BenBee and the Teacher Griefer Read online

  JAVIER

 

  BEN B

 

  I’m listening as she says:

  Help me

  help you

  read

  to the whole class,

  one by one,

  face to face,

  and I want to laugh

  because it’s weird, right?

  All of it.

  Right now.

  Like a dream you have

  when your fever is sky-high

  and your mom says,

  Hmmm?

  No, Benjamin.

  That’s not an alligator.

  That’s your sister.

  It’s weird.

  But Ms. J?

  She keeps saying

  help me

  help you

  read

  and instead of laughing,

  now I’m wondering,

  What could she do?

  How could she help me?

  How could I help her help me?

  Could that even be a thing?

  Maybe?

  If I could finally be

  a good, smart reader,

  that would mean

  dealing with one less thing.

  Dealing with one less thing

  would give me more time

  for my favorite thing.

  And that is a thing

  I am in favor of.

  See what I did there?

  I drew a line,

  a string,

  from worst to best,

  if that, then this.

  If I read better,

  then I can play Sandbox more.

  See?

  I’m no dummy.

  Put a book in Sandbox,

  I say.

  That might make me read.

  OrRuinSandbox,

  Jordan J says,

  smashing the words together,

  pretending they’re a cough.

  You can’t put a book in Sandbox, silly.

  Ben Y shakes her head,

  but her eyes

  flash

  meteor bright

  and lock on to mine.

  We type in Sandbox,

  I say.

  That’s almost like a book.

  I look at Ben Y,

  she looks at me,

  a triangle of thinking.

  Ms. J looks up,

  searching out the blue sky

  between the swaying fronds

  of the tree.

  What if we read a real book and you play Sandbox and we see what real books are like and you see that Sandbox isn’t just a game you PLAY, which is frankly offensive, if you ask me.

  Wait.

  Yes!

  Jordan J is on to something.

  What if,

  I say,

  for every one minute we read in class,

  Ms. J plays

  one minute of Sandbox?

  IN CLASS?

  Ben Y’s meteor stare

  explodes into a smile.

  Javier’s eyes

  go wide wide wide,

  anime-style.

  Jordan J points at me.

  THAT is what I said, Buzzy

  Ben. Yasss. Butttttt . . . she won’t

  be a teacher griefer . . . right?

  We’ll teach her.

  My heart beats faster.

  She’ll teach us.

  She’ll learn it’s more than a game.

  We’ll learn . . . to, uh, read better.

  All teaching. No griefing.

  Ms. J’s crinkle face looks just like

  my sister Janie’s crinkle face

  when Mom says something like

  Did you know they make

  organic Pop-Tarts?

  Ms. J crinkles more, says,

  I don’t think we can play video games in class, Ben.

  But her crinkles soften

  just barely,

  just carefully enough,

  the tiniest smile

  in the history of smiles,

  peeking around the crinkles,

  just like Janie

  when she tastes the organic Pop-Tart

  and realizes

  it’s still actually junk food.

  If Ms. J eats the Sandbox Pop-Tart,

  then she’ll realize it’s

  good

  and

  good for you.

  (Sort of.)

  If Ms. J realizes Sandbox is good

  and good for you,

  maybe she’ll also realize:

  It’s smart.

  It makes me smart.

  It makes the whole class smart.

  And that’s what she wants, right?

  For us to be smart?

  If we’re smart,

  we will all pass the FART retake.

  So clearly,

  Sandbox equals FART smarts.

  If, then.

  If, then.

  If, then.

  But, Ms. J.

  Wouldn’t this plan be a

  divergent

  way to learn?

  For us.

  And for you.

  The tree rustles.

  Everyone holds their breath.

  Time stops for a second.

  Divergent, huh?

  Ms. J’s face

  all-the-way

  uncrinkles

  her small sideways smile

  slowly slips across her face,

  turning into a bigger sideways smile,

  like she knows better,

  but can’t help it.

