“You were in the far right section, facing the stage?”
I nod.
“And the aggressor was coming from the middle section to your left?”
“Yes.”
“You know, he would probably have gotten away if not for your quick action.”
I nod.
“That’s the pattern with this bunch. Strike fast. Run fast.”
“What do you mean, ‘bunch’?” Hockney asks.
“Well, you know. It’s more than one person, the hate signs, the nooses, swastikas, the ‘white lives matter’ flyers. It’s a whole group.”
“Patriots?” I ask.
Christy glances over at me. “Can’t say for sure,” he says. “Wish we could.” After a few more questions, Christy hands his cards around to us all, takes our cell phone numbers, and leaves.
At lunch, it’s like everybody wants to talk to me about what happened. Some of it’s “good for you,” and high five/two-ing, and a couple are like, “Are you a Muslim now?” That’s too stupid to even tell them how stupid it is.
Partly because Rosie keeps asking, and mostly because I want to change the subject, I try to talk to Brent about Brianna. I can’t, though, because people keep coming to our table wanting to relive the assembly moment. Cameron’s drumming the table like he’s in another world and all I want to do is eat my lunch. I tell Brent and Cameron I’ll see them later and take what’s left of my lunch down to the yoga room.
Joe’s in his office, shuffling papers. He glances at the clock. “Hey, Eddie. You’re early.”
“I need a quiet place to eat my lunch,” I say, taking a seat on a bench against a side wall.
“No problem,” he says.
Only five kids show up for Yoga today. The last day of school before vacation, and we’re on a shortened schedule. Joe leads us through some stretches and then a series of poses. It helps, getting lost in yoga, focusing only on the yoga moment. The shakiness goes away, and my mind quiets. But here’s something else. In warrior pose, when I turn my head slowly and gaze back over my extended right arm, I see that Jason, still farther back than anyone else, is doing the pose too.
We spend several minutes in child’s pose, and I feel my neck, shoulders, and back release tension, totally relax.
As we sit in Sukhasana, Joe says, “Have happy holidays, Maricella, Alice, Miranda, Eddie, Jason.” He pauses to hold eye contact with each of us as he says our names. “Be kind,” he says. He bows his head and holds his hands in a prayer position. We do the same. “Namaste,” he says. “Namaste,” we respond. Except probably not Jason. I didn’t hear his squeaky voice.
I’m rolling up the mats when Joe walks over. “I heard what happened at assembly,” he says.
“You and all the 3,000-plus others here today.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“You did the right thing, but you probably made more enemies today, or at least made your old enemies angrier.”
“I don’t care,” I say. “They’re a bunch of chicken-shit cowards, that guy picking on a girl who’s about half his size.”
“You should care. He got arrested, probably will be charged with an assault designated as a hate crime. He’s going to be really pissed. His friends are going to be really pissed.”
“Yeah, well if they’re that Patriot bunch, they’re always pissed anyways.”
“Okay, but watch out for them.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Solidarity
Max and William decided to go out somewhere, last minute, and I’ve got Pest Duty. We’re on the floor with her Legos, building an ice castle, and I’m talking to Brent on my cell.
“C’mon, Blockhead. Brianna and Adele are both gonna be there. Take your pick.”
“Right,” Brent says, all sarcastic.
The pest wants everything in blue so it’ll look icy. Except we’re running out of blue pieces.
“I’ll pick you up around 6:30,” I say, as I watch my phone battery sink deeper into the red zone.
“Eddie!” Imani’s grabbing my cell, trying to pull it away from me. I take it to the kitchen counter and attach it to the charger. “You’re supposed to be playing with me!” Imani whines.
I go back to the Lego pile. “Look, I found two more blue pieces!”
She grabs the smallest one, twists it around, and manages to use it as a kind of steeple for the ice palace. As much as I complain about Imani, she’s pretty inventive.
We’re both admiring her work when Buddy rouses from his nap and lumbers over for a pat and a nuzzle, which makes him happy, which gets his tail wagging, which knocks the castle to pieces.
“Buddy!” Imani yells. “You ruined Elsa’s castle! I hate you!” Buddy turns to her and licks her face. She’s half crying, half laughing.
“Don’t be talkin’ smack about Buddy. He’s the best dog ever.”
“He destroyed Elsa’s castle!”
“We can fix it,” I tell her. “That was for practice. We can make a better one.”
“There’ll never be a better one!” she cries, but at the same time, she’s gathering up pieces and locking them together for the foundation. I pull Buddy between my propped-up knees, a place he’s happy to be and where he’s semi-contained. I add a few pieces to Imani’s foundation, then tell her, “Hey, Imani. I’ve got to go take a shower. You want to watch something?”
“You have to help me rebuild the ice castle!”
“No. I’ve got to get ready to go. You want me to set up the big TV for you or not?”
