BenBee and the Teacher Griefer Read online

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!:

  0BenwhY: im mad at u now too

  BenBee: can everyone zip it?

  BenBee: did you see the thing about Ghost Season?

  BenBee: maybe we should do something to protect our avatars.

  BenBee: for when Ghost season gets here.

  BenBee: ghosts. coming. melting. everyone.

  BenBee: devs r cleaning house, archiving avatars that get melted during ghost season.

  BenBee: u’ll have to pay real actual money to get unarchived.

  BenBee: we have this cool server all to ourselves.

  BenBee: we could make a pyramid out of diamonds so we can hide there.

  BenBee: we need the pyramid to survive. well, to keep playing for free.

  BenBee: and i know for sure my parents won’t pay a monthly fee so i can play sandbox.

  BenBee: no way, no how.

  0BenwhY: wow. all of that, and no chat infraction??

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!:

  BenBee: guys, come on! is anyone gonna give you money so you can play?

  0BenwhY: don’t call us guys.

  jajajavier:): ugh I gotta jet. ill help with the pyramid 2morow after school

  jajajavier:): I’ve been hiding in the bathroom with the laptop

  jajajavier:): my mom thinks im pooping myself to death

  jajajavier:) HAS EXITED GAME

  BenBee: dang dang dang moms coming up the stairs.

  BenBee: im supposed to b practicing handwriting, barf.

  BenBee: shes gonna kill me.

  BenBee: i gotta jet 2.

  BenBee HAS EXITED GAME

  0BenwhY: looks like its up to us to get this pyramid started

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!:

  0BenwhY: im still sort of mad at u, but not as mad at u as i am Javier, so fine

  0BenwhY:

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!:

  0BenwhY: okay okay don’t get too excited.

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!:

  0BenwhY: r u gonna haul those diamonds over here or what?

  0BenwhY: also, whos gonna be the one to ask ms j?

  0BenwhY: about the setup homework?

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!:

  0BenwhY: mmm hmm great of course

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!:

  0BenwhY: glad to see ur into building this thing cause i gotta go. dinner time.

  0BenwhY HAS EXITED GAME

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!:

  JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!:

  BEN B

 

  You’ve done thirty minutes?

  Of handwriting practice?

  To earn your fifteen minutes

  of Sandbox?

  Mom leaned around my doorway

  just as I clicked off the monitor.

  Uh, I reversed it.

  Fifteen minutes of Sandbox,

  then handwriting, here I come.

  I held up a pencil,

  tried to smile.

  Dad curled around Mom,

  filling up

  my whole

  bedroom doorway.

  That’s not how it works, pal.

  You can’t take advantage of your mom that way.

  No screens.

  One week.

  What!

  Dad!

  Mom and I had a deal!

  And I was just about to—

  Jim . . .

  Mom twisted her face up to look at him.

  I don’t th—

  Keep talking to me like that, Benjamin,

  Dad interrupted Mom,

  and you’ll make it two weeks

  no screens.

  But Dad!

  I was just about to start!

  Mom said—

  Benjamin.

  What did I say?

  Don’t use that tone with me.

  Now it’s two weeks.

  DAD!

  Three weeks.

  Want to make it more?

  I hate how Dad doesn’t yell.

  I hate how the angrier he gets,

  the calmer he acts.

  Mom pushed her way

  away from Dad,

  stomped off,

  leaving me

  with three weeks

  no screens.

  Dad ran his hand

  through his hair,

  down his face,

  said,

  I bet,

  in three weeks,

  your handwriting will be better

  than mine.

  Then he pointed finger guns at me,

  smiled,

  walked away.

  Come on, Jenny,

  his voice drifted into my room,

  from down the hall.

  Come out of the bathroom.

  You’re too easy on him.

  That’s when I put in my

  earbuds,

  shut

  my

  door

  and

  here I am.

  No screens.

  Three weeks.

  Three weeks!

  Now there’s nothing fun

  waiting for me

  at the end of my days

  of nothing fun.

  I am a boring snake

  eating my own boring tail.

  Three weeks.

  Might as well be

  three forevers.

  At least there’s Sandbox at school.

  But not really.

  Not like I thought it would be.