  I pick the book,

  she says,

  squishing her lips into a point.

  I nod.

  First ten minutes of class,

  everyone takes turns

  reading—

  OUT LOUD,

  she says,

  staring us down.

  We nod.

  Everyone,

  she says,

  pointing at Javier,

  who looked away

  when Ms. J said

  out loud

  and still hasn’t looked back.

  Got it?

  I pick the book.

  And if you take turns reading,

  for ten solid minutes,

  out loud,

  then and only then,

  I’ll play your game,

  at the end of class

  for ten minutes.

  If you don’t read,

  I don’t play.

  We all nod.

  Including Ms. J.

  It looks like we have a deal, then,

  she says.

  The wind picks up speed,

  whistling through the willow,

  and even Jordan J’s low fart noise

  seems solemn in its own way.

  BEN Y

  <0BenwhY>

  Fun fact: some dinosaurs

  had two brains.

  A head brain,

  and a butt brain.

  Those dinos

  were so

  gigantically

  big,

  their first brain just

  ran out of steam

  halfway down their

  gigantically

  big

  bodies.

  So they needed a butt brain.

  You know.

  To help out.

  How could their back legs work?

  To run away from other dinos?

  How could their tails work?

  To do whatever tails do?

  They

  could

  not

  work

  without the very important

  very special

  very weird

  butt brain.

  Dino butt brain

  equals

  knowing when to run

  equals

  knowing when to hide

  equals

  protection.

  Fun fact:


  I’m pretty sure I have two brains, too.

  Regular brain.

  Dino butt brain.

  Sometimes

  (a lot of times)

  my regular brain

  goes blank,

  stalls,

  can’t reach any thought

  or explanation,

  so my dino butt brain kicks in.

  Shazam!

  Sometimes it aims me

  toward trouble

  instead of away from it,

  but maybe that’s because

  it knows the real trouble

  is in my real brain

  and that’s what I need to

  run away

  from.

  Benita?

  Did you need something?

  My real brain kicks in,

  as I realize my dino brain

  made me stay back

  after class,

  after Ms. J made everyone

  give her high fives and byes,

  as the echoes of the day

  fade into distant shouts

  outside

  and inside feels quiet,

  nice.

  Um.

  It’s Ben Y

  not Benita.

  My dino butt brain

  parked me here.

  In front of her desk

  that is a table

  and not an actual desk,

  and it didn’t tell me

  why.

  I wanted to tell you,

  uh . . .

  I love this quiet,

  when everyone is gone,

  when I can hide

  after school

  and breathe deep

  for the first time

  all day.

  But usually,

  when I stay

  after school

  in the cool

  quiet

  I’m by myself,

  not standing here,

  in front of an adult,

  like a big ol’ dork.

  I wanted to tell you . . .

  I’m sorry.

  About the book.

  I do things

  sometimes

  without thinking.

  I say things

  all the time

  without thinking.

  And it’s weird?

  Because I’m always thinking

  about something.

  But then

  the thing that happens

  or the thing I say

  isn’t any of the things

  I was thinking.

  I might have a dino brain?

  You know, near my butt?

  Does that make any sense?

  Anyway.

  Sorry I made you so mad.

  Her elbow on her desk,

  her palm covering her mouth,

  she looks up

  through her long lashes

  at me

  and breathes,

  making the same

  sniffffffff noise

  my baby sister, Esme, makes

  after she cries

  too

  too

  too

  hard.

  Benita.

  Her voice twists,

  making a spiral in the air,

  flying above my head,

  then diving

  into my ear.

  I really hate that name.

  My name is Ben now.

  Benita was buried in ashes

  almost a year ago.

  Gone.

  Dust.

  And Ben was born.

  I don’t have the mahogany voice,

  and I know I’m not him,

  but I can be my own Ben.

  I am my own Ben.

  I am enough Ben for both me and him.

  And I want Ms. J to get it right.

