really slams it,
on my desk.
I mean,
she basically throws it.
At me.
We are paused.
Like the middle of a game,
when you need to
stop,
strategize,
organize,
fall back,
breathe.
Think, self,
think.
Should I tell her it’s not my book?
Even though I’m technically the only girl in class?
And it’s pretty obvious the only girl (technically)
would be the one
to flush a book
in the girls’ restroom?
Should I mention that maybe
gender-neutral bathrooms
would be useful
in the future
for a variety of reasons
(not just because
gender assumptions
ratted me out
in this particular situation)?
Should I tell her it fell out of my backpack?
Should I tell her someone stole it?
Should I act grateful to have it back?
Should I just stay quiet?
One million seconds go past.
Ms. J stays paused
right here
in front of my desk.
A tiny bit of splashed
toilet
water
(grossssssss)
drips
from my chin
(omgggggggg)
onto my fabulous
floral
button-down
I found
for two dollars
at Stardust Thrift
(arghhhhhhhh).
Then.
Boom.
The world unpauses.
Jordan J whistles,
low,
long,
an up-down noise
that we all know means
What-the-what just happened.
Ms. J’s angry face
melts back to her regular face,
and then to a surprised face.
Oh my gosh.
Benita.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to—
And her hands cross under her arms,
as if her armpits can prevent
another wet book
from flying out
and everyone is
so
so
quiet,
like sitting-at-a-funeral quiet
and
you can hear
the drip
drip
of the toilet water
slipping from the book
across my desk
and onto the floor,
and everyone’s eyes
flash
from her
to me
to the book
and back again,
an infinite loop
in desperate need
of a reboot,
a ctrl-alt-del
so we can take a new path
so we can start this moment
all over again.
We all have bad days.
I appear to be having one
right now,
but,
your
heart,
Benita. . . .
Why,
why,
why would you try
to flush
a book?
I don’t really think she means bless your heart,
Jordan J whispers to me.
I think she said that instead of a swear.
I give him a look that
definitely
means a swear.
He stops whispering.
The thing is . . .
some girl I don’t know,
maybe from dance team camp?
was at the sinks
while I was in the stall
and she said,
You know that tall girl?
The one who always wears red lipstick?
And my heart sped up,
because that tall girl
with the red lips
is definitely me.
Another girl said,
Yeah,
like she was super bored,
and the first girl said,
I saw her walking into the Dummy Potter class.
You know,
the one under the stairs?
And she had, like,
a copy of The Horse and the Mouse
in her hand,
and didn’t we read that in, like,
third grade?
The bored girl said,
Well, maybe it’s a Baby Potter class
and not a Dummy Potter class.
Maybe they’re babies in big-kid bodies?
I don’t know.
Who cares?
I could hear her shrug
and I don’t know why,
but that shrug
set me on fire.
My guts burned,
my face burned,
my brain burned
as it tried to not remember
the mahogany voice
reading me The Horse and the Mouse,
when I was a third grader;
the mahogany voice
that used to read me so many books;
the mahogany voice
I haven’t heard
in almost
exactly
one year.
I didn’t want to think about his voice.
I didn’t want the sadness to wash over me,
to drown me,
to choke me,
so I guess I tried to wash
away the book,
drown the memory,
choke down the feelings,
and I pushed it
shoved it
crushed it
drowned it,
in the toilet
farthest
from the door.
I flushed,
flushed,
flushed,
until the water poured out,
flushed more
and more,
trying to flush the Horse,
trying to flush the Mouse,
trying to flush
the memories,
the questions,
the voice,
the whys,
flush them all
all
all
alllllllllllllllll
away.
Of course I don’t say
any of this
out loud
right now
in class.
becomes nothing to say
because, just like nothing,
too much has no beginning
or end.
Ms. J keeps looking at me
as if I crushed her heart
like a baby toe
against the corner
of a dang
coffee table.
No.
Her look is worse than a crushed toe.
Her crumpled face,
even while she tries
to be calm now,
looks like the book was her family,
made of her own blood,
and I tried to kill it,
with my own dirty
bare
hands.
