you can tell
their squirrely shrug
means they know
exactly
what was what.
Jordan stops jogging.
I stop, too.
You make me nervous when you jog backward Ben Y because what if there’s a sinkhole you can’t see and you fall in it? And actually, huh, that’s interesting, I think Ace kind of gives me the same feeling I get when I’m worried about you not seeing a sinkhole and falling in. Does that make any sense at all? Probably not. All I know is something about that kid crinkles my stomach in a WATCH OUT FOR SINKHOLES kind of way even though my brain keeps reminding me that Ace seems fine and nice. It’s like my stomach and my brain are arguing which maybe doesn’t make a lot of sense but is the best way I can think of to explain why I ran after you.
Fair enough,
I say,
and then after a minute,
Sinkholes are really big, you know.
I’d see the warning
in your big yikes eyes
if one was behind me.
For the rest of the afternoon,
I work on my article
about the value
and awesomeness
of shopping
at thrift stores,
while I steal glances
at Jordan,
who seems to be acting
maybe
just a little bit
stranger
than usual.
Most of the time
I can figure out
everything Jordan is thinking,
sometimes even before
Jordan knows
what he’s thinking,
but right now,
based on his forehead wrinkles
and his not-smile
but not-frown,
I can’t figure it out.
Maybe he’s having trouble
with his cardio article,
or maybe he’s still worrying
Ace might be a sinkhole
I could fall into.
Huh.
NOW
0BenwhY: Hi again.
0BenwhY: in case you were wondering, yes, i am still bald
0BenwhY: in case you were also wondering, yes, school WAS *that* bad
0BenwhY: also, earbud invisibility is not nearly as useful as actual invisibility
0BenwhY: though it does kind of muffle the mean voices
0BenwhY: and that’s better than nothing
0BenwhY: i guess
0BenwhY: not really
0BenwhY: anyway
0BenwhY: . . .
0BenwhY: how was your day?
0BenwhY: are you very busy now? Doing ghosty things?
0BenwhY: do you get to watch over all of us? in all our separate places all day?
0BenwhY: . . .
0BenwhY: Seems like that would be kind of terrible, actually
0BenwhY: I mean, why watch us if you can’t help out in any way?
0BenwhY: and obviously you can’t help us, right?
0BenwhY: because you would if you could, right?
0BenwhY: like pull the fire alarm to save me from a pop quiz?
0BenwhY: or flood the locker room to cancel gym class?
0BenwhY: . . .
0BenwhY: ugh
0BenwhY: . . .
0BenwhY: did you see that Ace kid today?
0BenwhY: when you were watching over me but not helping?
0BenwhY: i wish you could help me figure out if I want Ace to be my friend
0BenwhY: i mean, i *think* I do? But also . . .
0BenwhY: Ace is kind of . . . a lot?
0BenwhY: Also also, for some reason it feels important for Ace to think *I’m* cool?
0BenwhY: even though I know I can *also* be . . . a lot?
0BenwhY: I know. None of that makes much sense. That’s why I need your help.
0BenwhY: that’s why now is the perfect chance for you to wave a wand or send a sign
0BenwhY: . . .
0BenwhY: Anything?
0BenwhY: . . .
0BenwhY: no advice at all? really?
0BenwhY: . . .
0BenwhY: that’s so unlike you, Benicio.
0BenwhY: . . .
0BenwhY: As you would say, this has been a delight, but I really do have to go now.
0BenwhY: smell ya later, ghost breath
HOME
I rock back and forth
squeak squeak squeak
and I can almost match
my heartbeat beat beat
while I sit in Benicio’s chair
at Benicio’s old desk
in Benicio’s old room
and think think think
about nothing
and everything
and how he used to tell me
how all this school stuff,
how all this kid stuff
feels like it’s everything,
like it powers your breath
and your guts
and all your feelings
and it feeds you
and makes you sick
and it’s so much everything
and how you think you can’t escape.
But you can,
he’d say.
You will, kiddo.
Trust me.
You’ll pull yourself free
from the middle-school ooze,
and when you do?
You’ll still be you,
but you’ll be a new you.
You’ll realize all this stuff,
all these swallowing everythings . . .
they’re nothing,
in the grand scheme of life.
Or at least,
they’re nothing
in the grand scheme
of growing up
and getting out
and seeing how big the world is
you’ve ever known.
How is it
that I can’t remember my Earth Science assignments,
and I can’t remember articles versus prepositions,
but I will never forget,
ever,
in a million billion years,
Benicio’s words
from that time he taught me
everything is really nothing
and that is the thing
I should hold on to.
That is the thing
I should look forward to
the most.
Dinner is ready, Mr. Clean!
Mom’s voice echoes down the hall,
along with Esme’s giggle.
Great.
Just what I need.
Mom’s a comedian now?
A tiny smile fights its way
to the tiniest corner
of my mouth.
At least that joke means
she’s here with us tonight,
instead of lost
in her thoughts
like every other night.
It means she’s opened
her usually tired,
usually sighing,
usually closed,
eyes,
and she’s seen me.
But also?
It means she’s thought about me
long enough
to make a joke.
You can’t make a joke
if you aren’t paying attention,
at least a little bit.
And if Mom’s paying attention?
To me?
Even if it’s a little bit?
I’ll take it.
So.
Mom leans over her plate,
sawing her knife
back and forth,
back and forth,
like she’s getting revenge
on a chicken thigh
that treated her wrong.
How did your—
she waves her hand at me
like a magician
trying to make a rabbit
disappear—
this—
work out today?
Esme blows her giggle
through her straw
making giant
gross
milk bubbles.
Great,
my voice says,
ahead of my brain,
as usual.
Really awesome
and great.
