I can’t handle any moms right now.
Even a nice one like yours.
Did you get a new dog?
How did I not know?
I sit up,
shaking the grass
out of my hair
and then realizing
yet again
there is no hair
to shake.
Jordan sits next to me.
The puppy runs around us,
getting tangled in its leash.
This is a trial period of puppy testing to see if it’s a good fit, which means to see if we love each other, and I feel like the answer is definitely yes because who couldn’t love a puppy and also who couldn’t love me? Ha. Also I think the answer is probably yes that I shouldn’t listen to you and I should listen to my guts telling me to get my mom.
I just . . .
I had a bad day.
I’ll be okay.
Except . . .
I don’t know
if that’s the truth,
and I can tell
Jordan can tell
I don’t know
if that’s the truth.
I don’t know if I should say this either, but you’ve had a lot of bad days lately, Ben Y.
I nod.
And I probably definitely shouldn’t say this, at least right now, because I think Mo would say this is inappropriate timing but even so, please don’t be mad at me for being honest that I think all of those bad days have made you kind of a bad friend lately. I mean, hopefully not a permanently bad friend, but just so you know. Lately. I mean, you didn’t even know about Ben.
Ben? Ben What Which Who?
Jordan picks up the puppy,
holds her up to my face
so we can boop noses.
Ben Hur, meet Ben Y. Ben Y, meet Ben Hur.
I shake Ben Hur’s paw.
Ben Hur play-bites me
with her very supersharp
puppy teeth.
I’m really sorry, Jordan.
I’ve just felt—
I don’t even know how to explain it—
but—
alone?
I guess?
Jordan shoves me,
pow
in the shoulder
hard and fast,
surprising me
as I topple over
into the grass
and Ben Hur
immediately
attacks my ears
and I scramble back up
to sit.
Who am I, then, you goof? Who is this human person sitting right here next to you right now? Who is the person right by you at school every day and on the bus and in Newspaper Typing Club and everywhere else you are? Maybe you feel alone because for some reason you’ve stopped seeing me even though I’m always there? Am I your invisible friend or something? NO. I’m your real friend and when you have a real friend you are not alone, that is just basic easy math.
I can feel more tears
pooling up
behind my
already full
eyes.
Do I really make you feel invisible?
Well, I mean, sometimes, yes, and I think Ben B and Javi get kind of invisible to you, too, if I’m being honest and I definitely am. And believe me, I understand that sometimes when you—I mean anyone/everyone you not just YOU you—feels bad or sad or mad . . . sometimes you WANT to be alone. I totally get that and understand it and feel that way and yeah. But also, you should just know that when you don’t want to be alone, you have a bunch of awesome and cool friends who are right there in front of you and none of us are ever invisible at all.
I nod.
I swipe at my eyes.
Because if you can’t ever see us trying to be your friend or help you out, then one day maybe we could actually disappear, you know? Because it feels really bad to feel invisible to the person you thought could see you the best of any other person in the world.
Jordan untangles Ben Hur
from her knotted leash,
not looking at me.
I’m sorry.
I don’t mean to whisper,
but I do.
Jordan looks up at me.
His big eyes are soft
and more familiar to look at
than my own.
I know you are, Ben Y. But also I have bad days too and when you don’t see me, that makes ME feel alone. And it makes me wonder why you want to be my friend if we can stand next to each other and both feel alone.
Jordan stands,
rubs his nose,
looks down the street,
looks back at me.
Ben Hur looks at me, too.
I’m still a crying,
sweaty
mess
in Mr. Oppenheimer’s yard.
I’m going to get my mom for real now, okay? Unless you want to come with me? Instead of staying here and chatting with Mr. Oppenheimer? Hello, Mr. Oppenheimer! Your grass is very nice and soft. No, sir, Ben Hur did not poop in your nice soft grass. Ben Y didn’t either. Haha. Okay, yes, sir. I’ll tell my mom you said hi.
Jordan puts out his hand.
I grab it,
stagger to my
sore feet,
wobble on my
jelly knees,
and lean on his shoulder
as we walk
together,
with Ben Hur
nipping at our heels.
