My Miserable Life (13 page)

“I know that,” I said. She had already told me you shouldn't talk to strangers and that some people weren't safe. Hello. I mean, she was the one who had allowed the needles and spikes to come into our home. “That's why you should get me a cell phone! Have you ever thought of that? Angelina has one.”

“She's older and walks to school with Amanda Panda. When you're in middle school, you can have a phone. The radiation is not good for growing brains, and the only reason I let your sister have one is for emergencies.”

“I want to be able to walk to school alone! And ride my bike to school! Emergencies? Angelina texts all day about what outfit she's going to wear. Is that an emergency?”

My mom didn't seem to hear me. “There was a little boy who got lost on his way home from school. His parents had let him go by himself for the first time. They had practiced with him, and they were nervous, but they let him go.”

“So what?” I said. I was so mad, it felt like my heart was the rubber one on Rocko's Halloween costume—not my lame costume, but the cool one that spurted blood.

“And someone kidnapped him,” she said.

I felt like when I broke my collarbone, except I felt it in every bone of my body. “They kidnapped him?”

“Yes,” said my mom.

“How old was he?”

“Nine.”

“Did they ever find him?”

“No.”

I thought about this little kid walking home, all proud of himself, excited to see his parents and celebrate with them and then getting lost and someone, some big monster, grabbing him and then his parents waiting and waiting and worrying and then calling the police and not hearing from him. I was so scared and sad and mad I couldn't express all those things, and there was only one person to take it out on. So I tried to hit my mom.

“I hate you,” I said. “I hate your hair and your clothes and the lunches you pack me and your boring house and your safeness!”

I had never tried to hit my mother before.

She held my arms down and pulled me to her. “I'm sorry, Ben. I'm sorry, baby.”

“Don't call me baby,” I said.

“I'm sorry, Ben. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“I'm not scared,” I said. “I just hate you for being so safe.”

“I know. And I love you,” she said.

I hate my mom, even if she is just trying to protect me. And my new bike that I almost NEVER GET TO RIDE. Rocko Hoggen. Leif Zuniga. Even Serena Perl. And especially the monster that kidnapped that little kid.

And I hate myself because I came along and made Angelina jealous and my mom worried. My life is miserable, and I realize now it's my own miserable fault.

 

APRIL

I am stupid.

I am ugly.

I am bad at sports.

 

CHAPTER 15

TROUBLE

Today I got in big trouble.

Maybe it's the worst trouble I have ever gotten in. Ms. Washington gave me this freaked-out look, as if I'd hit Rocko Hoggen in the teeth.

My teacher put her hand firmly on my shoulder and walked me out to meet my mom after school. “I think we need to have another conference,” she said, handing the paper I had written to my mom.

Mom read it, and I saw tears in her eyes. She looked at me. “Ben?” she said. “Why did you write this?”

I looked at my shoes. One was untied, but I didn't bother to fix it.

We walked back to the classroom and sat down. Everyone was very quiet.

“What's this about, Ben?” Ms. Washington asked.

I shrugged.

“You don't feel okay about yourself?”

I shrugged again.

“Because you're smart and handsome and very good at sports,” said Ms. Washington.

“I tell him that all the time,” my mom said. She looked at me. “Don't I, Ben?”

I shook my head. “You just tell me how worried you are about me.”

“Well, I think it all the time. How wonderful you are. How smart and handsome and athletic and wonderful I think you are,” my mom said. “Don't you know that?”

I shrugged.

Ms. Washington said, “Ben, are you still upset about Rocko?”

I nodded.

“Because there are so many kids who like you. I know Leif likes you, even though I think he feels obligated to hang out with Rocko. And I know Joe Knapp likes you. And Serena.”

“Regina said that Serena doesn't like me even as a friend,” I mumbled.

Ms. Washington asked me to repeat that two times because she couldn't hear me. Each time I said it in a softer, more mumbled voice. But finally she understood me. She said, “I think Regina would only say something like that because she has a crush on you. I've seen her looking at you, and once I saw a note she wrote about it to Ella.”

I looked up for a second at Ms. Washington and then I looked back down.

“So I want you to write something for me,” Ms. Washington said. “I want you to write some things that are awesome about you, okay?”

I nodded. But I didn't feel ready to do that yet.

*   *   *

Later that day, my mom said, “Ben, let's get on our bikes and take a ride.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. My mom hadn't ridden her bike in years.

“Yes. Tree has been helping me learn again. They say you never forget how to ride a bike, but that's not exactly true.”

