draining away
any power of surprise
Ace may have had.
In this second,
Ms. J does not—
repeat—
does not
think Ace
is acting cute
at all.
And Ace’s face
in this second
looks like
how I’ve felt
in my guts
many, many times
when I did a thing
or said a thing
I wished I’d thought about
first.
I’m sorry . . .
Ms. J says again,
staring daggers at Ace.
Her arms cross,
squeezing her chest,
which is never
ever
a good sign.
WHAT is your name?
Ace shifts
from one combat boot
to the other,
and scratches
quickly
at the wig.
I’m Ace.
Ms. J nods,
looks at me for some reason,
looks back at Ace,
says:
It’s nice to meet you, Ace.
Please never do
any
of the things
you just did
in this library
ever again.
It’s Ace’s turn to nod.
Now Ms. J’s whole self smiles
along with her face
as she says,
Excellent.
And then,
Welcome to the library, Ace.
Talk to me about the books you’re reading right now.
The two of them walk off together
like they are brand-new
best friends,
but not before Ace
tosses a grin at me,
like it’s an over-the-shoulder
Frisbee fling,
and WHY
is everyone looking at ME?
Oh right.
Bald head.
I forgot for a second.
Except.
Ace’s Frisbee-fling grin
wasn’t a bald-head look.
And Ms. J’s
quick-stop glance
wasn’t a bald-head look.
So . . .
What?
I watch them go,
and the more I think about it,
the more I know for sure:
Ace is a Me.
And I am an Ace.
I know it from a deep-down place,
where you know things
because you feel them,
not because you learn them.
I know.
I just do.
You know in your guts
what you know,
you know?
You know what scares you.
You know what makes you laugh.
You know what you like.
You know what you don’t.
You know who you like.
You know who you don’t.
And sometimes
you see someone
or meet someone
and you hear a little
*ping*
in your heart,
and you know,
just like that,
this is someone
who’s like you,
*boom.*
You can’t explain how you know
because there’s nothing to explain.
You know in your guts
what you know,
you know?
I’ve never had the right words—
to describe what I know
about myself,
other than by describing
what I know I’m not.
I’m not like him,
I’m not like her,
I’m not like anyone
I’ve ever known
or met
or seen
So, somehow,
just as much
as I know
I’m not like him
or her
or anyone else at school,
I do know,
from deep down
in the place
where you know
deep-down truths:
If Ace is a me
and I am an Ace
then that means
I’m not just
a not someone
anymore.
Even if we don’t
really know
each other,
and even if we aren’t
technically friends,
it’s still a surprising,
out-of-nowhere feeling
of . . . relief, maybe?
To know I’m not alone.
There are two of us now.
And it doesn’t matter
if we’re friends
or if we aren’t,
because two is still two.
Two is not nothing.
Two feels so much better
than none.
The bell beeps its ring,
and my stomach sinks
because that means
back into the belly
of the Hart Middle beast.
I’ll figure out what Mr. Mann meant!
Ms. J shouts across the library
as Jordan, Ben B, and I
head toward the door,
dragging our feet,
moving slow.
About the Planet Safe Space article, I mean!
See you y’alls later!
Ace,
still at her side,
holding a stack of books now,
shifts the stack
to one pink-clad hip,
smiles that sparkling
fresh-mint smile,
and waves.
Yeah, see you y’alls later!
Jordan and Ben B
side-eye me
as we slide out the door
and Jordan says,
You y’alls is our thing.
I know what Jordan means, but . . .
technically?
Ace seems made to be a you y’all.
Just like me.
I don’t say anything
because I’ve been swallowed
by the laughs streaming my way
in the crowded hallway,
and it takes
my whole
entire
concentrating
ability
(which is,
admittedly,
not the best)
to drown out
all the comments
so that I don’t just . . .
drown.
< NEWSPAPER TYPING CLUB CHAT >
JJ11347: Can I have some help over here?
JJ11347: We need to get started on the shelves for the poetry section.
0BenwhY: BenBee has some good building skillz.
JJ11347: “Skills,” Ben Y. You know that. Proper grammar in Typing Club.
0BenwhY:
BenBee: but my skills are so good, they’re skillzzzz!
JJ11347:
JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!: I built some shelves out of chickens once.
BenBee: Seems like we’ve worked on the library enough for today.
BenBee: Maybe I can use my building skills(z) doing something else?
JJ11347: None of you have done ANY work today, BenBee.
JJ11347: You all literally just got here and ate a snack. That’s it.
JJ11347: jajajavier:)! Stop blowing up chickens!
JJ11347: Look what you did to the rug 0BenwhY added. Gross!
JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!: Javi! How am I supposed to make my chicken shelves???
jajajavier:): if i can’t blow up chickens, i’ll have to change my avatar name to jajajavier:(
BenBee: Why are we even building a library, again?
&nbs
p; BenBee: IN A VIDEO GAME??
BenBee: Does Sandbox really need one?
JJ11347: You hurt my heart, BenBee, when you say things like that.
Ms. J leans back in her chair,
her gold and turquoise caftan
shimmering around her,
as she breaks the number-one
most important rule
of Newspaper Typing Club:
No Talking during the Typing Club part.
You know,
there are
entire
undiscovered
universes
in libraries, right?
She flings her arms
out to her sides
like she’s about to
shoot fireworks
from her fingertips.
but one look from Ms. J
stops his snickers
only halfway
out of his nose.
Worlds, realms, lifetimes—
You would never get to experience
ANY of it
ANYwhere else!
And it’s all right here!
In the real library!
She drops her arms,
scooches her chair
closer to her computer,
and starts to type
louder than usual:
JJ11347: It only makes sense that you should find THAT kind of magic,
JJ11347: if not even *more incredible* magic, in a Sandbox library.