I mean, who loves a book that much?
I close my eyes.
I imagine Ms. J is a ghost in Sandbox.
She’s shimmering,
ready to slime me.
Benita.
Answer me.
Why
did
you
do
this?
I look away.
Where is Ghostkiller when you need him?
My insides fill with cold ghost slime
.
Some of it oozes out of my eyes.
Ma’am?
Can you please stop calling me Benita?
That isn’t my name anymore.
It’s Ben.
Ben Y.
I sniff,
try to delete
the ghost slime
from my cheeks.
I hate that
my voice sounds small.
I hate that
I feel just as small.
Do you know?
How it feels?
To fail the FART?
I don’t mention
that it’s
maybe
very
possible
I failed on purpose.
Do you know?
How it feels?
To be forced to take summer school?
I don’t mention
that I
maybe
possibly
have been actually
looking forward to it.
A distraction.
A place to spend my days
that’s not my house.
Do you know?
How it feels?
When you’re forced to read a book written for babies
and you still can’t do it?
I don’t mention how,
when I see those words,
I hear the mahogany voice;
that it haunts me,
that I’ve spent the last year
desperate to hear it
and desperate to not hear it.
I don’t mention that I can’t read the book
because the words swim
but also because the words hurt.
Do you?
Ms. J kneels by my desk,
her giant hair a coconut-smelling cloud
blocking out the stairwell light.
She takes the wet book.
She stands up.
Everyone,
she says,
follow me.
Are we even allowed
to go outside
in the middle
of the school day?
Why?
Why?
Why is Ms. J
breaking so many
rules
today?
All the other eyes
looking at mine
are asking
why
why
why,
too.
Her caftan,
like a sheet in the wind,
billows after her,
as she moves quickly
and we follow,
but not close enough
to get tripped up
in all the ripples
of her epic dress.
Where
are
we
going?
I guess we’re going here,
under the giant willow tree.
I guess we’re sitting in the dirt.
I guess we’re staring at each other.
I guess we’re staring at her.
Dare I even ask
the simplest
and most obvious
question:
Why
in the world
are we here?
In Japan there is a practice called forest bathing.
Ms. J’s voice is soft,
almost a whisper,
blending with the soft
almost-whispers
of the tree.
It means calmly walking around in a forest
until you feel relaxed and rejuvenated.
It helps you think clearer.
It helps you feel better.
We don’t have a forest here at school,
so this tree will have to do.
Can we all sit for a few
minutes
until I—
until we feel calmer?
Jordan J makes a fart noise.
Jordan,
if that is what calms you,
I ask that you go do it in the restroom.
Jordan J doesn’t move,
but he whispers,
It’s Jordan J, actually.
And Ben B whispers back to him,
Why the J, dude?
And Jordan whispers,
If you’re Ben B and Ben Y is Ben Y,
and Ms J is Ms J shouldn’t I be Jordan J?
Otherwise people will be—
ENOUGH,
Ms. J shouts.
She closes her eyes,
then, in a much quieter voice,
says,
Can we please,
please
silently reflect
for just one moment?
We all sit under the tree.
Quietly.
But our eyes bounce around,
silently saying,
What is happening?
while Ms. J sits with her eyes closed
for a very
very
long time.
Is my teacher going bonkers bananas?
Because I tried to flush my book?
JORDAN J
<JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!!>
Everyone was so serious I had to make a fart noise, it’s just a thing that had to be done and I don’t know why we’re all under this tree, but it’s super weird especially after Ms. J (no relation) threw that book like WHAM I mean, can’t you get fired for doing something like that? Can you? I don’t think anyone is allowed to throw books, teachers or students. Oh my gosh it sounded like I just said no one is allowed to throw teachers or students, which I’m pretty sure is totally true, but is not what I meant. Haha. I’m like a poet or something. The thing is, though, Benita, I mean, Ben Y is totally right about the book being for babies or whatever. It is and I wish I’d thought to flush mine, too, though I guess it didn’t work very well when she tried it and now we’re all here and Ms. J seems extra super freaked out that she freaked out and what is even happening.
