Esmé Kaplan-Kinsey
Benny says there’s a wormhole from the Bermuda Triangle to the Gobi Desert, right through the center of the world.
He must think I’m stupid or something.
“If there was a hole in the Bermuda Triangle, all the water would drain out,” I say. “And then the desert wouldn’t be a desert anymore.”
“That’s not how wormholes work, dumbass,” he says.
Benny is fourteen and covered in pimples. He likes GTA and skateboards, and last week I caught him smoking something in the side yard. He said, “You better lie if Mom asks anything.”
I don’t believe anything he tells me.
“Look it up,” he says.
I’ve been painting the walls of my bedroom, sneaking into Mom’s office after she goes to bed to Google photos of fairies and dragons and mermaids on her computer. There’s a lot of photos that look real, practically. I’m painting them in the corner, behind the curtains. I’ve been falling asleep in math class. Yesterday Ms. Taylor asked me why my hands are covered in blue. In the night I pull back the curtains so I can see their outlines watching me. I told her my mermaids needed an ocean to swim in, and she looked at me funny.
Every afternoon, Benny comes home from school and eats a peanut butter and pickle sandwich. Benny only believes in things with a “scientific explanation.” Benny is good at technology, goes to school early on Tuesdays and Thursdays for some sort of computer club. Benny goes on a date to the movies with a girl who chews gum in rhythmic snaps and never takes out her AirPods.
Benny is no fun anymore.
Mom says that nothing on the Internet is real, says not to believe a word of it. Says it’s silly to put so much time into something that doesn’t exist as soon as you flip off the switch. There are so many things on the Internet, though, and I think at least some of them must be true. The dictionary, or websites selling things. I order a pack of paint brushes one night and they come in the mail four days later. That’s like magic, practically. Seems real enough to me.
I Googled the wormhole, and the Internet said it probably doesn’t exist.
I asked Benny where he heard about it, and he said the Internet.
With the new paint brushes, the fairies are starting to fly out of the corner and across the wall. I’d like to know where they’re going.
Whenever I come into his room, Benny is on his laptop, his face greenish glowing. He looks funny lit up from the bottom like that. Some nights we watch videos together, the sciency ones on YouTube that he likes. Benny thinks he is smarter than me.
I looked up “things that teenagers smoke” and the Internet said that it could have been marijuana or cigarettes or crack cocaine. It says that Benny’s brain will suffer from use at such a young age.
I like my brain and I like my thoughts. I like the color of the paint I’ve been using for the mermaid’s tail. Aquamarine, it’s called. I like to think about a wormhole that will zoom me through the center of the earth and spit me out somewhere different. I’m not buying it though, not really. I know that kind of thing only happens in the movies. And I’ve got my friends in the corner anyways, and wouldn’t they be sad if I ended up in the desert somewhere? I like to think they would. I like to think Benny would miss me. I like the way, when the moon hits my window around ten o’clock, I can see the dragon’s tail twisting out from behind the curtain.
He must think I’m stupid or something.
“If there was a hole in the Bermuda Triangle, all the water would drain out,” I say. “And then the desert wouldn’t be a desert anymore.”
“That’s not how wormholes work, dumbass,” he says.
Benny is fourteen and covered in pimples. He likes GTA and skateboards, and last week I caught him smoking something in the side yard. He said, “You better lie if Mom asks anything.”
I don’t believe anything he tells me.
“Look it up,” he says.
I’ve been painting the walls of my bedroom, sneaking into Mom’s office after she goes to bed to Google photos of fairies and dragons and mermaids on her computer. There’s a lot of photos that look real, practically. I’m painting them in the corner, behind the curtains. I’ve been falling asleep in math class. Yesterday Ms. Taylor asked me why my hands are covered in blue. In the night I pull back the curtains so I can see their outlines watching me. I told her my mermaids needed an ocean to swim in, and she looked at me funny.
Every afternoon, Benny comes home from school and eats a peanut butter and pickle sandwich. Benny only believes in things with a “scientific explanation.” Benny is good at technology, goes to school early on Tuesdays and Thursdays for some sort of computer club. Benny goes on a date to the movies with a girl who chews gum in rhythmic snaps and never takes out her AirPods.
Benny is no fun anymore.
Mom says that nothing on the Internet is real, says not to believe a word of it. Says it’s silly to put so much time into something that doesn’t exist as soon as you flip off the switch. There are so many things on the Internet, though, and I think at least some of them must be true. The dictionary, or websites selling things. I order a pack of paint brushes one night and they come in the mail four days later. That’s like magic, practically. Seems real enough to me.
I Googled the wormhole, and the Internet said it probably doesn’t exist.
I asked Benny where he heard about it, and he said the Internet.
With the new paint brushes, the fairies are starting to fly out of the corner and across the wall. I’d like to know where they’re going.
Whenever I come into his room, Benny is on his laptop, his face greenish glowing. He looks funny lit up from the bottom like that. Some nights we watch videos together, the sciency ones on YouTube that he likes. Benny thinks he is smarter than me.
I looked up “things that teenagers smoke” and the Internet said that it could have been marijuana or cigarettes or crack cocaine. It says that Benny’s brain will suffer from use at such a young age.
I like my brain and I like my thoughts. I like the color of the paint I’ve been using for the mermaid’s tail. Aquamarine, it’s called. I like to think about a wormhole that will zoom me through the center of the earth and spit me out somewhere different. I’m not buying it though, not really. I know that kind of thing only happens in the movies. And I’ve got my friends in the corner anyways, and wouldn’t they be sad if I ended up in the desert somewhere? I like to think they would. I like to think Benny would miss me. I like the way, when the moon hits my window around ten o’clock, I can see the dragon’s tail twisting out from behind the curtain.
Esmé Kaplan-Kinsey is a California transplant attending college in Portland, Oregon. Their work has been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation, the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and appears or is forthcoming in publications such as Gone Lawn, Fifth Wheel Press and No Contact Mag. They are a mediocre guitarist, an awe-inspiring procrastinator, and an awful swimmer. Find them on social media @esmepromise