  Ms. J gets to play

  on that one rickety

  old computer,

  that one

  beard-growing

  old man of a machine

  while we watch her

  finally decide

  after a hundred and fifty years

  she wants purple hair

  for her avatar

  with no gold.

  We need more screens,

  so she can watch us and learn,

  so we can all teach her together.

  That’s how it has to work,

  that’s how she’ll figure it out.

  Computers for everyone.

  It only makes sense.

  Just like a book for each of us.

  It’s the best way.

  The only way.

  And I’ll get to play.

  Every day.

  Take THAT, no screens

  for three weeks.

  More computers?

  Ms. J shakes her head.

  Tall order, Ben B.

  An impossible feat.

  But . . .

  My voice sputters as my brain spins,

  no way she can say no that easily,

  no way this question is already answered.

  But . . .

  I hear my voice winding up,

  louder, with a begging edge.

  We each have a book to read—

  we should also each

  have a screen.

  Right?

  So we can teach you better.

  You know?

  Ms. J shakes her head.

  Books are curriculum, Ben B.

  And I’m not even sure this—

  she flings her hand back and forth

  like she’s waving away a stink—

  even counts as a book.

  Ben Y yells, HEY!

  Ms. J ignores her.

  Computer allotments aren’t the same as books.

  Requisitions, paperwork, grants . . .

  it’s a process.

  Three weeks, no screens.

  Three weeks, no screens.

  It’s burned into my brain,

  the only thing

  on repeat.

  So it’s just No?

  That’s it?

  You can’t even try?

  I’m arguing with a teacher,

  my voice a whine

  even I don’t like,

  pushing my luck, I know,

  but three weeks no screens.

  Three weeks no screens!

 
; We’re trying so hard.

  Every day.

  Reading out loud.

  Summer school.

  The FART retake looming,

  a shadow over

  every day

  and yet here we are

  doing this thing we hate

  so we can teach you to love

  a new thing.

  Come on. . . .

  Can’t you meet us halfway?

  Halfway!

  Ben B!

  What do you call this?

  She waves the book at me.

  This isn’t literature.

  It barely has sentence structure.

  This is floof,

  fun.

  You all need an extra life

  when it comes to the assessment retake,

  and this isn’t that!

  But I press on,

  making magic out of nonsense,

  trying to cobble together extra lives

  for all of you.

  This is so much further

  than halfway.

  Farther! Ben Y shouts.

  Ms. J ignores her.

  All kinds of feelings boil up from my belly,

  strong and steaming.

  So when you said

  Help me help you,

  I guess I should have known.

  No deal with a grown-up is a real deal, ever.

  Is that what a divergent plan is?

  Just a trick.

  A stupid trick.

  You were never going to play, were you?

  Not for real.

  You never cared about helping us help you, did you?

  The words zip from my mouth,

  darts toward a fluttering target,

  finding a bull’s-eye

  as Ms. J sucks in her breath

  and for a tiny split-second

  looks away

  before she looks back,

  with sparks in her eyes

  and fire in her voice

  as she says,

  Enough.

  ENOUGH.

  And now we read out loud

  so this day can win a prize

  for being the worst day

  in the history

  of ever.

  Javier shakes his head

  no,

  holds his palm

  on his closed book,

  like he’s swearing the truth

  and only the truth

  that he will never read out loud

  in class,

  so help him.

  One more chance, Javier.

  This is it.

  Don’t test me.

  I am already

  in

  a

  mood.

  But he does test her.

  He tests her mood

  tests her patience

  and she earns a fire-breathing dragon A+

  when she makes him move his desk again

  next to hers again

  so he has to face all of us

  while he doesn’t read AGAIN.

  Someone will have to read twice now.

  If we want to hit our ten minutes.

  If we want any Sandbox today.

  Even if it’s stupid setup.

  And it’ll be my only Sandbox, too.

  Three weeks no screens,

  still on repeat,

  banging around in my head.

  I hate this day.

  Two minutes and thirty seconds

  plus

  two minutes and thirty seconds

  equals

  way too many minutes and seconds.

  That’s just

  simple math.

  Unseen dangers lie ahead. To build a fortress and protect your village, go to page 15.

  To forge ahead, go to page 20.

  I look up.

  My mouth is dry.

  Am I in a desert?

  These unmoving boulders

  of letters and sounds and words,

  tripping me until I move so slow,

  I must be on the verge of . . .