Greater than you’d think.
The idea
of reliving this day
out loud
in detail
so that Mom and Esme
can laugh about it . . .
The idea
that my awful day
could make their day
funnier and better
makes my guts bubble
with rage.
In fact,
I’ve changed my mind.
I actually DON’T want Mom
to open her tired eyes
to notice me
or see me
or anything
if this
is what will happen.
IT WAS GREAT.
My heart pounds so hard
I’m afraid it might
shake loose
the tears
I’ve hidden
on the highest shelves
in the darkest corners
of myself
all day today.
Mom swallows
the last bite
of her chicken,
looks up,
and says:
You already said that, mija.
But what made it so great?
Her eyebrows are high,
expecting more words
to escape from me.
Esme’s big eyes peer
over her teetering milk bubbles
as the bubbles threaten to drip
and slide
down the side
of her glass.
One bubble
has had enough,
and the slimy white goop
breaks loose,
a cascading escape
rushing to create
a puddle
on the table,
messy
and gross,
and for some reason
that broken bubble
breaks me, too,
and my gross mess
starts to drip
and slide
from my nose and eyes
as I stand up,
choke out the words:
Everything, okay.
Everything made it great.
And I make it to the bathroom
just in time
to turn on the shower,
to see the last remnants
of yesterday’s hair
make a mucky swirl
in the still-cold water,
just in time
to drown out
the heaving
hiccupping cries
bubbling over
after my
really great
and awesome
day
at school.
When I leave the bathroom,
Mom’s bedroom door is shut
and that means no knocking
unless there is blood
or guts
or more than one barf.
When I get to my room
(which is also Esme’s room,
which is never not annoying
because there’s a room
right there
across the hall
that could be MY room
and MY room alone,
but it never will be,
so uuuggghhh) . . .
when I get to OUR room,
Esme is in her bunk
humming a song
I’m pretty sure she made up
with the highest of high notes
and the lowest of low notes
and the thought crosses my mind
for the millionth time
that maybe Esme is
actually
half bird, half girl.
She leans her head
over the edge
of her bed
so she can look up
at me
as I climb the steps
to my bunk,
and her bird voice
chirps:
Are you okay?
Is everything still great?
I fling myself into bed,
my bald head sliding
across my pillow,
bonking into
the metal bed frame
with a clang
as deep as a church bell’s
on a funeral day.
A-OK,
I say.
And then . . .
Ow.
Ow,
Esme echoes.
And then she goes back to her song,
humming quietly
until we both
fall asleep.
SCHOOL
Beige is a color, sure.
It blandly blends,
and it blends blandly.
It isn’t happy.
It isn’t sad.
It’s just . . . beige.
There has always been beige.
There will always be beige.
It is what it is.
Because it’s beige.
But beige isn’t just a color.
Beige is also
a state of mind.
Embrace the beige
so you can blend blandly,
and blandly blend;
so you can join
the one big Everyone
that fills the halls
like a soggy glob
stuck in a throat,
that can’t be coughed out
no matter how hard
you try.
There has always been beige.
There will always be beige.
It is what it is.
Because it’s beige.
And if you don’t embrace it?
If you don’t easily blend?
Beige tries to swallow YOU whole—
or worse, you’ve already been devoured
and you don’t even know.
The beige has this way
of seeping into your brain,
of making you wonder—
if there’s so many of them,
and not very many of you,
maybe
just maybe
you are wrong or bad
for not fitting
into the blob,
and maybe
just maybe
the safety
of being the same
is better than
the danger
of being you.
When I climb the steps
to the front door of school,
I can barely squeeze through;
the glob of beige
feels particularly chokey today.
At the edge of the glob
I hear laughing,
and as I push my way around,
the laughing gets louder
and my stomach drops
and I feel my head go light
from surprise
because I see why the blob is laughing.
Standing out
in the sea of beige is:
Ace.
Ace, wearing a see-from-space
orange poncho
with the words
DRESS CODE
painted in red
across the chest.
Watching the crowd,
hearing the laughs,
the shouted comments,
the whispered hisses . . .
I feel like I’m the one
being pointed at,
laughed at,
humiliated,
over and over
in a boiling s
tew
of taunts
that trap.
Feet glued
to the spot,
you know you should run;
you want to run,
but something about
everyone surrounding you
catches you,
holds you there,
like an invisible net
made of loud words
that wrap around
your legs
and mind,
holding tight.
It’s a terrible feeling
to be surrounded
by a crowd
and to know that
even with
so many people there,
you’re actually
completely
alone.
No way,
no how,
will I let the beige blob
have an Ace feast
for breakfast
today.
I grab Ace’s elbow,
huffing under my breath,
Part of being a We
is not letting anyone
eat any of you
for any meal
ever
at
all.
Ace gulps,
Huh?
as we push our way
through the blob.
You think we’re a We?
We cut through the blob,
careening past the laughs,
make it down the hall
where we hide for just a second
while the bell beeps its ring
and the blob dissolves.
We duck into room 113,
and even though it’s just a stairwell now,
even though it’s crammed full
of desks and broken chairs,
it still almost feels like the safe space
from last summer,
when we learned that being divergent
was a thing to be proud of,
not a thing to hide.
I drag Ace all the way to the space
way back under the stairs,
dark, hidden from sight,
where we have to bend our necks
to see each other’s eyes.
Ace looks off-balance,
almost scared,
no sparkle,
no glam,
no smirk,
no gold,
just a stunned face
I barely recognize.
Ace swallows,
and the words
scatter out,
like gravel
dumped from a shoe:
Th-thank you.
This was . . .
unexpected.
I mean . . .
Mr. Mann said
if I got one more DRESS CODE,