BenBee and the Teacher Griefer Read online

  really slams it,

  on my desk.

  I mean,

  she basically throws it.

  At me.

  We are paused.

  Like the middle of a game,

  when you need to

  stop,

  strategize,

  organize,

  fall back,

  breathe.

  Think, self,

  think.

  Should I tell her it’s not my book?

  Even though I’m technically the only girl in class?

  And it’s pretty obvious the only girl (technically)

  would be the one

  to flush a book

  in the girls’ restroom?

  Should I mention that maybe

  gender-neutral bathrooms

  would be useful

  in the future

  for a variety of reasons

  (not just because

  gender assumptions

  ratted me out

  in this particular situation)?

  Should I tell her it fell out of my backpack?

  Should I tell her someone stole it?

  Should I act grateful to have it back?

  Should I just stay quiet?

  One million seconds go past.

  Ms. J stays paused

  right here

  in front of my desk.

  A tiny bit of splashed

  toilet

  water

  (grossssssss)

  drips

  from my chin

  (omgggggggg)

  onto my fabulous

  floral

  button-down

  I found

  for two dollars

  at Stardust Thrift

  (arghhhhhhhh).

  Then.

  Boom.

  The world unpauses.

  Jordan J whistles,

  low,

  long,

  an up-down noise

  that we all know means

  What-the-what just happened.

  Ms. J’s angry face

  melts back to her regular face,

  and then to a surprised face.

  Oh my gosh.

  Benita.

  I’m sorry.

  I didn’t mean to—

  And her hands cross under her arms,

  as if her armpits can prevent

  another wet book

  from flying out

  and everyone is

  so

  so

  quiet,

  like sitting-at-a-funeral quiet

  and

  you can hear

  the drip

  drip

  of the toilet water

  slipping from the book

  across my desk

  and onto the floor,

  and everyone’s eyes

  flash

  from her

  to me

  to the book

  and back again,

  an infinite loop

  in desperate need

  of a reboot,

  a ctrl-alt-del

  so we can take a new path

  so we can start this moment

  all over again.

  We all have bad days.

  I appear to be having one

  right now,

  but,

  bless

  your

  heart,

  Benita. . . .

  Why,

  why,

  why would you try

  to flush

  a book?

  I don’t really think she means bless your heart,

  Jordan J whispers to me.

  I think she said that instead of a swear.

  I give him a look that

  definitely

  means a swear.

  He stops whispering.

  The thing is . . .

  some girl I don’t know,

  maybe from dance team camp?

  was at the sinks

  while I was in the stall

  and she said,

  You know that tall girl?

  The one who always wears red lipstick?

  And my heart sped up,

  because that tall girl

  with the red lips

  is definitely me.

  Another girl said,

  Yeah,

  like she was super bored,

  and the first girl said,

  I saw her walking into the Dummy Potter class.

  You know,

  the one under the stairs?

  And she had, like,

  a copy of The Horse and the Mouse

  in her hand,

  and didn’t we read that in, like,

  third grade?

  The bored girl said,

  Well, maybe it’s a Baby Potter class

  and not a Dummy Potter class.

  Maybe they’re babies in big-kid bodies?

  I don’t know.

  Who cares?

  I could hear her shrug

  and I don’t know why,

  but that shrug

  set me on fire.

  My guts burned,

  my face burned,

  my brain burned

  as it tried to not remember

  the mahogany voice

  reading me The Horse and the Mouse,

  when I was a third grader;

  the mahogany voice

  that used to read me so many books;

  the mahogany voice

  I haven’t heard

  in almost

  exactly

  one year.

  I didn’t want to think about his voice.

  I didn’t want the sadness to wash over me,

  to drown me,

  to choke me,

  so I guess I tried to wash

  away the book,

  drown the memory,

  choke down the feelings,

  and I pushed it

  shoved it

  crushed it

  drowned it,

  in the toilet

  farthest

  from the door.

  I flushed,

  flushed,

  flushed,

  until the water poured out,

  flushed more

  and more,

  trying to flush the Horse,

  trying to flush the Mouse,

  trying to flush

  the memories,

  the questions,

  the voice,

  the whys,

  flush them all

  all

  all

  alllllllllllllllll

  away.

  Of course I don’t say

  any of this

  out loud

  right now

  in class.

  Sometimes too much to say

  becomes nothing to say

  because, just like nothing,

  too much has no beginning

  or end.