  I am going to die of . . .

  word poisoning?

  As the reader of the moment,

  it’s your choice, Ben B.

  To die?

  I ask.

  Her expression has not

  changed

  from earlier today,

  when my words

  were sharp

  and she was soft.

  No, Ben B.

  Her voice hard and flat.

  Fortress or forge ahead?

  I look at Javier,

  who doesn’t seem to care

  he’s being forced to face us

  as he doesn’t read.

  He’s not even looking at me,

  because he’s drawing,

  always drawing.

  What could he possibly be drawing

  so much of,

  all the time?

  The grouchiness pushes through,

  words flying from my mouth

  that I couldn’t catch

  even if I wanted to.

  These choices are stupid.

  Everyone knows you catch a fairy,

  squish it,

  use the dust to fly,

  survey your surroundings from above,

  THEN decide what to do.

  You can see everything

  while you’re safe in the air.

  Duh!

  What dummy wrote this thing?

  Quietly, a voice behind me says: My mom did. My mom wrote it. She’s a great writer. The best. Why are you saying mean things about my mom, the smartest mom in the actual whole world?

  Everyone’s head jerks up.

  Even Javier’s.

  Ben Y clasps her hands to her mouth.

  The color drains from Ms. J’s face.

  Then Jordan J busts out laughing.

  Just kidding. My mom works

  at a newspaper. She’s just a

  regular mom.

  I spin in my seat so fast,

  an angry gyroscope.

  Shut up, Jordan.

  This isn’t a joke.

  Some stupid person wrote this stupid book

  and now we have to read it—

  some of us have to read EXTRA—

  and Ms. J can’t even play,

  like she promised.

  Aaaaargh.

  Let’s forge ahead, stupidly,

  to see what stupid choice

  we have next.

  So, yeah.

  Now I’m sitting in the hallway.

  While I think about

  how to think about

  my words

  before

  I say them

  and the choices I make,

  which,

  agreed,

  have been pretty stupid

  today.

  I think about:

  extra weeks of no screens

  if Ms. J calls my parents.

  I think about:

  that would be guts-meltingly terrible.

  I think about:

  what Dad would say about my tone today,

  about my attitude today.

  I think about:

  if I say I’m sorry,

  then Ms. J will not call my parents.

  Sorry, Ms. J.

  Yes, I have cooled off.

  Yes, I know stupid is not a divergent use of vocabulary.

  Yes, I know you’re doing the best you can.

  Yes, I know we all are.

  I still hate this day.

  Ben Y reads out loud now.

  She spits every word,

  like she’s angry at it,

  for ever being in her mouth

  to begin with.

  I don’t know what she’s mad about,

  but right on.

  She finishes her part,

  looks up from her book,

  catches me looking at her.

  Thumbs up, Ben Y,

  I like how yo
u spit your words.

  She doesn’t look at me.

  I don’t know where she’s looking.

  Maybe she’s imagining this day is over.

  I’m going to imagine that, too.

  BEN Y

  <0BenwhY>

  I don’t like to rush.

  I don’t like to hurry.

  I don’t like to be home on time.

  I don’t like to be home at all.

  So I stay places.

  As long as I can.

  At school.

  On the bus.

  Wherever.

  I’m

  an

  easy

  sneak,

  a shadow

  bending

  into quiet places.

  Like today,

  this old space,

  storage

  behind the gym,

  full of boxes,

  junk,

  broken stuff . . .

  now I’m part of its mess, too.

  It’s quiet in here,

  the wifi works,

  I can surf

  fashion blogs,

  imagine

  lines of clothes

  I might design

  one day

  in another world

  another place

  far freaking away

  from here.

  And when the light

  goes from fluorescent

  to mauve

  I know

  it’s time to pack up.

  Vacate.

  Head home.

  I can take the city bus.

  Sneak into my room.

  Move past the memories,

  dark in their own shadows.

  Except.

  Today, I hear a rustle.

  Today, I’m not alone.

  There’s another sneak.

  Uh-oh.

  Ms. J.

  She stands in the shadows,

  a pushcart full of old

  computers

  in front of her

  and a look on her face

  that says

  O Ben Why

  and

  O Ben How

  and

  O Ben I Wish You Weren’t Here Right Now.