She looks up
over the top
of her monitor,
and somehow
her eyes frown
right at the edges,
not hiding
the little bit of sad
sneaking out.
She looks back down.
JJ11347: That’s why I thought it would be awesome for us to do this together.
JJ11347: Because libraries are magic, and Sandbox is magic
JJ11347: and I know you y’alls are so good at making magic.
JJ11347: But fine. Save the shelves for another time.
JJ11347: Go get your notebooks.
BenBee: Thanks a lot Javier
jajajavier:): what?? I didn’t do anything! You’re the one being mean to libraries!
jajajavier:): which are totally awesome and full of awesome things.
JJ11347: Enough. Everyone go get your notebooks.
0BenwhY: any news about the , Ms. J?
JJ11347: Nothing yet. But I left several messages for Mr. Mann.
Hey.
We all look up
as Ace wanders over,
and wow
Ace seems to be . . .
everywhere
these days.
Ace gives a little bow,
dropping a bursting backpack
BAM,
on my table,
half landing on my keyboard,
making it go AZXCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCC
in chat
until I get a chat infraction
AND ANOTHER ONE
until I yank the keyboard away,
clutching it to my chest,
hitting GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG
until I get my third chat infraction
in, like, five seconds
and get ejected from the game.
Ace looks up from the giant backpack,
waving a wrinkled paper,
grinning that shiny, sparkly,
24-carat-gold
stupid-cute grin.
Can someone show me
how to find bus . . . uh . . .
Ace looks down,
squints at the paper.
. . . 315?
My grandma can’t pick me up today
and blah blah blah. . . .
Ms. J points at me, smiles.
Ben Y can show you how to find the 315.
She knows everything about the buses!
I give her a look like, What??
What kind of dink knows everything about the buses??
I find some words that say:
Like, show Ace right now?
But aren’t we about to,
uh—
start newspapering?
Ace’s laugh
reminds me of
the smoothing rough
skritch skritch noise
of sandpaper
if sandpaper
could whisper.
I didn’t know
newspapering
was a verb.
Ace looks up,
thinking.
Or a gerund?
Ms. J’s eyes
almost
actually
turn into hearts
as she says:
Forget the 315.
Ace, would you like
to join Newspaper Typing Club?
And, oh boy . . .
I can practically hear
the wildly swiveling eyeballs
of Ben B, Javier, and Jordan
as they all swing their eyes
to Ms. J
and silently scream:
HANG ON.
WHAT.
Ace shrugs
in such an easy way,
such a smooth movement,
I’m convinced
for a second
that Ace invented
shrugging.
Gotta ask my grandma, I guess.
And if she says yes,
I might be late
most of the time,
because, uh,
I have detention
like four times a week
for the rest of my life.
Ms. J says,
That’s a lot of detentions.
Ace shrugs again.
My fabulous style breaks a LOT of rules.
According to Mr. Mann
Supreme Overlord of DRESS CODE enforcement.
Ace twists a rainbow earring
staring off into space for a second, then
blinks back to Earth, saying,
I do still have to find the 315, though.
Like, right now?
I have to be home, stat.
Ms. J breaks into my thoughts,
snapping her fingers with each word:
Ben Y.
Please.
The 315.
So here we are.
Side by side.
Walking to the 315.
Long stride matching long stride.
I want to fill the spaces
between our strides
with all the questions
that have popped to mind:
You know what a gerund is, huh?
When did you move to Freshwater?
Where did you move from?
Do you really have THAT many detentions?
You live with your grandma?
But somehow,
I manage to keep quiet
for once
while I think of things to say
that aren’t questions
and that Ace might think
are cool or—
Shorter strides
pound behind us
and Jordan catches up,
already explaining,
—and I said I’ll be right back I just want to make sure no one gets lost or anything plus also it’ll be good research for my article about the importance of cardio fitness for kids who—who—
he puts his hands on his knees,
leans forward,
huffing and puffing
—play too many video games.
Jordan looks up,
smiles.
Hi. Good. You don’t seem lost.
I give him my best
what in the world? look,
but he ignores me,
linking elbows with Ace
as they walk ahead.
I have an important question for you, Ace, Did you ever see that old movie about a pet detective named Ace? It�
�s a really terrible movie, which makes me wonder why your parents would name you after someone in it? Unless they didn’t? Unless you’re an actual pet detective? And they always have to be named Ace? Sorry, that was more than one important question.
Ace’s eyebrows falter in a way
I’ve seen before
when people meet Jordan,
like they aren’t sure
if he’s joking
or if he’s sincere
or if Jordan is making fun of them
or if they should be making fun of him.
I am not a pet detective.
Not named after one, either.
So, you’re zero for two there, big guy.
And now Ace is trying to catch my eye,
I can feel it,
so we can share a wink-wink, eyebrow-waggle,
what’s-up-with-this-weirdo-Jordan joke.
But nope.
I don’t do Jordan jokes.
Ever.
At all.
Not even when he’s being
extra strange
like he is
right now.
There’s the 315.
I say it quickly,
interrupting Jordan
before he can launch into
a whole thing
about some other thing
that only Jordan
would launch into.
It’s right there.
I point to the city bus
already stopped
at the end of the block.
Better run.
That’s it?
Oh, crud!
Ace takes off running.
Jordan links arms with me now,
as we turn around
and jog together
back to school.
What was that all about?
I unlink my arm
and turn around,
jogging backward,
so I can face Jordan.
What was what?
Jordan shrugs
and it’s such the opposite
of Ace’s smooth-move shrug,
it fills me
with the warm-squishy feeling
that comes from
knowing someone
so well,