The Life and Times of Benny Alvarez (11 page)

An Extraordinary Event

T
he next day at school everyone is more excited about the poetry contest than I am. Some kids tape posters to the hallways without asking, and they're immediately torn down. Too bad, because some of them are funny, my favorite showing a kid writing a series of a paragraphs with “Poetry don't need no line breaks” scribbled at the bottom in red Magic Marker.

Even some of the eighth graders have taken an interest, though most of them act like we're all stupid little kids. After all, they're going to high school next year. Big deal, dudes.

“You certainly have polarized the seventh grade,” Jocko says right before school starts.

“Polarized” should be an easy one, but Beanie and I can't wrap our minds around it.

“I mean we've got two factions butting heads because of you.”

Now we're confused. Is “polarized” or “faction” the word of the day, or is he looking for us to guess the origins of “butting heads”?

“Take your pick,” Jocko says, and so Beanie and I go to work. I'm enjoying the wordplay. It gets my mind off the contest and also distracts me from the hate looks I'm getting from girls, though something extraordinary—you might even say uplifting—happens at recess.

I start to obsess about my grandfather again, wandering off by myself to a picnic table near a jungle gym. I sit down and contemplate a few huge whitish-gray clouds frozen in the sky. Supposedly, my grandfather is improving, though he's having trouble swallowing, so the doctors have temporarily inserted a tube down his throat. I kind of hate them for doing that, and I'm not allowed to see him yet, so all I can do is imagine his anger. I feel like punching someone or crying, but there isn't anyone I dislike enough to punch, and since the stroke, I haven't been able to cry once, even though I often feel like it.

There's a noise to my left made by a few small birds pecking around the base of a tree. I reach into my pocket, removing a plastic bag of oyster crackers I'm saving for a snack. I crumble up a few of the crackers and toss them to the birds, teasing them closer with each throw. I'm just about done when a familiar voice says my name, but this time quietly. I turn to find Claudine standing about three feet away. Her hair is tied back, which always makes her face seem full and her eyes larger. When the sun breaks through a cloud, the blue-green surfaces of her irises reflect the rays, making them shimmer. She seems serene or, like me, maybe just tired. I brace myself for the inevitable insult, or perhaps she's decided to stab me with a bowie knife she no doubt has concealed inside her knee-high boots.

“Benny?” she says.

Before I can respond, she adds, “I'm sorry about your grandfather. I hope he gets better.” She doesn't smile or try to touch me, but instead does an about-face and jogs toward her friends.

After she's gone, Jocko and Beanie join me.

“What nasty thing did she say now?” Beanie says. “You'd think she'd lay off until Monday.”

“She said she hopes my grandpa gets better.”

“I told Becky what happened,” Jocko says. “Sorry, I should've asked if that was okay.”

“It's probably a trick,” Beanie says.

I'm thinking he's wrong this time, though I'm not sure why, and I decide to drop the conversation and be happy just to get through the day, dodging as many Benny haters as possible.

After dismissal, Beanie goes off to visit his grandpa, and a half hour later, I find myself playing Ping-Pong with Jocko in his basement. The basement itself is unfinished and unheated, and because there's no rug on the floor, it's a bit chilly. Although Jocko's never beaten me in Ping-Pong, he's whipping me today with overhand smashes.

“You letting me win, Benny?” he asks. “I'd really hate that.”

He's right. I sometimes take pity on him and make it close.

“No, I'm playing my best.”

“You don't look so good.”

And he's right again. I've had a tickle in my throat since I got up, and my stomach feels like something's gone rotten in it.

“Is this poetry contest getting to you?”

“A little. I'm worried about my grandpa, too, and I think I got a cold from putting with Crash in the wet rain.”

“You written the poem yet?”

“Nope.”

“We're counting on you.”

“Well, you shouldn't. If I'm a huge success, your girlfriend won't like you very much.”

“I wouldn't say she's my girlfriend.”

This conversation is feeling weird now.

“It's not like I'm accusing you of cruelty to animals, dude.”

Jocko laughs. “Strange comparison.” Then he changes the subject. “Becky told me Hobo's making a recovery. That dog doesn't want to die.”

Who does?
I think, picturing my grandfather hooked up like Frankenstein's monster to tubes and electrodes.

Fever

A
t night I'm feeling worse. My stomach's unsettled and my throat's stinging, like someone slit my tonsils with a razor. But I don't complain because my parents are already stressed, sometimes ending their conversations in midstream when I enter a room. Crash and I want to go to the hospital, but my grandfather's still in intensive care, so we have to wait.

At about two a.m., I'm awakened by a series of bad dreams, each one ending with my grandfather sitting in a wheelchair, the plaid shawl around his shoulders, waving good-bye. My sheets are soaked in sweat, so I'm hoping my fever has broken. I go to my desk and look at the first line of my poem, whispering it over and over until it feels like a chant. Then other images come, and an hour later I end up with a first draft. I'm so tired I don't even reread it, just fall onto the bed into a deep sleep.

