The Life and Times of Benny Alvarez by Peter Johnson

normal voice to my grandfather, “Flamethrowers?”
    But Crash has changed his mind about the flamethrowers. “No, Grandpa. Aldo explained it’s not the hawk’s fault. They have to live too, and without birds, they’ll die.”
    â€œReally?” my grandfather says, looking impressed.
    â€œBut Aldo says the hawk will come back, so we can at least try to protect the little birds.”
    â€œSo no flamethrowers or automatic weapons?” my grandfather says. “How about a bazooka?”
    â€œNo,” Crash says.
    â€œToo bad—it would’ve been fun.”
    My father and Aldo laugh loudly at this comment, then look surprised and uncomfortable by their sudden camaraderie, and my father stuns everyone, except Irene, by inviting Aldo to dinner.
    â€œMe too?” Grandpa says.
    â€œOf course, Dad.”
    Aldo and Crash leave to finish their bird feeder relocation job, and the rest of us set the table, while my father thaws out hamburger for tacos. My grandfather stays put, and I see him watching Crash and Aldo. At one point, he grabs my arm and says, “You think he’s a kook?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe guy with the tight pants.”
    â€œNo, Grandpa, he’s not a kook.”
    â€œThen what is he?” Grandpa asks.
    â€œHe’s a good guy, just a little different.”
    I look up and notice my father’s been listening. He’s rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger, like he’s wondering how he would’ve answered Grandpa’s question.
    Later, for the heck of it, I look up “kook”: “blockhead, bonehead, dork, imbecile, jerk, nitwit, out to lunch.” The jerks at Aldo’s school probably call him a dork, or think he’s out to lunch, but I’m beginning to think he’s what you’d call an original, since I never met anyone quite like him.
    Still, there’s that Tweety Bird tattoo.

A Dog Named Hobo
    J ocko, Beanie, and I get to school early the next morning, so we rack our bikes and sit on the front lawn. It’s cool but sunny. We watch kids shuffling toward us, envying the eighth graders, who get to leave next year for what Beanie calls the “real world,” high school. We’re about to grab our backpacks when I spy Claudine walking toward the entrance with her old tan Labrador retriever, Hobo. Everyone knows about the dog, how he’s the oldest dog in the universe and has some weird cancer but just won’t die. He walks Claudine to school every morning, then shows up right on time for dismissal.
    â€œYou have to admit that’s cool,” Jocko says.
    â€œWhat?” Beanie asks.
    â€œThe way that dog waits for her every day.”
    â€œI thought the town had leash laws,” I say.
    â€œWhat, do you want to throw a half-blind dog with cancer in the pound?”
    â€œI’m just saying that if it were Spot, they wouldn’t let me do it.”
    â€œAnd they’d be right,” Jocko says, “because that dog smells like a garbage dump.”
    â€œI just think Claudine gets treated differently because her mother’s a teacher.” She’s actually an aide.
    â€œI agree,” Jocko says, “so why don’t we go over and beat old Hobo with some sharp sticks.”
    Beanie laughs.
    â€œI’m not saying that.”
    â€œDude, you’re just very harsh on that girl.”
    I’m wondering why everyone keeps saying that.
    â€œSpeaking of Claudine, who happens to be a girl,” Beanie says, “has everyone gotten their behest?”
    It takes me and Jocko about two minutes to figure out he’s talking about the invitation to Becky Walters’s party.
    â€œYeah,” I say, “yesterday. But no reason to worry about presents. Mine said to donate money to the breast cancer crusade.”
    â€œBreast cancer?” Jocko says. “How did I miss that? You think her mother has it?”
    I hadn’t