You Go First Page 7

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sophie said. “You can’t break up with a friend when they’re going through a hard time like that. It wouldn’t be right. Wait until her dad feels better, and then you can just kinda . . . drift apart.”

  “Yeah, but where is she gonna drift?” Bridget said. “She doesn’t have any other friends.” She paused. “I mean, she has a rock collection. She even has a rock that she uses as a lucky charm. It’s just so . . . immature. You know?”

  Charlotte wondered how many atoms existed in the library, because it felt like each one of them carried Bridget’s voice with it. She even has a rock that she uses as a lucky charm. Every corner, every book, every molecule of air absorbed immature and parasite and bound to happen.

  She thought of Sphinx sitting dutifully in its place and all the times it’d been clutched inside Bridget’s palm.

  “Wait. She has a pet rock?” asked Dee Dee.

  “Well . . .” Bridget considered this then giggled. “Kinda.”

  Her best friend was laughing. At her.

  And the other girls laughed, too.

  Charlotte wanted to sweep all the stupid nonfiction books off the shelf and scream. She wanted to tell the so-called art club that Bridget was the one who had named Sphinx. That Bridget had wished on that rock dozens—maybe hundreds—of times. She wanted them to know that her rock collection was anything but immature. Did they know what a turquenite was? Could they pick an aventurine out of a lineup? Could they define igneous differentiation and fractional crystallization?

  The conversation at the table shifted to more interesting gossip. Hannah Miller and Milo Adiga had broken up, and “no one could believe it,” according to Dee Dee.

  Charlotte only had a faint idea who Hannah and Milo were. Bridget knew, though. She was one of the people who couldn’t believe it. And then she talked about how cute Milo Adiga was, and the so-called art club launched into a series of plans and strategies for them to meet.

  When had Bridget met all these people?

  When did she decide Milo was cute?

  Charlotte tried to imagine herself sitting there, talking about Hannah and Milo, and which boys at West were the cutest. Charlotte thought the boys at West smelled like sweat. They were loud. They made stupid jokes. They weren’t like Mateo. They weren’t even like Ben Boot, that much she knew.

  Charlotte sitting at the art club table?

  Did not compute.

  Life According to Ben

  Part XI

  Millions of tons of debris were floating around in the earth’s seas, threatening and killing marine life. Ben had nightmares about this sometimes. Manatees smothered by grocery bags. Dolphins muzzled by plastic six-pack rings. Whales swallowing take-out containers.

  Ben had planned to spend his lunch period working on his speech, but he’d become too distracted by items going in the wrong bins and it occurred to him that he could do something about it and meet people at the same time. So he decided to stand between the trash and recyclable receptacles wearing his friendliest smile.

  It bewildered Ben that no one at Lanester seemed remotely interested in the “ocean of garbage,” as he liked to call it, but he figured it was because they weren’t fully educated on the issues. He was going to take care of that and woo potential voters at the same time. Multitasking. He refused to let Theo, Sherry, Derrick Whatshisname, or anyone else deter him. Adversity built character. It was all part of politics.

  “Focus on the greater good,” he whispered, under his breath.

  As far as Ben could tell, the biggest problem with the cafeteria bins was that the students threw their plastics into the bin for trash, rather than the other way around.

  “This one is for recyclables,” said Ben to the first person who walked up—a girl with a T-shirt that said FUTURE DIVA, who was about to drop an empty Coke can into the trash.

  She gave him a quizzical look, but beelined to the right bin.

  “Thank you,” said Ben. “My name is Ben Boxer and I’m running for student council.”

  He continued this routine as more students walked up, but added statistics for good measure.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m Ben Boxer and I’m running for student council. Did you know that millions of milk jugs are introduced into our oceans each year?”

  He varied the stats as more students streamed through.

  “Twenty billion plastic bottles are tossed into the trash annually.”

  “At least one hundred thousand marine creatures died from plastic entanglement last year.”

  For the most part he got bewildered looks and some laughter, but he felt a sense of accomplishment anyway because so far his strategy was working—sixth graders watched him curiously as he gestured frantically toward the appropriate bin, but they would realize their error and discard properly.

  There were so many people he didn’t know. Like there were two schools: one with Ben and another with every else.

  Which universe? Pluto?

  When Theo and his friends walked up, Ben absently touched the back of his head and watched them throw all their paper and plastic into the trash. He clamped his mouth shut and made no eye contact, but no matter.

  “How’s it going, prawn?” said Theo. The other boys snickered. “Do you know what a prawn is?”

  Ben shifted his eyes toward Mrs. Fausto, the English teacher, who was on lunch duty. She stood near the windows and glanced around the room like an attentive cat, ready to pounce. But she wasn’t watching Ben. Not at that moment, anyway.

  “A prawn is a shrimp,” said Theo. Pause. “Hey, you have something on your shirt.”

  Ben fought the urge to check.

  “It’s right there,” Theo continued. “You see it?” He pressed a finger against Ben’s chest, hard enough to make him stumble back. And he was right: Ben did have something on his shirt. Now. Theo’s finger had been slathered in ketchup.

  “You oughta do something about that,” Theo said.

  He turned and walked off with the other boys trailing behind him.

