Punch

Mr. Harrell stood proudly on the podium, looking kindly down to the faces that peered up at him from the holding chairs flooding the gym floor. Observing eagerness and anticipation in the faces of the children and their parents, and ignoring those who slept, yawned, and appeared bored, he began the final announcement they all awaited. 1

“And I’m proud to announce the winners of the school writing competition, who through much work and study have tied for the first place. Both of these young people are very talented, and fine examples of their schools. Please join me on the stage, Sarah N. Willis, and Ben,” Mr. Harrell paused, coughed, and went on, “And Ben C. Seys. Congratulations, you two.” 2

Sarah jumped up and clambered onto the stage, shining a broad, silly grin down on the gym. Feeble applause trickled from the audience. Sarah straightened her collar and beamed at her fellow winner. He did not beam back. Instead, an half apologetic, half friendly half-smile flickered at her from a half-cocked head and he blinked like a bug had just flown under his glasses and into his eye. Sarah graciously accepted her certificate from Mr. Harrell with a dignified word of thanks. Ben C. Seys glowered at him and murmured something as he snatched the paper and scampered of the stage. 3

Sarah was rather shocked at his behavior but cornered him and kindly congratulated him on his success to prove that she was well-behaved, even if he was not. Before he could reply, a large, heavy hand snagged both of them and pulled them to a table in the room with refreshments. The room was sadly empty, Sarah noted in passing, with only as few people snatching some cookies in a napkin, downing a miniature cup of punch, and making an escape into the bright afternoon. Sarah’s mind, however, was diverted back to her captor by a loud, 4

"You must be Sarah!” Startled, she admitted that she was indeed Sarah, and she didn’t think she’d had the pleasure. Her captor, still grasping the shoulder of Sarah’s striped blouse with large stubby fingers that seemed too short to belong to the large flabby hand, finally let go and sat down beside her at the small round card table, seating Ben C. Seys down on the other side of Sarah. The large lady, for lady she was, ignored the subtle hint at an introduction and congratulated her on her wonderful writing, the detail of the characters and reality of it, and how it all fit together snugly and made you feel satisfied at the end. Which was perfectly placed, by the way, and the large lady had never liked writers who kept it going just a little too long. Sarah could tell that she’d never read it. 5

Then she turned on Ben C. Seys. 6

“Oh, Ben, I loved yours as well. The sequence of events was superb! I just know you’re going to be a writer when you grow up!” Ben glowered miserably from behind the glasses.7

“Don’t call me that. There was none. I’m not.” Sarah was slightly confused before she realized that the short fragment sentences were answers to the questions arranged in the order of the questions. Most likely the large lady had never read his story either. 8

“Stay here!” cried the lady suddenly but enthusiastically as she jumped up, causing the table skitter across the floor and a paper cup filled with punch to spill across the top and onto the tile. Sarah grabbed a handful of paper towels, passed another to Ben, and mopped the table. Ben sopped up the punch on the floor. 9

“Good riddance,” he said. “I hate punch. It’s a too-watery blend of every flavor I don’t like, dyed to a garish peachy pink, and it always has a name like Tropical Sunshine, or Caribbean Blend. And where people get the idea of putting gummy worms in the bottom, I don’t know, and would rather not find out” But he did appear happier as he kicked a gummy worm in an ice cube under the table. Sarah was taken aback. He gave her the half-smile again. She decided to say something understanding and kind, but Ben beat her to it. “And please don’t call me Ben.” Sarah, startled again, forgot the kind and understanding thing she was about to say,10

“Why not? And who on earth was that? The big—uh—lady, I mean.” She was immediately embarrassed that she had almost called her a big fat woman, and was determined to not slip up again. Ben chuckled, like he could read her mind. Sarah glared. Ben stopped chuckling, and replied,11

“Because I don’t like it. The lady was my aunt Alice. She has a cooking show on TV with her sister, which is pretty much another Fat Ladies’ Cooking Show. They travel around in their rusty old pickup, pick their organic mushrooms in the woods, collect mussels on the beach, and go fishing for tuna and lobster. Then they go back to their quaintly oversized kitchen or someone else’s quaintly oversized kitchen—-it doesn’t matter who’s—-and cook huge gourmet feasts, all the while commentating charmingly and quaintly on what they’re doing. With jovial bantering mixed in, of course. And then, after thanking in person anybody who helped them in any way, from the fisherman who drove their boat to the park ranger who told them where the restroom was in the woods with the organic mushrooms, they ride off again in the pickup and deliver the meal to some charity organization somewhere, discussing different ways of pickling walnuts on the way. They dress appropriately for everything too, but you probably don’t want details.” 12