  Why can’t she get it right?

  Benita.

  You need to understand—

  Ms. J looks up.

  The bottom of the stairs

  slant over her too-small desk;

  if she stood up fast,

  whack,

  she’d get a concussion.

  She shakes her head.

  She opens her mouth.

  She closes it.

  She opens it again.

  What you did was wrong.

  But also . . .

  I’m sorry I got so mad.

  It wasn’t professional.

  Ms. J does a ridiculous thing now,

  sticking one bent elbow out to the side,

  and sticking her other arm

  straight out to the other side.

  She nods her head into her elbow crook,

  loud-whispers,

  I lost my cool,

  but don’t worry,

  I just found it again,

  then winks at me,

  while her head

  is still

  dabbed into

  her elbow crook

  and no,

  omg,

  just stop.

  My dino butt brain

  makes me laugh

  so hard

  because

  oh wow,

  she is such a weirdo goof,

  not like any teacher I’ve ever known,

  what is even happening.

  Ms. J stands now,

  arms back down,

  tilts her head

  to the side,

  slides

  away from her desk

  not smashing her head

  on the stairs.

  Shouldn’t you be running for the bus?

  How are you getting home?

  I tilt my head

  to the opposite side,

  even though

  I’m not

  in danger

  of smashing it.

  Maybe I’m making fun of her?

  Maybe I’m not?

  I take the city bus.

  I’m good.

  Ms. J smiles.

  Her eyebrows point down,

  a little like the Grinch.

  Well, then.

  You have time.

  Come with me for a minute?

  Her question,

  it’s a command.

  I don’t say yes or no.

  I just follow her

  out of the stairwell,

  her breeze

  smelling like the tired perfume

  that lives in a cloud

  around every grown woman

  I know.

  You may never have heard of a place such as this, but—

  Ms. J’s arms swing wide.

  She tries to wink slowly

  as she sing-talks,

  but both eyes wink

  at the same time

  and I have to chew my cheek

  to stop the sneak

  of a laugh

  from squeaking

  out.

  What if she thinks

  that sneak laugh

  is with her

  and not

  because of her?

  It is definitely

  because of her.

  This

  is

  a

  library.

  This,

  Benita,

  is

  where

  the books

  live.

  She continues to not get

  my name right.

  Sigh.

  Her arms are still wide,

  she’s spreading her wings,

  her caftan billowing,

  like she has

  her

  own

  personal

  fan,

  like

  she is

  a rockstar

  or

  something.

  Her voice gets

  even louder now,

  like she’s singing

  on a freaking

  stage:

  Please

  show

  me
/>   the

  tomes

  that

  don’t

  belong

  in a toilet.

  Please

  help

  me

  choose

  a book

  for the class.

  Oh, man.

  On the first day of school

  we had to play

  Two Truths and a Lie

  to get to know each other.

  I said:

  I have eleven toes.

  I have two sisters.

  I finish every book I read.

  Was eleven toes my lie?

  Or the reading thing?

  They all argued,

  but finally agreed,

  it had to be the toes,

  except

  Jordan J

  who ran around me

  leaping

  like a bonkers bananas deer

  yelling

  No one in here reads books!

  No one in here finishes anything!

  Take off your socks!

  Take off your socks!

  Ms. J told him to bring it down

  six hundred notches

  and then she moved along,

  ready for the next

  truths and lies

  and lies and truths

  but Jordan J was right.

  I’ve never

  ever

  actually

  by myself

  finished

  reading

  a book.

  Any book.

  Not one book.

  In my whole life.

  I’ve had books read to me.

  Sometimes.

  But I don’t read them

  on my own

  ever.

  In actual fact,

  I have not actually

  ever

  been into this actual library

  except once

  for a FART review

  last year.

  I swallow.

  I look around.

  The stacks and stacks of books

  remind me swiftly,

  fiercely,

  of his room

  filled with his own stacks of books,