I wake in the morning, surprised to discover I'm not much better. I'm not nauseous, but my throat still burns, and my left ear's sore, like someone's jabbing a sharp object into it. I should stay home, but my mother has an important meeting, and my father needs to be with my grandfather, so I lie, telling them I'm okay. To make matters worse, it's raining, and before long, I find myself walking to school with Beanie and Jocko, shivering and holding a little black umbrella over my head. They're talking about the contest, and about Becky's party, and about the Patriots, and then Beanie uses the word “blewit” in a sentence, like we can ever guess that one. I'm only half hearing what they say, my brain numbed by fever.

“Have you finished the poem?” Beanie asks.

I've been asked that by so many guys over the last few days that it's nice to tell them I have, and I explain how I wrote the poem the previous night.

“Boy, Caulfield would love that story,” Beanie says.

“Why?” Jocko asks.

“He freaks over that hocus-pocus stuff—you know, the whole thing about poets getting divine inspiration.”

“Does that mean we have to call you Mr. Demigod now, Benny?”

“How about Mr. Burned-Out?” I say.

“You do look bad,” Beanie says.

There's got to be a better word for how lousy I feel, so I retrieve the Book from my back pocket. “Frightful, ghastly, gruesome, monstrous, crappy . . .”

“I vote for all of them,” Jocko jokes.

“Agreed,” Beanie says.

“Thanks, dudes. I feel so much better now.”

I make it through classes, ignoring all the Benny lovers and Benny haters. At lunch I'm confronted with a ham-and-cheese sandwich, which, right now, is about as appealing as mouse stew. Excuse the reference, Hector. I'm in a fog, glancing from table to table, everyone seeming to move in slow motion. Beanie sits next to me and doesn't look very happy. Jocko joins us and looks worse.

“What happened now?” I ask.

“Hobo died,” Jocko says.

“Really?”

“Of course really, dude. Becky just told me.”

“I thought he was getting better.”

“I guess he didn't.”

I understand why they feel bad. For years, we've seen that dog follow Claudine to school each morning, then stand guard at dismissal. He's as much a part of our routine as the pizza the cafeteria serves every Friday.

“Becky says Claudine is hurting, so you should be nice to her, Benny.”

I'm pretty fed up at this point.

“Give me a break, Jocko,” I say. “I'm sick, my grandfather might be dying, I have to recite a poem at least half the class has already decided to hate, and by the way, I don't go out of my way to make Claudine feel lousy. I'm sad her dog died. Just last week I told her I was sorry he was sick, and she yelled at me.”

“He's right,” Beanie says.

“But not about busting Claudine,” Jocko says.

“I'm outta here,” I say, closing my lunch box and leaving the cafeteria, stopping at the bathroom to puke, and eventually ending up in front of an ancient nurse, who makes me suck on a thermometer. It doesn't take long for her to call my mother, who comes shortly afterward to pick me up.

When she arrives, I apologize, telling her I know she has enough on her mind.

“Don't be silly. I canceled my meeting.”

“Won't you get in trouble?”

“Not if I don't pay attention to trouble.”

I'm not sure what that means, but I assume it's positive.

Chicken Soup for the Troubled Teen

W
hen we get home, Spot's at the front door, barking, every little yelp echoing in my head like thunder. He quiets down when he recognizes me, rubbing his butt against my leg. I pet him before going to my room, where I fall on my bed, not waking until about four o'clock. I'm still feverish and my eyelids are caked shut, so I go to the bathroom and throw water on my face. Back in my room, I lie in bed, staring at a wall poster of Dustin Pedroia, who's looking a lot happier than me. There's a knock on my door, and before I can say “Come in,” Crash appears, cupping a steaming bowl in his hands, while pinching a book under his right armpit.

“Irene made you chicken soup,” he says. “She's baking bread, too.”

When he hands me the bowl, the book falls to the floor. Before retrieving it, he pulls a spoon from his back pocket.

“Hope you weren't farting on the way here,” I say. “That's a dangerous place to put a spoon.”

He takes me seriously and says, “I only do that after breakfast, or when I have too many grapes.”

“What's the book?”

“Mom bought it for you.” He fetches it from the floor and hands it to me.

I read the title out loud: “
Chicken Soup for the Troubled Teen
.”

“What does that mean?”

“Looks like Mom's trying to convert me while I'm vulnerable.” I scan the back cover, which gives a more in-depth description.

 

It's not easy being a teenager, but this book will help you to deal with all the triumphs and disappointments you'll have to face. The real-life experiences in this book act as a guide on topics such as first love, bullies, friendships, and most important, how to understand your parents' concerns, so you're all learning from each other, instead of arguing. So hold on tight; this trip won't always be smooth, but you'll soon find out that no matter what your problems are, you're not alone.

 

“I'm not too crazy about the ‘troubled teen' reference,” I say.

“Yeah, it's kind of insulting.”