Everything looked clean after the rain. The sun was out, but it was still cold, and it made the leaves on the trees sparkle like the shiny things on Serena Perl's shirts. My bike had a fast, smooth ride. We came home, and my mom made grilled chicken burritos with guacamole for dinner.

“Mom,” I said, “I'm sorry I said I hated you.”

“It's okay, Ben.”

She came and knelt on the kitchen floor and put her arms around me. She looked into my eyes, and it was hard for me to look into hers without giggling, even though nothing was funny.

“I know that what I said scared you. I probably shouldn't have said it. I was just feeling like you were ready to be independent, and you can't be unless you understand how dangerous the world is. I'm so sorry it has to be that way.”

“I'm sorry, Mommy,” I said. And then I started to cry. I was crying for that little boy who was never found, mostly, and because I had told my mom I hated her, and because it sucks that you can't ride bikes by yourself when you're ten. My grandma said she used to ride all around the neighborhood by herself when she was my age and didn't have to come in until it got dark. But she's kind of old. It would feel good to be free like that, riding in the wind, feeling the sweat dry on your face, smelling the trees and not being afraid.

“Will I ever be able to ride my bike by myself?” I asked my mom after I had stopped crying.

“Of course you will.”

But I didn't really believe her.

*   *   *

That night as my sister and I lay in our beds in the dark, I saw a little light shining under Angelina's covers. She was texting, of course, even though she was supposed to have her phone off an hour before bedtime.

My mom knocked on the door like she had X-ray eyes. “Is that phone still on?”

“Oh my God, Mom, no,” Angelina said.

“Because if it is, I'm going to come take it away.”

Angelina turned off the phone and whispered, “I can't believe her.”

“Right? She still won't even let me ride by myself.”

“It's ridiculous.”

We were quiet for a while. Then my sister asked me how fifth grade was.

“It's not so great,” I said. Angelina had let me have Monkeylad, and he was making little piggy sounds in his sleep.

“Fifth grade was the worst,” Angelina said. “I always thought I looked terrible and my hair was bad. I didn't have any real friends.”

“Really?” I had no idea that my pretty, popular sister had ever felt that way.

“Yeah, that was before cheerleading and good hair products with argan oil. Middle school is way better.”

“Ugh,” I said.

“Don't worry, little bro. I'll hook you up. I'll still be there, and I'll tell you exactly how to dress and where to hang out at lunch. You're going to do fine. You're way smarter than I am.”

I couldn't believe she was saying that. She was the one who'd talked in twelve-word sentences before she was a year old.

“Plus, you're cute. Amanda Panda and Twinkle Knoll both told me they think you're adorable and that you're going to be hot when you grow up.”

I went to sleep with Monkeylad snoring softly into my armpit.

*   *   *

The next night before bed, my mom let Monkeylad out in the backyard. He was out there longer than usual, and then we heard him barking and barking and my mom calling and calling, her voice getting more and more shrill.

Angelina and I looked at each other in the mirror as we brushed our teeth. Why couldn't Monkeylad enjoy the night a little longer? My mom had to control all of us all the time.

Then I heard her screaming, “Ben. Angelina! Come here right now. I need your help.”

My mom's voice sounded deeper. She was saying each word like it was its own sentence. I knew something was really wrong, so I went to see what was going on while Angelina ignored her and kept brushing her teeth.

“Get the flashlight. Right now,” my mom said. She was standing in the yard clapping her hands and calling Monkeylad, who was still barking like crazy, and I knew she wasn't messing around. So I got the flashlight. My mom shined a beam of light over to where Monkeylad was barking. I could see a weird little-old-man face with a long pointed snout hiding among the roots of a tree.

“What is that?” I said, shuddering.

“Call Monkeylad,” my mom said, keeping the little snouted thing in the beam of light. “He won't come to me.”

“Monkeylad,” I said, “come have a treat!”

And he came right to me. I picked him up, but he smelled stinky.

“Good job. Go inside,” my mom said.

She backed into the house, and Angelina came out of the bathroom. “What stinks?” she said.

“Monkeylad got squirted by a possum,” said my mom. “But Ben rescued him before anything worse happened. We need to give him a bath.”

It turns out possums aren't that dangerous, but they have fifty very, very sharp teeth, and when they are scared, they squirt a stinky smell at you. Not as bad as skunk stink, but still. So I guess my mom was right to be worried about Monkeylad and to want him to come inside. I helped her give him a bath, and that night Angelina didn't even argue about letting him sleep with me.

 

I am not stupid and ugly and bad at sports.

I am not stupid and ugly and bad at sports.

I am not stupid and ugly and bad at sports.

I am not stupid and ugly and bad at sports.

I am not stupid and ugly and bad at sports.