  Ben stared at the smear in bewilderment then abandoned his post to approach Mrs. Fausto, whose attention was focused on a nearby table.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I seem to have ketchup on my shirt.”

  Mrs. Fausto turned toward him and frowned at the smear.

  “Certainly appears that way,” she said.

  “Do you have any club soda?” Ben asked.

  “Sorry, no club soda. But you could try soaking it in warm water. Stop by the attendance office. They have spirit shirts you can wear.”

  “What’s a spirit shirt?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Ben thought of the last time he’d been in the attendance office. Danielle Carlile had said he’d make a good representative. He hoped she wouldn’t remember him, but she did.

  “Ben Boxer, as I live and breathe,” she said. She was sitting at her desk. There was a boy in the office, too, standing behind the sign-in/sign-out sheet.

  “May I help you?” he asked, with forced enthusiasm.

  “I’m inquiring about spirit shirts,” said Ben.

  “What about them?” said the boy.

  “Do you have any?” Ben stepped back and indicated the ketchup. “I accidentally dropped ketchup on my shirt.”

  The boy leaned forward and narrowed his tired eyes. “Looks like a bolt of lightning.”

  “Yes!” Ben’s face lit up. “That’s what I thought! Well, to be more specific, I thought it looked like Harry Potter’s scar.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Agreed.” Ben drummed his fingers on the counter. “Now about those spirit shirts?”

  “Oh, yeah. Hang on.” The boy disappeared into a back closet. The sound of Mrs. Carlile clicking the mouse filled the room.

  “You should get some music in here,” Ben suggested.

  “That would be way too exciting,” Mrs. Carlile said.

  The boy came back with shirts draped over each arm.


  “What’s your size?” he asked.

  Ben held out his arms like he was being measured by an invisible tailor. “Medium.”

  The boy tossed a shirt to Ben, who failed to catch it. He bent over and picked it up. That’s when he realized what a “spirit shirt” was. It was bright red. Across the front it said: GO LANESTER!! in fat, white letters. Ben didn’t think the additional exclamation mark was necessary. There was a rather large and colorful drawing of the mascot on the front. It said WE’RE NO 1!! on the back.

  Ben groaned. “This is monstrous.” He held it up. “And it says we’re no one.”

  “I think it’s ‘we’re number one.’”

  “There should be a period after N-O, then. Otherwise it says we’re no one.”

  “They should’ve gone with the number sign,” Mrs. Carlile said. “And no mascot. Blame the spirit committee.”

  Ben scrunched his nose. “Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess.”

  “I guess,” said the boy, still holding the other shirts. He looked like a coatrack.

  Ben smiled wide. “Thank you, Mr.—?”

  “My name is Wyatt,” said the boy.

  “Thank you, Wyatt,” said Ben.

  Wyatt shrugged.

  Ben leaned forward and motioned for Wyatt to come closer.

  “How’d you get this gig?” Ben asked.

  “Gig?”

  “This job, in the office.”

  “Oh,” said Wyatt. “My mom doesn’t want me anywhere near the cafeteria, so I come here during lunch. I eat my sandwich and assist Mrs. Carlile with stuff. Mostly I just stand here and say ‘May I help you?’”

  “Why doesn’t your mom want you anywhere near the cafeteria? I know the food’s bad, but it’s not toxic or anything.” Ben usually had a small salad from the salad bar. There was never a line at the salad bar, so he could get his food and keep moving.

  “It’s toxic for me,” said Wyatt. “I’m allergic.”

  “To the cafeteria?”

  “Not specifically. More like the stuff in the cafeteria. Peanuts—well, any kind of nuts, actually—milk, soy. If a peanut comes anywhere near me, my throat starts swelling up.”

  Ben’s eyes widened. “Anaphylactic shock.”

  Wyatt snapped his fingers. “Bingo.”

  “Your inflammatory mediators and cytokines react inappropriately to what they perceive as dangerous pathogens.”

  “Basically.”

  “Interesting,” said Ben.

  Wyatt shrugged. “I guess.”

  Ben straightened up and half waved. “Well. See you around.”

  “Yeah,” said Wyatt. “See you around.”

  Ben carried his shirt to the boys’ bathroom knowing the medium would be too big. But it’s not often that you’re given a choice of what you want to be, and Ben decided he didn’t want to be small.

  Pick Something Real

  Rabbit Hole: Some human tears contain natural painkillers. That’s why people often feel better after a good cry. One international study found that the most popular place and time to cry is at home, between seven and ten p.m. Thirty-five percent of people reported that they cried alone.

  When they were in fourth grade, Bridget and Charlotte liked to sit facing each other on the floor of Charlotte’s bedroom with their feet pressed together and legs outstretched. They would sit like that for hours, asking each other questions. There were only two rules: You had to tell the truth and everything was secret. It was like an endless game of Truth or Dare, except there were no dares.

  “What was your most embarrassing moment?” That was one of the questions. Bridget said that hers was when she’d tripped over a display case in science class and fallen flat on her face in front of everyone.

  “Mine was when I misspelled aerial at the school spelling bee,” Charlotte had said. “I choked and forgot the e.” She had watched her mother cringe when they rang the bell. “Then Tori Baraldi won.”

