by M. Billiter
As I thumbed through the blue notebook, journal entries streamed past me. I glanced at the cover, and Branson’s perfect left-handed penmanship noted English 1010. Beneath the course title in black ink, barely visible, he had written, A Casual Stranger.
What? I shook my head. Branson was enrolled in a college-level English class that high school seniors could take and earn college credit. By the time Branson entered the naval academy—if he did—or any top-rated college, he would have enough college credits to place him on the honor track. Again, all part of my five-step process and the path I'd placed my boys on since kindergarten.
If anything, I should have been mad at my son—Branson was messing up my plan—but I half-heartedly smiled. I had to; I had no more tears left.
I touched the pages in his journal. Branson’s penmanship was flawless. He held the pen so hard against the page, his writing left behind ridges and bumps. I fingered his entries, each one deeper on the page, creating another wave of words that rose off the paper like a buoy in a choppy sea.
Then I read a passage and realized maybe his words were meant as a signal in a tide before the storm.
September 3
Well, my family is completely and utterly insane. Every day there is constant fighting. To stop this fighting and to get Jack out of it, I brought him to McDonald's. I found myself near tears because he's too young to be going through this stuff. I just hope it all ends soon and we all start acting like a family again. The only reason I brought Jack to McDonald's is because it's a delicacy for us since we rarely go out due to our family’s “wealth.” We aren’t very wealthy, but we try.
I stared at the top of the page where he had dated the entry, then got up and looked at the calendar on the refrigerator, flipping back to August. The boys began their senior year in high school August 25. September third was just the second week into the semester. What fighting? What is he talking about? I vaguely remembered him taking Jack to McDonald’s, but what fighting?
I sat back down at the table and turned to the very first entry in the composition book.
August 25
Whenever I think about the first day of school, it reminds me of the book The Perks of Being a Wallflower. This happens every year and it excites me, because I imagine my high school year being as fun. I also set goals for myself to get the best experiences out of the year. This year my goals are simple: get a 4.0 GPA, receive a minimum of 3 or higher on my AP test, enjoy school events and activities, and the last and most important is bring this girl I met at the high school summer institute program to one of the Wilson High School dances up here. This girl is amazing in every way, and I promised I would.
I smiled. Goals. Girls. He must have been talking about Dakota. It sounded like a great start to the year. So what happened?
The edge of the paper looked recently burnt, like it had been held against an open flame or lit by a match. I knew Branson liked the look of old books, but now only half of his first name was visible. I thumbed past “son Kovac” to the next page.
August 28
It's only the third day and so far my goals are thinning. Somehow most of the school despises my existence. This is very fun and eventful, by the way. And the gay rumor's up and running again. Maybe they just say this stuff about me to make themselves feel powerful. It’s not like I haven’t dated a girl or anything, because I have, but it doesn’t help.
I knew Branson had been called “gay” his freshman year. And Aaron had been called “Tubs.” But I honestly thought it was part of being a freshman on the football team. I told the boys to ignore it. Branson wasn’t gay, and Aaron wasn’t fat, but even if they were, it was moronic to engage in the stupidity. But now the anger that pulsed through my veins made me want to hurt someone, anyone who had ever called my son “gay” or made him question his worth or identity as a man. As if being gay was some crime?
Three days into the semester and my son had already lost hope. I didn’t know he was still being called names. Has this been going on since freshman year? I tightened my jaw. I would not only find out who had said what, who bullied my son, but I would ensure their future college careers ended up as pathetic and limited as they were. Bastards.
I returned to Branson’s English journal and continued reading.
Besides, all dating causes is unneeded drama and judgment. You could be dating the prettiest girl in school, but somehow people find a way to make them look horrible. I act like the gay rumor doesn’t bother me, but in reality, it hurts.
I felt sucker-punched. All the air left my lungs and I found it hard to breathe as I stared at that last sentence: I act like the gay rumor doesn’t bother me, but in reality, it hurts.
I knew the onslaught of grief was about to erupt. I didn’t know it was this bad. I thought it was just a freshman phase. I can’t believe it’s been going on this whole time. Where have I been? Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t the school tell me?
My sadness suddenly turned to anger. Why didn’t the school tell me?
I knew the dynamics of an academic arena better than anyone. The administrators weren’t as clueless as they appeared. The drug dealers and addicts were no longer the main focus of a school administration—their radar was honed on the loners and the bullies. They focused their sights on the outcasts and their tormentors because they were likely to be the school shooters and their intended targets. They knew who bullied who and which kids teetered on the edge of the fray.
I gripped my cell phone that contained the personal phone number for every high school principal in Wyoming. The perks of my job would come in handy when I reached out to a few of them. Someone will pay. I knew what principal to hold accountable at Wilson High School, but the bigger question was who was he protecting?
Principals sought me out. As the admissions director for the only four-year university in the state, they needed my endorsement of their students. I had clout, but someone held more if they hadn’t safeguarded my son.
So who’s Branson’s tormentor? Who’s the bully the high school knows but hasn’t done anything about?
I turned to my son’s journal for answers.