Sarah was thinking that she already had more details then she wanted, but did not mention it. Instead, she made conversation.13

“Um, so why aren’t you going to be a writer? I’m sure your writing is really good. I want to write novels, myself.” Ben, who did not want to be called Ben, shrugged,14

“Writing’s fine, but I prefer other things.”15

“Really? Like sports? And outdoorsy stuff? Computers? Cars?” Sarah had two brothers, who were obsessed with football and guns and thought anybody who wrote anything was an idiot. They both wanted to join the army or the marines or the air force. Ben looked like he thought she was really odd.16

“No. I don’t do any sports except biking. I’m too clumsy; I hurt myself. Computers hate me.”17

“Ah.” Sarah racked her brains. “So Ben, I mean, not Ben, uh, Benjamin, Do you have any pets?”18

“My name’s not Benjamin. No, I don’t, and what it has to do with anything? No offense, of course. Do you?” Sarah shook her head quickly, and thought that he had an abstract way of organizing his speech. 19

“Yes, a budgie. None taken, offense, I mean. I take no offense. And what is it? Your name, I mean?” Dang, now she was talking like him. She tried again. “Why didn’t Mr. Harrell say your full name? He gave everybody elses’.”20

“I don’t know. My guess is that my aunt Alice asked him not to, because my mom's not here. She does that. She wanted me to be called Michael, or Robert, or Richard, or Francis or something boring like that. Or Benjamin. She likes that name. I don’t. Or Abraham. I could’ve lived with Ibrahim, but not Abraham.”21

“But what is your name? You haven’t said yet. Benji?” Sarah guessed, thoroughly exasperated. Not-Ben shuddered.22

“No, thank goodness. That’s worse than Abraham. Have you seen the Benji movies? They were forced upon me when I was young and impressionable, and I think it scarred me for life. They’re about this stupid little dog name Benji, and all I remember is the little mutt running through the forest, yipping. In every single movie, I swear they used the same footage of Benji running through the forest and yipping. I can’t for the life of me remember what he was running for, though. Huh.” Sarah sighed, and caught his eye. 23

“Oh,” said Ben, “I got distracted. 24

“My full name’s Benvenuto. It’s Italian for welcome, but actually I’m named for a cat in a book. Benvenuto Crinamorte Seys is my full name. Crinamorte was my mother’s maiden name; she is Italian, obviously, which for some incomprehensible reason, embarrasses my aunt Alice tremendously. She and my father are from New York.” Sarah thought that he looked more Italian than New Yorker, and that his name was interesting. She might steal it for a story sometime. All of her stories were medieval fantasy, western, or science fiction romances. She liked writing romances. 25

Her story for the contest had been dream scenes switching from a purposely cheesy fairy tale to a upper romantic western, to a ninja fight scene, and so forth. It took the reader a little while to figure it out, and at the end, the person woke up and asked his sister—-who’d also been in the dream—-what a floozle was. The floozle had been in the space scene, and the person had yelled, “The floozles are coming, the floozles are coming!” His sister hadn’t known. 26

“So, what’s your full name?” asked Benvenuto. Sarah stopped thinking about her story, even though she had just remembered a spot where she needed to make a change.27

“Oh, it’s Sarah Naomi Willis. My mother’s name was Willamine, and then when she married, it was Willamine Willis. My dad though Naomi was a pretty name. What writing do you do? I do fantasy.” 28

“Well, I mostly write about myself and random things, like punch and Benji. Life in general. Things I know about, or think I know about. Or don't know about at all.I haven’t read any of your stuff, do you know if they hand out copies or something like that?” Sarah shrugged.29

“How about you give me your e-mail and I send it to you?” Sarah got a pen out of her pocket, and Benvenuto was about to reply, when his large aunt Alice and a larger man behind her—-probably a uncle somebody—-appeared and gushed about being late and how lovely everybody was and how nice Sarah was and how she’d had a great time talking to her, ignoring the fact that she hadn’t really heard Sarah speak at all, snatched Benvenuto, and was gone. 30

Sarah put her pen back in her pocket, and waved at the swarm of people, even though she knew they were most likely already outside. She sat there for a while, then she found her parents, grabbed their hands, and said,31

“Can we go?” They were reluctant. They enjoyed all the attention that they were receiving through Sarah’s prize.32

“Have you had any punch?” her mother asked. 33

“Ick,” said Sarah, “I hate punch.” 34