like on the comic books. Benji is a great artist, but if you tell him that he’ll just shrug and tell you he’s a great copier. Never one for compliments, which is good, because I sure wasn’t about to give him one for this paper.
“What is this?” I demand.
Benji looks at me like I’m dumb or crazy or maybe both. “It’s my essay.”
“I know it’s your essay, stupid. I mean, what are you doing writing about my mom?”
Benji shrugs again and clams up like he does when he’s nervous, but I am not about to let him get away with that. When you have known someone almost your whole life, you don’t suddenly get nervous around them unless youknow you have done something wrong and are trying to get out of it.
“Well?”
“Well, first of all, she’s an entrepreneur.”
“So?”
“So that means she started her own business.”
“I know what entrepreneur means, Benji. So what? Lots of people have their own businesses.”
“And she’s a single mom.”
“Oh, I get it. And I’m such a difficult child, right? So it was ten times harder for her than for all the other single moms.”
Benji looks a little sheepish but he doesn’t exactly jump to say otherwise.
“And she’s battling—”
“Don’t say it!”
“—breast cancer.”
“You
know
I hate that word.”
“Sorry. Why are you so mad?”
“I am not mad!” I protest, but even as I say the words, I know they aren’t true. I am mad, but I’m not sure why. So what if Benji chose my mom? The things he said are true. By Mr. Campbell’s standards, she is a regular modern day hero. And yet all I want to do is grab Benji’s essay and rip it to shreds.
“If you don’t want me to hand it in, I don’t have to,” Benji says, but I know that’s not what he wants. That is just the kind of best friend he is. I’m sorry to say that I actually consider taking him up on his offer, but only for a second. I may be a bad daughter but I am not a bad friend.
“I could do someone else,” Benji continues. “Like Oprah.”
“Don’t be stupid, you’re already done.”
“I don’t want you to be mad.”
“I already told you, I’m not mad!” I snap. “I’m just — surprised.”
That isn’t exactly true: I am both mad and surprised. Or maybe I’m mad because I’m surprised. It never occurred to me to use my own business-owning, cancer-battling single mother as my modern day hero. She’s just Mom. Someone who is always getting on my nerves and who knows just what to do to make me so angry I could scream. But Benji thought she was a hero. I went from mad to surprised to ashamed. If anyone should be writing about my mother the hero, it should be me.
“Are you going to show it to her?” I ask, hoping the answer is no. It’s one thing to write about her, but to write about her AND show it to her would be too much. I would never live it down. I would forever be compared to sweet, perfect, considerate Benji.
But I shouldn’t have worried. Benji pales and shakes his head. “I could never,” he says, and I know it’s true. He still calls her Miss Annie, for crying out loud. He’d probably faint dead away if she knew he had dedicated a whole social studies paper to her.
“Well, I won’t tell,” I promise, which if you think about it, is a very nice thing for me to do. Benji has so many embarrassing things to live with already; I wouldn’t want to add fainting in front of his own personal hero to that list. So you see, sometimes I am not only a good friend, I am a great friend.
Bedside
On the day of Mom’s surgery, Denise picks me up from school so she can drive straight to the hospital. I wish Benji could come with us but he isn’t allowed to go places without the Dentonator’s permission, which he probably wouldn’t have given anyway. He would never let Benji get into a car with Denise. She tends to take corners a little faster than most people and has more than a few dents in her front fender to prove it.
“Call me the
“What is this?” I demand.
Benji looks at me like I’m dumb or crazy or maybe both. “It’s my essay.”
“I know it’s your essay, stupid. I mean, what are you doing writing about my mom?”
Benji shrugs again and clams up like he does when he’s nervous, but I am not about to let him get away with that. When you have known someone almost your whole life, you don’t suddenly get nervous around them unless youknow you have done something wrong and are trying to get out of it.
“Well?”
“Well, first of all, she’s an entrepreneur.”
“So?”
“So that means she started her own business.”
“I know what entrepreneur means, Benji. So what? Lots of people have their own businesses.”
“And she’s a single mom.”
“Oh, I get it. And I’m such a difficult child, right? So it was ten times harder for her than for all the other single moms.”
Benji looks a little sheepish but he doesn’t exactly jump to say otherwise.
“And she’s battling—”
“Don’t say it!”
“—breast cancer.”
“You
know
I hate that word.”
“Sorry. Why are you so mad?”
“I am not mad!” I protest, but even as I say the words, I know they aren’t true. I am mad, but I’m not sure why. So what if Benji chose my mom? The things he said are true. By Mr. Campbell’s standards, she is a regular modern day hero. And yet all I want to do is grab Benji’s essay and rip it to shreds.
“If you don’t want me to hand it in, I don’t have to,” Benji says, but I know that’s not what he wants. That is just the kind of best friend he is. I’m sorry to say that I actually consider taking him up on his offer, but only for a second. I may be a bad daughter but I am not a bad friend.
“I could do someone else,” Benji continues. “Like Oprah.”
“Don’t be stupid, you’re already done.”
“I don’t want you to be mad.”
“I already told you, I’m not mad!” I snap. “I’m just — surprised.”
That isn’t exactly true: I am both mad and surprised. Or maybe I’m mad because I’m surprised. It never occurred to me to use my own business-owning, cancer-battling single mother as my modern day hero. She’s just Mom. Someone who is always getting on my nerves and who knows just what to do to make me so angry I could scream. But Benji thought she was a hero. I went from mad to surprised to ashamed. If anyone should be writing about my mother the hero, it should be me.
“Are you going to show it to her?” I ask, hoping the answer is no. It’s one thing to write about her, but to write about her AND show it to her would be too much. I would never live it down. I would forever be compared to sweet, perfect, considerate Benji.
But I shouldn’t have worried. Benji pales and shakes his head. “I could never,” he says, and I know it’s true. He still calls her Miss Annie, for crying out loud. He’d probably faint dead away if she knew he had dedicated a whole social studies paper to her.
“Well, I won’t tell,” I promise, which if you think about it, is a very nice thing for me to do. Benji has so many embarrassing things to live with already; I wouldn’t want to add fainting in front of his own personal hero to that list. So you see, sometimes I am not only a good friend, I am a great friend.
Bedside
On the day of Mom’s surgery, Denise picks me up from school so she can drive straight to the hospital. I wish Benji could come with us but he isn’t allowed to go places without the Dentonator’s permission, which he probably wouldn’t have given anyway. He would never let Benji get into a car with Denise. She tends to take corners a little faster than most people and has more than a few dents in her front fender to prove it.
“Call me the
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