“You think I'm capable of mastering all this stuff, Crash?”

“Not really?”

“Well, I guess I'll have to read it to find out.”

“It would sure make Mom happy.”

“Then it's worth a read, don't you think?”

He smirks, thinking I'm making fun of him.

“I hope they don't have chicken soup books for me,” he says.

“Why? Don't you want to understand Mom and Dad?”

“Not if I have to walk around with a phony smile.”

I set the book on my nightstand. “Right now, I'm more interested in real chicken soup. Why don't you grab a bowl for yourself and see if that bread's done? Tell Irene I promise to be nice to Aldo for at least a month.”

Crash smiles. “Aldo's cool. Even Dad's liking him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He doesn't call him a Neanderthal anymore.”

“Yeah, I guess the true sign of an Alvarez liking you is when he doesn't insult you.”

“But he still hates Rhode Island drivers.”

That one makes me laugh, which isn't much fun when you have a sore throat.

“Just get some soup, okay?” I say.

About fifteen minutes later, Crash reappears with his soup and some freshly baked bread, and this time he has the phone under his armpit. He places the bread on my nightstand, then hands me the phone.

“What's this for?”

“Dad said we can call Grandpa. He said not to expect too much.”

“He's getting better?”

“Dad said he'll explain later.”

Crash hands me a sheet of paper with a phone number and extension on it. I wait for my grandfather to answer, but Gloria picks up.

“It's Benny,” I say.

“Oh, Benny, I've had a time of it.” Gloria has a tendency to focus on herself.

“Can Grandpa talk?”

“I'll ask him.”

A few seconds later, I hear my grandfather's voice. He's having trouble pronouncing my name, so Gloria says, “It's Benny, your grandson.”

“Hi, honey,” he says, and that's the first time he's ever called me that.

“You okay, Grandpa?”

“Trouble swallowing. Just so tired. We'll get that hawk, don't you worry.”

“It's Benny, Grandpa. Crash and I wanted to say we need you back for our Alvarez putting contest.”

Meanwhile, Crash is trying to grab the phone from my hand. “Here, Grandpa,” I say. “Crash wants to talk to you.”

Crash takes the phone, and because he's nervous, he chatters, which is probably good since I don't expect my grandfather to make much sense. When the call ends, Crash says, “I didn't understand what he was talking about.”

“He'll get better. After every stroke, it's like his head's littered with parts of a jigsaw puzzle, and he has to piece them together.”

“It still stinks.”

I hand him his soup. “Yeah, but maybe a little chicken soup will cheer us up.”

“You sound like Mom.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

“It isn't.”

After Crash leaves, my mother stops by with a thermometer. Then she wants to talk about the book. “I'm not forcing it on you,” she says. “Just read it when you're ready.”

“Maybe it's better to wait until I'm twenty—then I can look back at my teen years and see all the good times I missed.”

“Benny Alvarez,” my mother says, smiling.

Next, my sister visits, bearing the gift of more bread. She wants to know how the girls at school are treating me and if she can read my poem.

“I'm going to rewrite it tonight.”

“Shouldn't you sleep?”

“Actually, this fever makes me feel more creative.”

“Well, at least you don't have to worry about the party tomorrow.”

I had almost forgotten.

“Mom won't let you go now.”

I should be happy, but I think about Jocko and Beanie there, and it doesn't seem right. Also, I wonder if Claudine will show, and if she's okay.

“Maybe I'll feel better tomorrow,” I say.

“You should look in the mirror, dude.” I can tell she's enjoying saying the word “dude.”

She's not gone for more than two minutes when my father knocks.

“What is this, tag-team wrestling?” I say.

“You're just loved and honored in the Alvarez household, Benny.”

“I'm not dying, am I, and everyone's paying their last respects?”

“No, that will happen on Monday when you read your poem.”

“Not funny, Dad.”

“Actually, I'm not feeling too great.” As he talks, he keeps rubbing the back of his neck.

“How bad is Grandpa?”

“Hard to say. I feel like he's aware of everything, but for every sentence that makes sense, four don't. The doctors seem more worried about the swallowing, so he has to get that back before they'll let him go. Still, they say he may be home in a few days.”

“I really feel bad for him,” I say.

My father looks at me and grimaces. “Today I wondered again about his quality of life, but then I showed him pictures of you all, and he perked up, especially when he saw you and him putting and Crash holding his Nerf gun, about to take down a few aliens.”

I laugh.

“We'll just have to see what happens.” Then he places the palm of his hand on my forehead. “You feeling better?”

“Not much.”

“Get some sleep. If you don't improve tomorrow, I'll take you to a walk-in clinic. It's the only place open on Saturday.”

When he leaves, I work on my poem for a while, reading and rereading it, hoping to make it better. I began the poem thinking of beating Claudine, but now she and everyone else don't matter. My grandfather is my audience. I want to read it to him. I want to see him smile and hear him say, “You gotta love this kid,” and this time the “kid” will be me.