  Ms. J keeps looking at me

  as if I crushed her heart

  like a baby toe

  against the corner

  of a dang

  coffee table.

  No.

  Her look is worse than a crushed toe.

  Her crumpled face,

  even while she tries

  to be calm now,

  looks like the book was her family,

  made of her own blood,

  and I tried to kill it,

  with my own dirty

  bare

  hands.

  I mean, who loves a book that much?

  I close my eyes.

  I imagine Ms. J is a ghost in Sandbox.

  She’s shimmering,

  ready to slime me.

  Benita.

  Answer me.

  Why

  did

  you

  do

  this?

  I look away.

  Where is Ghostkiller when you need him?

  My insides fill with cold ghost slime
.

  Some of it oozes out of my eyes.

  Ma’am?

  Can you please stop calling me Benita?

  That isn’t my name anymore.

  It’s Ben.

  Ben Y.

  I sniff,

  try to delete

  the ghost slime

  from my cheeks.

  I hate that

  my voice sounds small.

  I hate that

  I feel just as small.

  Do you know?

  How it feels?

  To fail the FART?

  I don’t mention

  that it’s

  maybe

  very

  possible

  I failed on purpose.

  Do you know?

  How it feels?

  To be forced to take summer school?

  I don’t mention

  that I

  maybe

  possibly

  have been actually

  looking forward to it.

  A distraction.

  A place to spend my days

  that’s not my house.

  Do you know?

  How it feels?

  When you’re forced to read a book written for babies

  and you still can’t do it?

  I don’t mention how,

  when I see those words,

  I hear the mahogany voice;

  that it haunts me,

  that I’ve spent the last year

  desperate to hear it

  and desperate to not hear it.

  I don’t mention that I can’t read the book

  because the words swim

  but also because the words hurt.

  Do you?

  Ms. J kneels by my desk,

  her giant hair a coconut-smelling cloud

  blocking out the stairwell light.

  She takes the wet book.

  She stands up.

  Everyone,

  she says,

  follow me.

  Are we even allowed

  to go outside

  in the middle

  of the school day?

  Why?

  Why?

  Why is Ms. J

  breaking so many

  rules

  today?

  All the other eyes

  looking at mine

  are asking

  why

  why

  why,

  too.

  Her caftan,

  like a sheet in the wind,

  billows after her,

  as she moves quickly

  and we follow,

  but not close enough

  to get tripped up

  in all the ripples

  of her epic dress.

  Where

  are

  we

  going?

  I guess we’re going here,

  under the giant willow tree.

  I guess we’re sitting in the dirt.

  I guess we’re staring at each other.

  I guess we’re staring at her.

  Dare I even ask

  the simplest

  and most obvious

  question:

  Why

  in the world

  are we here?

  In Japan there is a practice called forest bathing.

  Ms. J’s voice is soft,

  almost a whisper,

  blending with the soft

  almost-whispers

  of the tree.

  It means calmly walking around in a forest

  until you feel relaxed and rejuvenated.

  It helps you think clearer.

  It helps you feel better.

  We don’t have a forest here at school,

  so this tree will have to do.

  Can we all sit for a few

  minutes

  until I—

  until we feel calmer?

  Jordan J makes a fart noise.

  Jordan,

  if that is what calms you,

  I ask that you go do it in the restroom.

  Jordan J doesn’t move,

  but he whispers,

  It’s Jordan J, actually.

  And Ben B whispers back to him,

  Why the J, dude?

  And Jordan whispers,

  If you’re Ben B and Ben Y is Ben Y,

  and Ms J is Ms J shouldn’t I be Jordan J?

  Otherwise people will be—

  ENOUGH,

  Ms. J shouts.

  She closes her eyes,

  then, in a much quieter voice,

  says,

  Can we please,

  please

  silently reflect

  for just one moment?

  We all sit under the tree.

  Quietly.

  But our eyes bounce around,

  silently saying,

  What is happening?

  while Ms. J sits with her eyes closed

  for a very

  very

  long time.

  Is my teacher going bonkers bananas?

  Because I tried to flush my book?

