My Miserable Life (7 page)

When I got home from school, I went into my closet and took out my
SECRET BOX
. It has all the things that are important to me, like ticket stubs from the Darters baseball games my mom used to take me to before money got tight, my straight-A report cards, and some pictures of me playing baseball and eating ice cream cones with my mom. Those were the good old days, before my mom was stressed out and worried so much. I moved everything aside and took out what I was looking for. It was a red paper heart with puppy stickers and glitter writing (she has always been all about the sparkle) that said
I LOVE YOU BEN HUNTER
. It was a valentine from Serena Perl from kindergarten.

There had been a time, before Rocko Hoggen existed to me, before he broke my clavicle and it had to fuse itself back together again (probably unevenly), before I lost my baby curls and got big front teeth, a time when Serena Perl said she loved me. Now it was all over. Forever. My mission had failed.

 

WHAT I AM GRATEFUL FOR

by Ben Hunter

I am grateful for many things. Well, some things. Well, three things.

I am grateful for the Darters because they are a good team, and they are my team, and my mom used to take me to see them play. Because it was a special occasion, my mom let me eat Darter Dogs, frozen lemonade, and ice cream, and I explained each play to her.

I am grateful for my teacher, Ms. Washington, because she is the best teacher ever. She pays attention, listens, and understands.

I am grateful for my grandmother for not being afraid to put her hands inside a turkey, for putting marshmallows on yams, for not using the word
bad
except in extreme situations, and for playing ball with me.

These are the things I am grateful for.

But sometimes I forget.

Dear Ben,

I'm grateful to have you in my class.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Ms. Washington

 

CHAPTER 7

GRATEFUL FOR GRANNY

Thanksgiving is a pretty good holiday. There isn't an endless supply of candy that you aren't allowed to eat. There is pumpkin pie, which you can eat because it is technically a vegetable. Best of all, my grandma, Minnie, always comes from Date Palm Oasis to celebrate with us.

My grandma is super cool. She has more energy than any old person I know, even more energy than my mom. Grandma hikes and swims every day. She never gets mad at me, and she lets me talk to her about sports for hours and doesn't get bored. She says, “Ben, the way you reel off those Darters statistics is really impressive. I think we have a genius on our hands.”

One time I got to visit her in Date Palm Oasis all by myself. She lives in a little cabin boat on a lake in the middle of the date palms. You have to walk on a swaying bridge to get to it—so cool! Rabbits play and roadrunners run on the banks of the lake at dawn. My grandma's house is filled with games that she actually plays with me and a TV and my favorite DVDs, and she makes me breakfast for dinner. She says she enjoys living in the desert because the air is better and there isn't any traffic, but I think she just likes to have a little distance between herself and my mom.

This Thanksgiving she drove in from the desert and ran back and forth from her car unloading everything, kissing me each time she came inside. “Oh, Ben, you are so wonderful. You are the most adorable young man I have ever seen.” She brought these scented candles that smelled like apple pie and pumpkin pie, and bouquets of orange and yellow and red flowers, and all these pots and pans and serving dishes and groceries. My mom gets grossed out by cooking turkeys, but my grandma just reached right inside that bird and pulled out all the innards and whistled while she did it. And she made mashed potatoes with lots of butter and cream, and yams topped with marshmallows, and pumpkin pie.

But on Thanksgiving night, my family were up to their old tricks.

“Oh, Mom, why did you put marshmallows on the yams? Aren't they plenty sweet as it is?” my mom said to my grandma.

My grandmother continued to merrily scoop yams with marshmallows onto my plate. “It's a special occasion! And besides, it might get them to eat some vegetables. Vitamin A! Would you like some, Angelina?”

“No thanks, Grandma. Yams make me vomit,” Angelina said. She sipped her mineral water.

“Angelina!” my mom said. “Is that a way to talk at dinner?”

“Well, it's true.”

Then I heard the sound of a Lady Blah-Blah song, very softly coming from under the table. Angelina was receiving a text, even though she wasn't allowed to have her phone at dinner, but I saw, and before I could tell, she started crying.

“What's wrong, sweetheart?” my grandma asked.

“Amanda Panda sent me a link about the brutal treatment of Native Americans by the Pilgrims. This is a barbaric holiday,” she said. She got up and ran out of the room. I think it was just because she hates green beans and yams, even with marshmallows on top.

A little while later, my grandma announced that there was pie with vanilla ice cream, and Angelina came back in. She didn't seem too upset anymore. Just as we were going to eat dessert, there was a commotion in the bushes outside the window and Monkeylad leaped inside onto the table, whisking his tail through the gravy bowl. In his smiling mouth was what looked like an alien baby. Angelina clutched her stomach and ran out again, saying she was going to vomit. My mom screamed after Angelina not to keep using the word
vomit
at the dinner table, and she screamed at Monkeylad that he was a bad dog.

My grandma said you shouldn't call anyone
bad
because there was no such thing as bad except for Hitler and racists and terrorists and murderers and global warming. And then, of course, there was a knock on the door and it was our neighbor Mrs. Finkelstein.

“That animal of yours stole my Cornish hen,” she shrieked.

She was wearing a flowered housedress and was bent almost in two over her cane.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” my grandma said. “Come in and have some dinner with us. I guess Monkeylad was just trying to invite you over in his own special way. I'm so sorry about your hen, but we have lots of turkey and pie.”

She guided Mrs. Finkelstein inside, sat her down, and prepared a plate for her while Monkeylad skulked under the table because he had been called bad, as in global warming and Hitler, when he only wanted to give my mom an alien baby as a present.

“Hey,” I said when we were finished, “why don't we all go outside and throw the ball?”

“I have to do the dishes,” my mom said. “Look how many of them there are. Maybe afterward.”

Grandma and Monkeylad were walking Mrs. Finkelstein home, and Angelina had already disappeared into her room.

I really wished I had someone to play ball with. Or someone to watch football with in a dark Man Room that smelled of potato chips and dirty socks. Instead I had to walk around the backyard in circles, throwing the ball in the air and reciting baseball stats.

“Ben?”

I turned around. It was my grandma, standing under a tree that blooms red flowers in the spring.

“Would you like me and Monkeylad to play ball with you?” She is really short, with eyes that crinkle up when she smiles. She always wears pink, and she has pink tortoiseshell glasses that turn up at the corners and have little sparkles on them. She looks like a storybook grandma. And she can throw a ball, too, my granny. Monkeylad caught it in his mouth.

“You're a good dog, Monkeylad,” Grandma said. He seemed very proud.

 

DECEMBER

 

CHAPTER 8

THURSDAY IS CRAZY

Not only did we have to stay at home for winter break instead of going on a vacation like a normal family, but my mom's friend's daughter came to stay with us.

“Why does she get my room?” I yelped when I found out.

“Why does he have to stay with me?” screamed Angelina.

“I'm really sorry, you guys, but Amy's having a hard time, and she needs some help. We have to show her how a happy family functions.” There were no question marks, so we knew my mom wasn't going to back down. “Besides, she was the cutest little girl. I haven't seen her in years, but when I held her in my arms and she called me Aunty, that was when I knew I wanted kids of my own.”

But things had changed. Amy was not a cute little girl anymore. In fact, she was not a normal person.