The Life and Times of Benny Alvarez Read Free Page A

broken.”
    This is an interesting conversation, but I wish he’d just let Crash change instead of lecturing him. I’m about five feet from Crash, and I can smell the urine. “I’m going to be late for school,” I say.
    â€œI’ll drive you both.”
    â€œBut I want to ride my bike.”
    â€œRight now, Benny, I don’t care what you want.”
    Crash interrupts. “Can’t you just tell me what the lesson is, so I can change?”
    â€œThe lesson is that you spent all morning complaining to your mother. You whined about the clothes she set out for you, you blamed her for misplacing your book, and you grumbled about your cereal being soggy.”
    â€œWell, it was.”
    â€œIt got soggy while you were complaining.”
    I can’t help smiling when he says this.
    â€œWhat are you smiling about?”
    â€œNothing,” I say.
    My father turns back to Crash. “In short, you wet your pants because you spent the morning focusing on crap instead of taking care of business.” He never would have said “crap” if my mother were here, and if he had a copy of the Book (which I once offered him), he could’ve chosen from “baloney, drivel, idiocy, hogwash, twaddle.”
    Crash responds by saying about twenty times in a row, “Okay, okay, okay,” and then my father sends him upstairs.
    Ten minutes later, we’re on a brief stretch of the interstate because my father decides he wants a doughnut before taking us to school. He’s dodging a black BMW that cuts us off. “Idiot,” he says, making a hand gesture I’ve never seen before. It’s like he wants to shoot the guy the finger but doesn’t want to do it in front of us, so three fingers go up and flail in various directions before he slaps his hand down on the wheel. “These morons think they drive bumper cars.”
    â€œMom doesn’t like name-calling,” Crash says.
    â€œAnd I was actually going to buy you a doughnut, Crash,” my father says.
    â€œHe’s right, though,” I add, even though you’d have to page through about a thousand synonyms for “moron” to do justice to Rhode Island drivers.
    â€œAnd I was going to get you one too,” my father says, obviously happy with himself.
    Now, my mother would’ve seen this drama as a very “negative” way to start the day, and Irene, who hates conflict of any kind, would’ve had to be put on medication, but the three of us aren’t too fazed by it. Just the opposite, because my father, in spite of his threat, ends up buying Crash and me apple fritters, then giving us high fives when he drops us off, as if the apple fritters were a reward for surviving each other or passing some kind of Alvarez test.

Ms. Demigoddess
    I n homeroom, Beanie says, “Where were you this morning? We waited for you at the bike rack.”
    â€œLong story,” I say.
    â€œJust the usual dementia praecox, I guess,” Beanie says.
    â€œA little early for wordplay, Beanie, don’t you think?”
    â€œYou know the rules, Benny: there are no rules.”
    Big Joe, who’s sitting in front of me, turns and says, “Geeks.” Big Joe’s head is the size of a basketball, but he has a tiny nose, like someone hit it with a hammer about a hundred times. He has a blond brush cut and dark-brown eyes. Just about every guy I know with blond hair has blue eyes, but it’s like God was sleeping on the job when Big Joe was born. That would account for his huge arms, which inexplicably are attached to very tiny hands.
    â€œSpeaking of dementia praecox,” Beanie says.
    â€œIf you write it down,” Big Joe says, “I’ll bet I could guess it.”
    â€œBut then you’d be part of our club,” Beanie says. “And that would be demented.” He looks slyly at me, and Big Joe completely misses Beanie’s word hint.
    â€œToo easy