Read The Life and Times of Benny Alvarez for Free Online

is a compulsive worrier. Most girls I know worry, so maybe that’s why they like him.
    â€œYou don’t have to answer now,” I say.
    â€œI can’t even tie my shoes this early,” Beanie says.
    Jocko seconds that, so we hop on our bikes and head to school.

Mr. Congo
    A t first, this morning seems free from drama, except for a couple of warnings from the principal, one about wearing baseball hats in school because they’re associated with gangs. About the only gang you’ll find in my middle-class neighborhood is a posse of paunchy new moms gathering every morning on the school track to chat and trot behind baby joggers.
    After that announcement I’m off to Mr. Congo’s (that’s his real name) math class, where we’ve been playing Crunching Numbers for the last two weeks. It supposedly helps us to review concepts for the inane state exams given every fall. The kids hate them, the teachers hate them, and my father, who reads more about the demise of our public school system than the secretary of education, hates them, but obviously, some screwball in Washington decided they make us smarter. The Crunching Numbers period usually ends up being a battle between the boys and girls, a battle we actually win sometimes, much to the annoyance of Claudine and her gang.
    This morning, Mr. Congo looks like he wrestled three pit bulls on the way to class. He’s only in his twenties, but he’s bald and has dark circles under his eyes. Add to the bald head and baggy eyes that he’s thin and pale, and you could easily mistake him for a convict just released from solitary. To be fair, Mr. Congo’s wife had a baby a month ago, and it’s clear he’s not sleeping much. If Claudine didn’t water all the strange, cool plants his wife arranged in the classroom the first day of school, they wouldn’t have lasted a week.
    But Claudine’s not too happy this morning. Five minutes left to go in class and the final Crunching Numbers question lights up the screen: (5x + 2x) = (4x − 3y) “Tick, tick, tick,” I say, realizing she and her gang don’t have a clue. “Tick, tick, tick,” I say, rubbing it in before tapping the little bell on my desk and giving the correct answer.
    â€œYou the man,” Beanie yells, and before Mr. Congo can lecture us about being “gracious” (a favorite word of his), we’re off to English class.
    Claudine’s ahead of me in the hall, so I slow down, not wanting to invade her unhappy space, but I know she feels my nearness because I swear she’s slowing down on purpose. The more slowly she walks, the more I try to lag behind until we’re crawling toward Ms. D’s room.
    Suddenly, I’m pushed from behind. “Get moving, Alvarez.” It’s Big Joe. “What are you, crippled?”
    Before I can respond, I find myself careening into Claudine.
    She wheels around, obviously as uncomfortable with this encounter as I am, and Paige, who’s walking beside her, glares at me like I’m a laboratory rat she’s about to dissect on a black slab she has concealed in her basement.
    I can feel the blood vessels swelling in my face, and I’m trying to calm down, but it’s harder than getting rid of the hiccups.
    â€œBig Joe pushed me,” I say, my victory in math class a distant memory.
    â€œNo, I didn’t,” Big Joe lies.
    â€œYes, you did,” Beanie chimes in.
    Claudine suddenly seems taller and older and speaks in that voice Irene uses when trying to convert me or Crash to her cult of positivity. She places one hand on her hip and says, “Your excuses don’t matter much, Benny, but an apology does.”
    â€œWell, I think his excuse matters,” Beanie says.
    â€œForget it, Beanie,” I say, knowing it’s too late. Claudine has turned the tables, my brief advantage destroyed by a simple push.
    â€œWell?” she says,