  JORDAN J

 

  Everyone was so serious I had to make a fart noise, it’s just a thing that had to be done and I don’t know why we’re all under this tree, but it’s super weird especially after Ms. J (no relation) threw that book like WHAM I mean, can’t you get fired for doing something like that? Can you? I don’t think anyone is allowed to throw books, teachers or students. Oh my gosh it sounded like I just said no one is allowed to throw teachers or students, which I’m pretty sure is totally true, but is not what I meant. Haha. I’m like a poet or something. The thing is, though, Benita, I mean, Ben Y is totally right about the book being for babies or whatever. It is and I wish I’d thought to flush mine, too, though I guess it didn’t work very well when she tried it and now we’re all here and Ms. J seems extra super freaked out that she freaked out and what is even happening.

  I mean, I’m not going to make another fart noise, but I’m going to think about it.

  I heard some of everyone talking about a chickenfall and I have never heard of a chickenfall, so I had to try to laser pinpoint my mind on their conversation in order to figure out what the heck they were talking about. Turns out, they were talking about Sandbox which is a game I love love love, so today, before the bell I was all, Hey you guys, talk to me about your chickenfalls, because it sounds maybe even better than the swingset I made where the swings are pigs. Everyone looked at me like I was a pig swing for a minute and then Ben Y said Hold up, you’re JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!! and I was like of course and she was all, Well well. And then everyone except for the quiet guy said our avatar names and holy dang this is like a class full of famous people, especially Ben B, holy cow I saw him play at SBCon4 last year and he is legit legit, like if he had been there in real life and not just in the VIP server, playing on the big widescreen, he could’ve signed autographs on people’s faces I bet.

  Everyone in this class loves Sandbox times a million and we all were talking so fast and at the same time it got super loud and Ms. J said, I wish you guys could get as excited about reading as you do about video games, and everyone laughed and was like, Noooooo waaaayyyy, and Javier, who is so quiet he didn’t say his avatar name and who uses one hundred and ten percent of his concentration one hundred and ten percent of the time to draw stuff in his notebook, even HE laughed and he never usually makes a noise at all ever, he just draws or stares hard in front of his desk like he wants to be invisible or shoot lasers out of his eyes. Or play Sandbox. I bet everyone in the whole world plays Sandbox. Well, everyone except for my dog Spartacus because she’s a dog and except for my mom who is a mom and who kind of hates Sandbox, but I bet she’d like it if she’d ever play with me, which she won’t because she is just so busy, Jordan, she has so much to do all the time, Jordan, can’t you just turn that off for a second and PUT AWAY YOUR SOCKS?!?!?!

  Actually, probably M
s. J doesn’t play Sandbox either. So. Two people in the whole world. Ms. J and my mom. Well, and Spartacus, who is not a person, but is the smartest dog in the history of ever, so basically a person, but better. So, like two-point-five people in the whole world don’t play Sandbox.

  Also, Spartacus is a girl, just to be clear, not a boy like in the movie not that it really matters because she’s brave and strong and protects me like the other Spartacus would if he knew me or if I lived in that movie which he doesn’t and I don’t.

  Ms. J is talking now so I guess the quiet part under the tree is done, so that’s good because I don’t do super great at quiet parts anywhere. I’m a mover and a shaker and a talker and a mover-some-more-er at least that’s what my mom says. She says it isn’t bad it’s just different than most people. I guess I kind of like how Ms. J says we’re all divergent thinkers, because I am a divergent everything-er. I have a million ideas a day that sometimes get in the way of my other million ideas so I have to stare out the window for a little bit while all the ideas bang into each other. PS it turns out when you have to stare out the window for a little bit or a lotta bit that isn’t super great for taking the FART because all of a sudden your time is over and you aren’t finished and you find yourself in summer school sitting under a tree not making fart noises even though you really, really want to.

  Wait. What did Ms. J just say? Something about changing books? Cool, cool, no more baby books, except if the baby book is hard to read then I’m not sure another book would actually be better? Can we just choose to not read?

  Ooh. I said that last part out loud. Oops.

  Answer: No.

  Not surprising.

  Wait. What did Ms. J just say? Rewind, brain, try to listen again . . . blah blah blah . . . she’s going to choose a better book and also she wants us to help her help us. She’s leaning forward like she has a secret and we’re all leaning forward and we’re still under this tree and today has been a strange day.

  Help me help you read.

  Ms. J is saying that to each one of us and we are all staring at her like she needs some hot chocolate and a quiet corner because I’m pretty sure she’s stressed out and when my mom yells, You’re making me feel crazy, Jordan! she always likes hot chocolate and a quiet corner.