The main contributor is Ashley Bailey. Then I make a comment about her driving, which isn't even a bad comment, and sure enough, I’m the bad guy and I get in trouble.
My jaw clenched. Oh my God. This is why Branson served detention? It happened at the beginning of the school year, a couple weeks ago. Branson told me it was his fault, that he had said something about someone he knew was off-limits. She's off-limits but Branson isn’t? Rage coursed through my body, sparking every primal instinct to protect my child against those who hadn’t.
“So because of Ashley, a detention is now on my son’s permanent record as a derogatory mark against him, which tarnishes his academic résumé for college applications. Not to mention the fact that he had to forfeit participating in an indoor track meet because he made some comment, spoke up against this bitch, had to miss a required practice because he was serving detention, and then couldn’t compete in the one thing that actually makes high school tolerable for him?” My voice rose. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I slapped the kitchen table. My hand stung, but the pain was welcomed; it felt better than crying and feeling powerless.
“Momma?”
I jumped and a startled cry escaped my lips.
Jack was dragging the large tan throw blanket from my bed and rubbing his eyes. “Are you okay?”
I pushed my chair back and went to him. “Did I wake you up?”
Bleary brown eyes looked up at me. “Uh-huh.”
“Oh, buddy, I’m so sorry.” I scooped him up in my arms, blanket and all, and carried him back to my bedroom. “It’s still nighttime.” I tucked him back into my bed and pulled the blanket around him, his radiating warmth like a heating pad against my skin. It had the same effect too, my tense muscles relaxing. I just wanted to crawl into bed with him. But Branson was still out, and I wouldn’t rest until he was home.
�
�Go back to sleep.” I kissed his forehead.
Jack smiled. “I was having good dreams too.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “We were at the fair!”
I put my finger to my lips. “Shhh. Carson and Aaron are still asleep.”
Jack giggled. “And Bandit too.”
I nodded. “Yes, Bandit’s sleeping too. So go back to sleep and dream about the fair, and all the fun rides we go on.”
“Even the roller coaster?” His brown eyes twinkled in the moonlight coming through my window, lighting up my son’s face.
“Yes,” I said, playing to his challenge. “Even the roller coaster.”
He pumped his fist in the air. “Yes!”
My whole body basked in his delight. I miss it when it was this easy. My son needed me, and I could provide everything to meet those needs. This was the best age in a child’s life. Innocence and wonder hadn’t been replaced by hard edges and disappointment.
I thought of Branson being bullied, being abused, and my pulse quickened.
“Momma’s gotta go back to work. I’m sorry I woke you up. I’ll be quiet,” I said and kissed Jack. I lifted my laptop off the bed and tiptoed quietly out of the room, partially closing my bedroom door before returning to the kitchen table.
Ashley Bailey. Why do I know that name?
I fired up my computer and immediately conducted a Google search. A perky white-blonde with iridescent blue eyes and caramel-colored skin surfaced on the screen. I scrolled through the available images: Ashley cheering on the Wilson varsity squad, Ashley washing cars with other barely clad cheerleaders, and Ashley taking a seductive lick of a sucker.
Seriously? Lolita much? Come on, get an original idea.
I hit the arrow key on the images, sending them streaming past me until one made me grab my mouse and stop the roll.
“Oh my hell.” His trademark lacquered blond hair, piercing green eyes, and devil-may-care smile won elections. Senator William Scott Bailey, Jr. “Holy fuck. She’s the senator’s daughter?” I quickly lowered my voice. “That’s why Branson gets bullied and detention and she gets off scot-free.”
When he arrived for a site tour of the university, I got stuck taking him around campus. He was charming, but arrogant. He did have good handlers though. Mere minutes after he ended up with me as his tour guide following an agenda switch, he had the lowdown on who I was, what I had studied in college and in grad school, everything I had ever written, and my dismal marital status.
“Marriage is overrated,” he said playfully.
I remember laughing despite myself.
“Actually it is. A person’s marital status isn’t as big a polling issue as it used to be. More voters come from single-parent households, so being a divorced single dad is actually more relatable for voters.”
I rolled my eyes, then remembered this guy knew how to play politics and was serving his second term as Wyoming’s only democratic senator—a first in decades. Many proponents criticized his first win into office, claiming he "pulled a Jeb Bush” and relied on his marriage to a foreign-born wife to pull in the minority vote. In Bailey’s case, his ex-wife was Ecuadorian-born, but when she left him for his chief of staff, Scott became the broken-hearted hottie from the Cowboy State, calling Casper his home when he wasn’t on the hill.
Still, no matter who he was, where he lived, or his voting practices—which I actually favored—his bitch of a daughter had been bullying my son and that wasn’t going to happen.
I snuck back into my bedroom and grabbed my stack of applicant files, thumbing through the manila folders. They weren’t alphabetized or placed in ACT or SAT rank order, just randomly arranged by my college admissions team. Rachel and Ben didn’t sift out any candidate, and early admissions were usually comprised of two separate groups.
There were those candidates who applied early because their income status qualified them for a discounted application fee, which was all part of the university’s affirmative action plan. The policies of the admission process had to provide equal access to education for everyone.