  Bridget shook her head. “That’s not even embarrassing. Pick something real.”

  But it had been real to Charlotte.

  If they were to sit on the floor of her bedroom now and put their feet together, Charlotte knew what she’d say.

  The time you called me a parasite and I ran to the bathroom after the bell to cry in a stall alone. I had to call my mom and pretend I was sick so she could pick me up from school.

  Charlotte was home now, in bed, clutching Sphinx. Her head ached. Her eyes burned.

  Her mom knocked on the door.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “Do you need anything?”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” Charlotte said. Her voice sounded stuffy and hoarse, like it came from someone else.

  “I’m going to the hospital soon. Do you want to come with me?”

  What about it, Charlotte? What kind of daughter are you, anyway? Your father is in ICU and you haven’t even gone to see him. You keep thinking about starfish and scalpels and Scrabble collecting dust in the closet. But you still haven’t walked into the room. You haven’t gone over the threshold. Why?

  Charlotte squeezed her eyes as tightly shut as she could.

  “I better not,” she said. She coughed. “Since I’m sick and everything.”

  Her mother paused. Charlotte felt her presence on the other side of the door.

  There was a part of Charlotte that wanted to say more. Remember when Bridget would spend the night, and Dad would let us watch scary movies even though you said it wasn’t okay, and then you’d tell us funny jokes before bed so we wouldn’t have nightmares? And remember that time the four of us played Scrabble and you told Bridget that her play was “very clever,” and I got jealous but I smiled anyway because Bridget looked so proud? And remember when you made us those hippie costumes for Halloween and told us stories about the seventies and played some of your old songs on the record player, and me and Bridget danced and danced and laughed and laughed?

  Well, things have changed.

  Dad isn’t home and you don’t know Bridget anymore.

  “Okay,” her mother said. “I’ll be back soon. Text if you need anything.”

  Her mom didn’t need to hear her problems, and Charlotte wouldn’t know where to start anyway.

  There were slow slips everywhere.

  Charlotte didn’t open her eyes until her phone buzzed.

  Ben had played MASCOT.

  At least there was something she could still count on.

  Life According to Ben

  Part XII

  Ben tapped his finger against his reusable water bottle and listened to the plink, plink, plink as his eyes ran over the laptop screen. No Minecraft tonight. It was time to write the best speech since Gettysburg. Theo, Sherry, Derrick, and all their minions would regret the day they had underestimated his powers of persuasion. If he didn’t win the election, he would at least give a resounding speech that would shake Lanester Middle School to its core. The stage would be his spotlight. His moment in the sun. The apex of his evolution. He would be a finch flying out of the darkness.

  But first he needed words.

  So far all he had were jokes. According to the internet, it was smart to open a speech with laughter. It relaxed the audience and the speaker. And he had three jokes to choose from, all of which were school related.

  1. If sleep is good for the brain, how come they don’t let us sleep in school? (Ben thought this could have mass appeal, even though he couldn’t imagine falling asleep in class.)

  2. Question: What’s a teacher’s favorite nation? Answer: Expla-nation. (Ben thought this was pretty funny, but he worried about offending the teachers. He wasn’t sure if it was offensive or not. He didn’t think so.)

  3. Question: What did one math book say to the other? Answer: Don’t bother me, I’ve got my own problems! (Ben considered this the winner thus far. It was funnier than the first and didn’t poke fun at anyone.)

  After the laughter died down, he would introduce himself and give a rundown of his qualifications. He only had
four minutes, so the introduction would be brief. One minute, tops. The most important part of the campaign isn’t the candidate, but what that candidate plans to do. He didn’t want to be a politician who ran on charisma alone. All sizzle, no steak. He would be the sizzle and the steak. The bulk of his talk would revolve around his vision for Lanester Middle School. Ways to help the students, teachers, and administration make it the best it could be. He knew that some of his ideas were a long shot—replacing all individual desks with collaborative tables, for example—but he would offer them nonetheless. Sometimes you have to think big and take small steps. No one got anywhere by thinking small.

  He numbered his platform proposals one through eleven and wrote them out in detail. Each time he finished a sentence, he heard Theo’s voice (What environment? Pluto?) and saw Sherry Bertrand’s face (Be my guest). But he would not be defeated. He would not relinquish control over his own emotional well-being. He only had himself now—no more reliable parental units to have his back.

  “You are a finch,” he said, without looking away from his laptop. “You are a finch.”

  He tried to find solace in the fact that Theo Barrett was his tormentor instead of, say, Albert Einstein or Stephen Hawking. Theo Barrett was clearly no Einstein. And Sherry? Well, clearly Sherry had nursed a long-held grudge against him. But she had been wrong, hadn’t she? You weren’t supposed to cheat—right? Maybe Ben could have handled it better, but he knew how hard Kyle had studied for that test, and it didn’t seem right for her to just take his answers. It didn’t seem like justice. He had done the right thing—hadn’t he?

  “You are a finch,” he repeated. “You are a finch.”

  What environment? Pluto?

  Ben touched the back of his head, expecting to feel a knot. He didn’t.