HOME
Jordan’s mom drops me off
and does not
come to the door
like she said she would
because I beg her
please please please
not to.
(And also because
I’m pretty sure
she already called Mom
when I was in the bathroom
washing my face.)
Jordan waves,
holding Ben Hur
out the car window,
and making her wave, too.
I wave back,
and I may never stop
feeling like a big huge jerk
for making him
feel so bad
ever
at all.
I walk in the house,
only just now realizing
I left my backpack . . .
somewhere.
Mom doesn’t say anything
as she walks quickly to me,
gathers me in her arms
and hugs me tight
but not too tight.
Mom still says nothing.
She keeps hugging me
until I remember what it’s like
to be hugged for real.
Not some quick one-arm thing.
Not some quick good-night thing.
A real hug.
Soft.
Solid.
Like Mom is holding me
and hugging me,
like she’s transferring her strength to me,
one shared heartbeat
at a time.
She hugs me for so long,
I stop trying
to get her to stop.
I stop trying to
say anything at all.
I close my eyes.
I smell the shampoo she’s used
since before I can remember.
I feel the tickle on my cheek
of her curly hair
that always comes loose
from her bun or braid or ponytail.
I feel my shoulders relax
as Mom’s hug takes over,
holding me up for real,
holding me close right now,
blending our breathing,
like we used to do
when I was scared
or cold
or celebrating
or sad.
When did we stop doing this?
Why did we stop doing this?
I feel my feelings
; rising up in me.
I feel Mom
hugging me tighter.
I feel Mom
wiping my tears.
I feel Mom
with me while I ride the waves.
I feel Mom
right here.
You’ve been struggling.
Those are her first words to me
after we sit down at the table
with two spoons
and a crusty old gallon of ice cream.
I take a spoon.
Mom keeps talking.
I’ve been struggling.
Esme has been struggling.
I eat ice cream
and look at the table.
What am I supposed to say?
You’re right?
Because yes.
And duh.
Yes and duh for a long, long time.
Your teacher called me today, mija.
The one you had in summer school?
She said it was an off-the-record,
not-official-school-business call.
She’s worried about you, Benny.
She says you’re withdrawing from your friends
and you’re angry more than you’re not.
She worries someone is bullying you.
She said she saw you run crying from the library.
She said you left your backpack.
Mom pauses,
lifts my chin so my eyes meet hers.
She smiles and says,
You were in the library?
I feel my blood heat up.
She’s going to make a joke now?
She’s going to laugh about me being so dumb now?
I’m so proud of you.
Wait.
She said you’ve been working so hard,
on your typing,
on the school newspaper.
Benny! Why didn’t you tell me about that?
But she also said you seem . . .
more sad than usual
and she’s concerned.
I still don’t know
what I’m supposed to
say.
So I fill my mouth
with spoonfuls
and spoonfuls
of old ice cream.
I let my crunching
of ancient ice crystals
do my talking
for me.
Esme.
Always peeking.
Always peering.
A little sandpiper
darting here
scampering there,
just barely staying ahead
of wave after wave
crashing around her.
I see her duck out of the doorway,
run down the hall,
so she can pretend
she wasn’t listening,
so I won’t be mad at her.
Maybe she is struggling,
like Mom said.
Maybe Esme isn’t a sandpiper.
Maybe she isn’t staying ahead.
Maybe she’s caught in the waves
just like the rest of us.
I never thought to ask her.
Whatcha doing?
I lie on the floor
next to Esme’s
bottom bunk.
She peeks over the edge at me,
then goes back to whatever it is
she does in here
every night
for hours
and hours.
Making stuff.
Her lower lip is chapped
because she sucks on it
when she concentrates.
She’s been concentrating
a lot lately
I guess.
What kind of stuff?
Her sigh is long and deep,
like she’s a grown-up
trapped in the body
of a teeny
sandpiper
eight-year-old.
Just stuff, okay??
Bracelets and things.
I push myself up on my elbows
so I can get a better look.
Tiny rubber bands
cover her bed,
separated into piles,
bright colors everywhere.
Esme holds up a bracelet.
Then another.
And another.
See?
Intricate color patterns
crisscross and weave,
surprising me
with how complex they are.
