Benji

Benji was standing in his bedroom, wearing only his underwear, when his mom barged in. He had the entire second floor to himself (three bedrooms, two bathrooms, only child), but still, Benji sometimes felt like he was suffocating.

“Mom!” He snatched a blanket off his bed and wrapped it around his waist.

“Sorry.” She covered her eyes. “I didn’t see anything. May I come in?”

“May I have a lock on my door?”

“No,” she answered. It was an old argument. His dad had taken the lock off when Benji was five because he’d barricaded himself in and painted the walls with organic blueberry preserves. And in the seven years since, it seemed Benji hadn’t earned back their trust.

“I reviewed your social studies essay.” His mother held out a paper bleeding in red ink.

“Thanks.” He grabbed it. She insisted on checking over his homework and projects even though he also got extra help at school for reading and writing.

“I think you’re rushing through your work,” she said. “You need to take more time.”

“That’s not it. Even if I spent ten hours on it, it wouldn’t be any better. Words and me don’t mix.” In truth, he had rushed the essay. But it was also true that more time wouldn’t make a difference.

“That’s why I’m helping.” His mom nodded. “Fix it before bed. It’s due tomorrow, and you have a science test on Friday.” She knew better than he did about his due dates.

“Okay.”

When he didn’t say anything else, she left, and Benji decided his homework and shower could wait. There was something more important he had to do—his journal entry. He didn’t actually write in a diary. His entries were voice-recorded on his iPad.

Benji had been forced to start journaling in fifth grade after a recommendation at a parent-teacher conference. Benji may benefit from daily self-reflection using his own words, the teacher had noted. He didn’t enjoy it at first, but the journal became a useful tool. A couple of times a week, he recapped the triumphs and struggles of his life. But the Benji Porter recorded on the iPad wasn’t real—not 100 percent real, anyway. It was a highly edited version of Benji Porter. A version that he hoped would make his parents happy.

And while the journal was intended to be private, Benji knew his parents listened to it. His entries were uploaded to the cloud, which they could access—and did.

But they didn’t know he knew.

The secret to his success was finding the right balance. He couldn’t come across as perfect. They did know him, after all. He just had to appear to be a hardworking, motivated, and overall good son.

October 26

Today I went on a field trip to New York to the natural history museum. The teacher made me be partners with a boy named Felix. He’s shy and doesn’t have any friends. I was picked so he wouldn’t be lonely in New York. We saw about a hundred dinosaurs and watched an IMAX movie about Earth. At lunchtime, we went to Central Park. Felix found a wallet. It belonged to Laura Friendly. I convinced him to hand it over to the police.

Benji had told his parents about the wallet already. But he hadn’t mentioned the missing twenty bucks then, and he wasn’t going to mention it now.

After dinner, Dad and I played basketball. I need to be ready for tryouts in a few weeks. I really want to make the seventh-grade team.

This was true. Benji did want to make the team. He needed to. Basketball was part of the Porter DNA. His dad had been a star player on his high school team, and Benji’s mom had gone to Syracuse University on a basketball scholarship. Benji was the size of a basketball player (there was some DNA!), but he lacked any natural skills.

That’s about everything. I have a science test this week that I’ve been studying for a lot. Still, it’s going to be super hard.

Oh, and Mom walked in on me when I was practically naked. I wish she’d knock.

Over and out,

Benji