time the wrinkle speed bumps

  don’t slow them down at all.

  Twenty minutes.

  That’s all I have before I need to go.

  I nod,

  follow her down the hall,

  and think,

  okay real brain,

  okay dino butt brain,

  we don’t have to go home

  right this second,

  but . . .

  now what?

  It’s a little weird with just us

  back under the stairs,

  sitting next to each other

  like we’re both students.

  Ms. J turns in her seat,

  looks at me hard,

  all the way through my eyes,

  into the soft self

  that tries so hard

  to hide.

  Then . . .

  her eyes change;

  the corners frown just a little bit,

  but not in a bad way.

  It’s like they’re matching the softness

  they just saw in me.

  Hey. Are you okay?

  Her voice is as soft as her eyes,

  and I feel something crack.

  I’ve been working so hard

  to hold everything together

  and now . . .

  I don’t know.

  I feel like,

  right here,

  right now,

  I can’t do it anymore.

  How can such a soft voice,

  such soft eyes . . .

  how can they split me open

  so fast?

  Pain.

  Sadness.

  It drips out of me,

  impossible to contain,

  like trying to put a raw egg

  back in its shell,

  a shattered mess,

  impossibly crushed,

  broken.

  She doesn’t say anything,

  just hands me a tissue

  and watches

  as I mop up the dripping bits,

  as best I can.

  Then

  we play Sandbox.

  No talking.

  No lessons.

  No tutoring.

  Just playing.

  For way longer

  than twenty minutes.

  She’s actually pretty good now.

  You’ve been practicing,

  I type.

  So have you, Ms. Apostrophe,

  she types back.

  I don’t know why

  this dripping moment,

  this day,

  this now,

  is suddenly the right time,

  but her eyes tell me it’s okay,

  something about her

  whispers to me,

  it’s . . . safe

  to sit with her,

  to be with her.

  To trust her.

  So.

  I say:

  Hey.

  You want to learn a trick?

  It’s really cool.

  No one else in the entire world can do it.

  Only me.

  And
maybe you, I guess.

  If you pay attention.

  0BenwhY finds everything we

  need,

  JJ11347 watches carefully,

  learning.

  Just like he did.

  Just like I did.

  364 days ago.

  0BenwhY helps JJ11347 find the things, too.

  She makes her practice the potion

  over and over.

  Just like he did.

  Just like I did.

  Almost a year ago.

  Look at you,

  I say.

  Just like he said to me,

  his mahogany voice

  smooth as ever.

  You know the secret now.

  What do you think?

  I watch her smile

  grow wide wide wide as

  she says,

  Wait. You can kill ghosts? Forever?

  But Ben B said that was legend—

  He said—

  He’s wrong.

  I roll my eyes.

  Her laugh is

  not deep mahogany,

  but still rich, smooth,

  and I hold on to it,

  tuck it away,

  while she yells

  TAKE THAT,

  as she splashes all the ghosts

  and they disappear,

  except the one in my head,

  in my heart,

  in my bones,

  in my blood,

  my brother,

  Benicio.

  The first Ben Y.

  The real Ben Y.

  The biggest why

  I’ve ever had

  in my whole

  entire

  life.

  I watch her rampage,

  killing every ghost in sight.

  Ghostkiller.

  The holiest of grails.

  The most magical hack.

  Alive again.

  Brought back

  to life.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen the potion since . . .

  since he taught me,

  since he passed it on,

  since he passed on,

  and what does it mean?

  That I just showed her?

  Right here?

  Right now?

  The potion only he could make,

  the secret he shared with me,

  as if he knew his car would crash,

  as if he knew our last moment

  was right then, that hour, that minute,

  that day.

  When you crash your car,

  you don’t have extra lives

  saved, stored up, hoarded.

  You have nothing,

  nothing,

  that can blink you

  back to life.

  Splash a ghost

  and the ghost sizzles into nothing.

  Crash your car

  and so do you.

  I don’t know what Ms. J knows

  about Ghostkiller.

  I don’t know if she understands

  what I’ve shown her.

  I don’t tell her how famous he was.

  I don’t tell her about the VIPs

  sending condolences,

  about the developers

  dedicating a bench

  in Benicio’s name

  at their corporate offices

  four states away.

  I guess she already knows

  that some people,

  like Ben B,

  think Ghostkiller was never real,

  that he’s a myth, a fake,

  designed to get more people to play.