Kind of like
how Esme is surprising me
right now.
One for every outfit, huh?
She looks at me
like I am the dumbest person
who ever breathed.
I sell ten a day at school every day.
Two dollars each, Benny!
No one beats my price OR quality.
How do you think I got these?
She flings a foot into the air,
inches from my face.
Whoa.
Nice kicks, kiddo.
Don’t say kicks, Benny.
No one says that.
How are you already so old?
Me??
How is she already so old?
She’s yelling at ME
like I used to yell at Benicio.
I swallow hard
around the sudden lump
growing in my throat.
I guess I’m the old kid now.
I guess I should start
of seeing Esme
as the person she is
and not just
the little chirping bird
she is to me.
I stand up,
lean into her bunk,
kiss the top of her head.
I love you, Esme Esme bo-besme.
She doesn’t look up
from the bracelet she’s making
as she says,
You and Mom
are both
acting super weird today.
I can tell she’s smiling, though.
And she laughs out loud
when I crack my head
on the bottom bunk
as I slide myself
up and away.
She chirps,
I love you, too, Benny,
as I leave her
to concentrate
on her empire-building.
I spin in Benicio’s desk chair,
spinning
and spinning
and spinning
until . . .
Knock, knock.
Mom knocks on the doorframe
and walks in,
holding a stack
of clean laundry.
Benicio’s pillow
is on top.
She sets it all down
on the foot of the bed
and then sits next to it.
Thought you might need this.
She fluffs the pillow.
So I can have something
to scream into?
I wish I could stuff those words
back in my mouth,
but thankfully,
Mom doesn’t freak out.
She just nods
and shrugs
and says,
Maybe?
Or maybe to sleep on?
Or both?
You probably need a pillow
if this is going to be your room now.
She stands up,
hugs me tight,
and shuts the door
behind her.
BEFORE
0BenwhY: Helllllooooooooooo, nerd!
0BenwhY: Guess who has two thumbs and didn’t fail her spelling test?
0BenwhY: Some girl who sits next to me. BUT! I *almost* didn’t fail, so that counts, right?
SB10BEN: har har. you’re hilarious.
SB10BEN: So! You wanna see something cool that has no
thing to do with spelling tests?
SB10BEN: You’ll need some math, though.
0BenwhY: what is it what is it what is it what is it
SB10BEN: I’ve been tinkering with this potion for a long time.
SB10BEN: Watch carefully. . . .
0BenwhY: but i can already see the world at my feet!
SB10BEN: Indeed you can.
SB10BEN: check this out.
0BenwhY: whoa. I didn’t know it was even possible to mix all that stuff together.
SB10BEN: It’s not supposed to be, but look.
SB10BEN: you can dissolve fairy tears and it turns into this
SB10BEN: but when you mix it with THIS
SB10BEN: it turns back into that
SB10BEN: and voila . . .
0BenwhY: pretty purple bubbles
SB10BEN: Oh, it’s so much more than that, grasshopper.
SB10BEN: Here, take the potion and follow me.
0BenwhY: what are you doing?!!!
0BenwhY: put that theremin away! it’s almost dusk!
0BenwhY: you’re attracting so many ghosts with your bad music!
0BenwhY: I don’t want to be slimed and melted!
SB10BEN: Hang on and watch.
0BenwhY: Benicio!
0BenwhY: SO MANY GHOSTS!
0BenwhY: what does this have to do with your purple potion??
SB10BEN: Throw the potion at the ghosts, grasshopper! All of it! Now!
SB10BEN: . . .
SB10BEN: Niiiice. High-five. That was perfect.
0BenwhY: . . .
0BenwhY: whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa
0BenwhY: what did I just do? did that potion melt the GHOSTS??
SB10BEN: can you imagine being able to build and play music all the time?
SB10BEN: Even at night with ghosts everywhere?
SB10BEN: can you imagine being able to defend yourself from your enemies?
SB10BEN: instead of just hiding from them until they prey on someone else?
0BenwhY: sounds like you’re trying to make the impossible possible again
SB10BEN: Absolutely! That’s what Sandbox is for!
SB10BEN: If people know this potion exists, and that there’s a way they can defend themselves from ghost attac—