The Life and Times of Benny Alvarez by Peter Johnson Page A

really thought about that. “I don’t know.”
    â€œAre you going?” Beanie asks me.
    Last night, after Aldo left, I really sweated that one. In a way, it’s not something I want to miss, because I’ve never been to a party with a deejay. So many unknowns, it’s almost interesting, but I’m having trouble getting past the idea of dancing. Irene says the girls will dance with or without us, and she’ll be happy to teach me a few steps. What no one knows is that I dance by myself sometimes, doing what comes naturally, though the thought of dancing publicly makes me want to puke.
    â€œI asked if you’re going,” Beanie repeats.
    â€œYeah,” I say, “but only if we show up together. I don’t want to be there early with a bunch of girls or guys I don’t even like.”
    â€œI agree,” Jocko says. Then he starts obsessing on a lot of little details, like how we should dress and if we should wear something pink because of the breast cancer thing.
    It’s amazing how he’ll freak over every dumb detail of everything we do but spaces out on the big stuff, like the fact that girls will be at the party. But then, as I said, he’ll talk to a girl as easily as he’ll talk to a guy.
    Once we agree we’re going, we head toward the entrance. Hobo’s lying at Claudine’s feet while she talks to a friend. “Let’s wait a second,” I say.
    Beanie agrees, but Jocko ignores us, moving toward the front doors. He’s almost there when he takes a detour to pet Hobo, who’s resting on his side. Jocko rubs his belly and Hobo’s left leg starts twitching. Now here’s the weird part: while he’s rubbing Hobo, he’s talking to Claudine like they’re old friends.
    â€œWhat’s that about?” I say.
    â€œYou know Jocko,” Beanie says.
    As Jocko continues to talk, my feet lead me involuntarily toward Claudine, and before I know it, I’m next to her, then on one knee petting Hobo. I look behind to see if Irene is there, zapping me with a do-gooder spell.
    â€œNice dog,” I say, waiting for Jocko to add, “Yeah, why don’t we call a vet to put him down?” but he gives me a pass.
    Claudine’s towering over me, squinting, probably wondering if this is some kind of trick. She doesn’t thank me, just helps Hobo to his feet and says, “Home, Hobo.” The dog licks her face, then slowly heads off. With every step to the left or right, he looks like he’s going to lose his balance. Finally, he stumbles into a right turn and disappears from sight, and that’s when Claudine leaves, ignoring us, like we never existed.
    â€œYou’re welcome, Claudine,” I say behind her back.
    â€œThanking you probably isn’t on her mind, Benny,” Jocko says. “If I were her, I’d be worried every day that Hobo might not show up at dismissal, which would mean he died.”
    â€œHow does she know he’ll make it home?” Beanie asks.
    â€œShe only lives a few houses down the street,” I say.
    Jocko smiles. “How do you know that?”
    â€œI must’ve driven by with my dad one day and saw her out front. What does it matter?”
    â€œI guess it doesn’t,” Jocko says, grinning stupidly at me.

Night Crawler
    I n class, things aren’t going too well with Sara, and right now I’d rather be in my after-school drawing class sketching cartoons.
    Ms. D tries to help, telling everyone to let our minds “roam” on whatever images come to mind. “Free-associate,” she says.
    When we talk individually, Sara asks me to describe how a night crawler is different from a regular worm, so I repeat how in late spring my grandfather and I patrol his backyard with flashlights, trying to catch worms peeking out from their holes before they see the light and recoil.
    â€œWhat do you do with them?”
    â€œWe use them for