  I don’t tell her he’s in a box

  in my house

  on the bookshelf,

  that he’s dust now,

  which is almost like sand,

  which means he’s become

  almost his own

  personal

  sandbox

  and maybe that would make him happy

  finally

  after not being happy

  for so long.

  I don’t say any of that,

  but I do fold this moment around me,

  a soft, safe blanket in time.

  I pull these quiet minutes close,

  I snuggle into them,

  breathing deep,

  and I let myself

  for once

  feel the feelings

  as they come,

  instead of running

  hard and fast

  to get away from them.

  I lean into Ms. J’s soft eyes,

  her soft words,

  the soft light.

  I let the words

  I’ve been trying to outrun

  finally win the race.

  I look up at her,

  as I pull this moment

  even tighter,

  the soft blanket of now

  becoming a bandage

  holding together

  the crack in my heart.

  I say,

  A year ago tomorrow

  my brother died.

  He was twenty-two.

  He was the real Ghostkiller.

  He was the one who programmed this trick,

  the only person who knew it,

  until he taught it to me,

  like an hour

  before his car crashed.

  She puts one hand

  very very very lightly

  on my shoulder,

  never taking her eyes

  from my eyes.

  She nods.

  I have no words.

  My head tilts toward her soft shoulder . . .

  maybe I can rest now

  that the words have won the race.

  Except

  thank you.

  Thank you for trusting me with this,

  Benita.

  And just like that,

  the bandage rips off,

  as the crack in my heart

  deepens to a fault,

  and I realize how stupid

  stupid

  stupid

  stupid

  I am

  to have shared any of this with her.

  Her hand, still on my shoulder,

  squeezes a tiny bit, as her voice lowers

  an even tinier bit,

  and she says,

  Are you okay?

  Is there someone I can call for you?

  Benita?

  Benita?!

  Benita?!

  How many times . . . ?!

  How

  many

  times

  have I told her it’s not Benita?

  How

  many

  times

  have I told her it’s Ben Y?????

  Benita. Hey. It’s okay.

  You can talk to me.

  Doesn’t she see?

  Doesn’t she realize?

  If she keeps calling me Benita

  it means

  she doesn’t hear me,

  she doesn’t see me

  even though I’m right here

  in front of her

  shattering all over the place?

  I’m right here

  and she doesn’t see me.

  I just broke open my heart,

  shared my biggest pain,

  revealed the Ghostkiller secret,

  and

  she

  still

  can’t

  even

  see

  me

  for

  who

  I

  actually

  am.

  My brain melts down.

  I don’t know who

  or what

  controls me now,

  but I know for sure

  it isn’t

  frick

  frackin’

  BENITA.

  Stop calling me that!

  My voice is so loud it cracks.

  It’s Ben Y, okay?!

 
Not Benita.

  Never Benita again.

  It’s Ben Y.

  Ben Y.

  WHY

  can’t

  you

  get

  that

  through

  your

  THICK

  skull?!

  Then

  I’m running.

  Fast and far.

  Past the first bus stop.

  Past the second.

  Maybe I’ll keep running,

  until my legs fall off

  until my heart explodes.

  Why did I tell her anything?

  Why did I do that?

  Why did I feel safe?

  Why am I so

  dumb

  dumb

  dumb?

  It’s dark now.

  I stop running.

  I wait for the 315,

  for it to take me across town,

  for it to take me away

  for it to take me anywhere but home

  or here.

  A flash of bright white

  as the bus door slides open,

  making me squint and stumble

  up the stairs.

  All the whys of the day come at me,

  pinpricking my mind,

  coming alive,

  taunting me,

  giving me feelings

  I can’t even name.

  The bus starts to move,

  I blink back to now,

  I trip over a foot,

  crash into a seat.

  Ow!

  OhBenWhy did you just fall

  on top of me?

  Jordan J’s voice is as loud as the lights,

  as I slide off him and onto the seat.

  What are you doing here?

  JORDAN J

  (JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!)

  Ben Y just totally fell on me on the bus right now out of nowhere, how wild is that? Just splat on my lap like a giant tossed her at me, like she was a bowling ball and I was a pin and now she’s looking at me like whut whut and I’m looking at her like whut whut and it’s a whut whut fest.

  Ben Y is sort of in her own quiet time bubble right now which is weird to me, since she just fell on me and squished me. Also, she isn’t asking any questions and she didn’t answer MY question about why she’s here and so, as my mom might say, that concerns me. I feel concerned. I have a concern about Ben Y and why she’s here and why she isn’t why-ing.