Free My Miserable Life by F. L. Block Page A

said. And then I started to cry. I was crying for that little boy who was never found, mostly, and because I had told my mom I hated her, and because it sucks that you can’t ride bikes by yourself when you’re ten. My grandma said she used to ride all around the neighborhood by herself when she was my age and didn’t have to come in until it got dark. But she’s kind of old. It would feel good to be free like that, riding in the wind, feeling the sweat dry on your face, smelling the trees and not being afraid.

    â€œWill I ever be able to ride my bike by myself?” I asked my mom after I had stopped crying.
    â€œOf course you will.”
    But I didn’t really believe her.
    *   *   *
    That night as my sister and I lay in our beds in the dark, I saw a little light shining under Angelina’s covers. She was texting, of course, even though she was supposed to have her phone off an hour before bedtime.
    My mom knocked on the door like she had X-ray eyes. “Is that phone still on?”
    â€œOh my God, Mom, no,” Angelina said.
    â€œBecause if it is, I’m going to come take it away.”
    Angelina turned off the phone and whispered, “I can’t believe her.”
    â€œRight? She still won’t even let me ride by myself.”
    â€œIt’s ridiculous.”
    We were quiet for a while. Then my sister asked me how fifth grade was.
    â€œIt’s not so great,” I said. Angelina had let me have Monkeylad, and he was making little piggy sounds in his sleep.
    â€œFifth grade was the worst,” Angelina said. “I always thought I looked terrible and my hair was bad. I didn’t have any real friends.”
    â€œReally?” I had no idea that my pretty, popular sister had ever felt that way.
    â€œYeah, that was before cheerleading and good hair products with argan oil. Middle school is way better.”
    â€œUgh,” I said.
    â€œDon’t worry, little bro. I’ll hook you up. I’ll still be there, and I’ll tell you exactly how to dress and where to hang out at lunch. You’re going to do fine. You’re way smarter than I am.”
    I couldn’t believe she was saying that. She was the one who’d talked in twelve-word sentences before she was a year old.
    â€œPlus, you’re cute. Amanda Panda and Twinkle Knoll both told me they think you’re adorable and that you’re going to be hot when you grow up.”
    I went to sleep with Monkeylad snoring softly into my armpit.
    *   *   *
    The next night before bed, my mom let Monkeylad out in the backyard. He was out there longer than usual, and then we heard him barking and barking and my mom calling and calling, her voice getting more and more shrill.
    Angelina and I looked at each other in the mirror as we brushed our teeth. Why couldn’t Monkeylad enjoy the night a little longer? My mom had to control all of us all the time.
    Then I heard her screaming, “Ben. Angelina! Come here right now. I need your help.”
    My mom’s voice sounded deeper. She was saying each word like it was its own sentence. I knew something was really wrong, so I went to see what was going on while Angelina ignored her and kept brushing her teeth.
    â€œGet the flashlight. Right now,” my mom said. She was standing in the yard clapping her hands and calling Monkeylad, who was still barking like crazy, and I knew she wasn’t messing around. So I got the flashlight. My mom shined a beam of light over to where Monkeylad was barking. I could see a weird little-old-man face with a long pointed snout hiding among the roots of a tree.
    â€œWhat is that?” I said, shuddering.
    â€œCall Monkeylad,” my mom said, keeping the little snouted thing in the beam of light. “He won’t come to me.”
    â€œMonkeylad,” I said, “come have a treat!”
    And he came right to me. I picked him up, but he smelled