I mean, I’m not going to make another fart noise, but I’m going to think about it.
I heard some of everyone talking about a chickenfall and I have never heard of a chickenfall, so I had to try to laser pinpoint my mind on their conversation in order to figure out what the heck they were talking about. Turns out, they were talking about Sandbox which is a game I love love love, so today, before the bell I was all, Hey you guys, talk to me about your chickenfalls, because it sounds maybe even better than the swingset I made where the swings are pigs. Everyone looked at me like I was a pig swing for a minute and then Ben Y said Hold up, you’re JORDANJMAGEDDON!!!! and I was like of course and she was all, Well well. And then everyone except for the quiet guy said our avatar names and holy dang this is like a class full of famous people, especially Ben B, holy cow I saw him play at SBCon4 last year and he is legit legit, like if he had been there in real life and not just in the VIP server, playing on the big widescreen, he could’ve signed autographs on people’s faces I bet.
Everyone in this class loves Sandbox times a million and we all were talking so fast and at the same time it got super loud and Ms. J said, I wish you guys could get as excited about reading as you do about video games, and everyone laughed and was like, Noooooo waaaayyyy, and Javier, who is so quiet he didn’t say his avatar name and who uses one hundred and ten percent of his concentration one hundred and ten percent of the time to draw stuff in his notebook, even HE laughed and he never usually makes a noise at all ever, he just draws or stares hard in front of his desk like he wants to be invisible or shoot lasers out of his eyes. Or play Sandbox. I bet everyone in the whole world plays Sandbox. Well, everyone except for my dog Spartacus because she’s a dog and except for my mom who is a mom and who kind of hates Sandbox, but I bet she’d like it if she’d ever play with me, which she won’t because she is just so busy, Jordan, she has so much to do all the time, Jordan, can’t you just turn that off for a second and PUT AWAY YOUR SOCKS?!?!?!
Actually, probably M
s. J doesn’t play Sandbox either. So. Two people in the whole world. Ms. J and my mom. Well, and Spartacus, who is not a person, but is the smartest dog in the history of ever, so basically a person, but better. So, like two-point-five people in the whole world don’t play Sandbox.
Also, Spartacus is a girl, just to be clear, not a boy like in the movie not that it really matters because she’s brave and strong and protects me like the other Spartacus would if he knew me or if I lived in that movie which he doesn’t and I don’t.
Ms. J is talking now so I guess the quiet part under the tree is done, so that’s good because I don’t do super great at quiet parts anywhere. I’m a mover and a shaker and a talker and a mover-some-more-er at least that’s what my mom says. She says it isn’t bad it’s just different than most people. I guess I kind of like how Ms. J says we’re all divergent thinkers, because I am a divergent everything-er. I have a million ideas a day that sometimes get in the way of my other million ideas so I have to stare out the window for a little bit while all the ideas bang into each other. PS it turns out when you have to stare out the window for a little bit or a lotta bit that isn’t super great for taking the FART because all of a sudden your time is over and you aren’t finished and you find yourself in summer school sitting under a tree not making fart noises even though you really, really want to.
Wait. What did Ms. J just say? Something about changing books? Cool, cool, no more baby books, except if the baby book is hard to read then I’m not sure another book would actually be better? Can we just choose to not read?
Ooh. I said that last part out loud. Oops.
Answer: No.
Not surprising.
Wait. What did Ms. J just say? Rewind, brain, try to listen again . . . blah blah blah . . . she’s going to choose a better book and also she wants us to help her help us. She’s leaning forward like she has a secret and we’re all leaning forward and we’re still under this tree and today has been a strange day.
Help me help you read.
Ms. J is saying that to each one of us and we are all staring at her like she needs some hot chocolate and a quiet corner because I’m pretty sure she’s stressed out and when my mom yells, You’re making me feel crazy, Jordan! she always likes hot chocolate and a quiet corner.