But let’s get real. Those applicants who didn’t make the final cut weren’t singled out because of their income status, gender, race, creed, nationality, or sexual preference. When those applicants were excluded, it was because they lacked consistent attendance at school, their grades and personal essays were dismal, and their overall application packets were pathetic. Those candidates didn’t have a chance in hell of attending junior college, let alone a four-year university. We’d still send them a polite “Thanks, but no thanks” letter and a WSU decal. They’d get something for their sixty-dollar application fee, which the state paid for, but they wouldn’t get the chance to call themselves part of the Posse.
Where is she? I knew her file had to be in my stack.
She was part of the other half of early admission candidates, those students who didn’t need the discounted application fee but whose currency was measured by something even greater—status. Those applicants were children whose parents were either legacy alumni or power players in our state who wouldn’t allow their children to attend any other school than Wyoming’s only four-year university.
I skimmed the white labels that adorned the tab of each file until “Bailey” caught my eye. I smiled.
“Ah, there you are. Bailey, Ashley Michelle, Wilson High School,” I exhaled. “Oh, this is going to be fun.” I didn’t bother to even open her file. Just knowing it was there was enough.
I opened my email inbox and clicked to compose a new message.
I typed “Wilson High School” into the recipient field and "Principal Fred Stanley” popped up.
Fred,
Hello! I’m burning the midnight oil working on the early submissions list. I realized Wilson has quite a few candidates to be considered for the freshman class of 2016. I also recently read that Natrona County will remain a “school of choice” district. That must be very exciting news for you and your administrators.
I drew a deep breath. To the average reader, my email was innocuous, but what the average reader didn’t realize was that when the top-seated county in Wyoming reclaimed their “school of choice” status, it greatly impacted the two high schools in the district. “School of choice” meant high schools in Natrona County weren’t guaranteed enrollment based on where students lived; a student could choose to go to a high school across town versus down the street. And since a school was funded based upon its enrollment, maintaining a positive public image was vital to a high school principal. More students meant more funding. I knew that, and so did Fred.
I returned to my email.
So it is with a heavy heart that I write this email. As you know, the selection process is calibrated to the expectations Wyoming State University has for its incoming students. We want our student body to be lifelong learners. As such, we are often faced with the difficult task of reducing the list of our early submissions.
I quickly grabbed every folder that had Wilson High School beside an applicant's name, then shifted through the folders and placed those applicants with Kennedy High School beside their name in a separate pile. The stack for Wilson was thick. I closed my eyes and randomly fished a handful from it, then opened my eyes and pushed the remaining Wilson High School folders off the table. They fell on the kitchen floor.
I looked down and dropped Ashley’s file on the top of the pile. “Yeah, buh-bye. That’s the reject pile. Karma’s a bitch. Because of you, Branson has a mark on a school record I have spent my entire life perfecting for him. Payback’s a bitch.” I inhaled deeply and felt my lungs reawaken with purpose. And then it hit me.
“Oh no!”
I reached down to the Wilson pile on the floor and quickly opened a few folders until I found a handful of legacy candidates. Wyatt Arn. Marybeth Sims. Gene Harpy. Sally Grey. Don’t be sloppy.
I added the four legacy candidates to the pile of randomly chosen acceptances and counted what remained on the kitchen table. �
��Congratulations!” I said to no one but myself. “You’re the lucky dozen who will join the Posse.”
I grabbed the Kennedy High School applicants and did the same thing, pulling a handful of legacy files and adding them to the thicker pile of random acceptances until there were thirty-six Kennedy candidates. I then merged the two piles. Forty-eight early admission applicants from Natrona County seemed like a good number to me. After all, there're twenty-two other counties in Wyoming with other applicants to still consider. I’ve got to spread the wealth around. Rationalizing my actions came easy—too easy.
I returned to my email.
I am pleased to announce that twelve applicants from Wilson High School have been accepted for early admission into our program. Kennedy High School had a record thirty-six early admission applicants this year.
Heat coursed through my body, awakening every cell. I then listed the twelve Wilson students I had haphazardly selected. Ashley Bailey’s name was purposefully missing from the ranking of early admissions.
Looking forward to your next batch of applicants. Go Posse!
Best,
Tara
I sat back and looked at my message. While rival Kennedy High School was known for its strong athletic program, Wilson High School gained strength for its academics. It was why I had sent my boys to Wilson. But after my office released the early admissions list, the low number of graduating seniors at Wilson selected to attend their home-state university would make even the most die-hard Wilson supporter rethink where they sent their child to high school.
If Principal Fred Stanley wasn’t going to protect my son against the senator’s bully bitch of a daughter, I would. And in the corporate world, this was how it was done.
I hit Send, watched my email take flight, closed my laptop, and read the last paragraph of Branson’s journal entry.
My new goal this year is to turn the gay rumor around. I’m not sure how I'll do it, but I’m going to try. My reputation will not go down as the gay, smart kid because of Ashley. Maybe this is the universe’s way of showing me that abuse takes many forms? Or maybe it’s just Ashley being a bitch. Doesn’t matter. I’m not sure how I'll change this rumor, but I’m going to try. I have to.