She pouts. I go into the bathroom. She bangs on the door. “Frozen!” she yells.
“What do you say?”
“Please!”
I open the door. “Just please?”
She sighs. “Pretty please. With sugar on it.”
I set her up and go back to the shower.
I’m dressed, toweling my hair dry, when I hear some commotion in the living room. I stick my head out to see Imani and Olivia hugging each other and jumping around, and Max, William, and Carla standing by the door, watching. Carla’s carrying a bundle of papers, and she looks like, what? I don’t even know how to explain it. Like maybe she just lost her best friend? Or maybe she hasn't slept for weeks? However she looks, it isn’t happy. Usually she’s all bubbly, like Olivia and Imani are right now.
“Sorry we’re a little late,” Max says. “What time do you think you’ll be home?”
I shrug.
“Text if it’s after midnight,” she says.
“Sure.”
I grab my keys, wallet, and breath mints and head toward the door. “Bye, Ice Queens,” I say to the girls.
Imani runs over to me, starts jumping up and down. “Olivia’s sleeping over! Olivia’s sleeping over!”
“Cool.”
I PULL INTO BRENT’S driveway and honk. That was another of Max’s “Let’s get this straight” dating demands for me. Walk up to the front door. Ring the bell. Talk to whoever opens the door. Wait patiently for the girl.
So, I do that with Rosie. But for a guy? For Brent? I honk. But I’m hella glad I talked him into going with me. I seriously want to be at the concert and hear Rosie’s solo ‘cause it sure didn’t happen at school. But it’s at a church, and I’d hate walking in there alone. I’m not sure I’ll know how to behave. It’ll be easier to walk in with Brent.
At St. Mark’s, I hand the tickets Rosie gave me to the woman at the door. She gives us programs. We follow a group of grandmas inside. They’re chattering away, taking turns bragging about what good singers their grandkids are. I never knew any of my grandparents. Maybe I’ve missed something.
“Hey, Blockhead.” Brent slows and turns to me. “Do you have a grandma?”
“Are you nuts??? You know my grandma! Bleached hair? Purple shoes? Green fingernails?”
We sit in a middle row in front of the grandmas.
“Green fingernails? She’s your grandma??”
“Dude! You know that’s
my grandma. She got me that Play Station when I was about eleven. Remember how pissed off my dad was?”
“Noooooo...I don’t remember that.”
“Oh, yeah...You weren’t around then. But you’ve met my grandma.”
“That joke about the dogs getting stuck or something?”
Brent laughs. “That’s her.”
“Do you like her?”
“Man, she’s a crazy old grandma, but yeah, I love her! I mean, she thinks I’m perfect. Nobody else in my family thinks I’m perfect.”
“Right. Nobody else in the whole world thinks you’re perfect.”
The lights dim, and it gets quiet. It’s a strange place, this church. I mean, maybe not strange to a lot of people, like people who go here, but it’s strange to me. The air feels funny, cool and fresh, but also like maybe it’s been hovering around near the high ceiling for a long time. I’m glad Brent’s here. It would have been way too awkward to be in here by myself. I mean, not by myself. There are a lot of people in here. But I would still have felt alone if Brent hadn’t come.
Some old guy comes up front, a priest, I guess ‘cause he’s wearing the kind of round collar like you see on priests in the movies. He says what a happy occasion it is to have such a fine choir in this sanctuary. He says it’s a place where everyone is welcome, no matter color, creed, gender identity, rich, poor, etc., etc. That’s nice. I hope it’s true, not just sort of true like at Hamilton High.
Mr. Taggerty takes the mike after the round-collared guy. He says pretty much the same stuff. I check out the people in front of me—mostly old people, but I see a few Hamilton High kids. Rosie’s parents and Zoe are sitting up near the front. Over to the right is Sofia’s family. At least, I think it’s Sofia’s family. There are three headscarves in a row, then a man on the other side. And maybe that’s Fatima’s parents? Another man and another head scarf.
Mr. Taggerty turns to face the side of the stage, motions, and the boys walk out, single file, to the center of the stage. There are six in the back row, then another five boys come out and stand in front of the line of six—black pants, white shirts, red bow ties. There’s a brief pause, then the girls come out. They’re all wearing their concert dresses, but with light shawls around their shoulders—and matching head scarves, just like Sofia and Fatima have.
The place goes super quiet, like maybe people have stopped breathing. Then someone up front starts to clap, and it spreads, and then people are on their feet and the applause fills the building.
“Why are they dressed like that?” a grandma behind me says.
“Why not?” a quieter voice asks.
“That’s just weird!” Brent says.
“I bet it’s not weird to Sofia or Fatima,” I say.
Taggerty’s standing before the choir, arms raised, waiting for the applause to die down before he gives the downbeat. Downbeat. Another choir word I learned from Rosie. She’s learning paint colors from me.
First, it’s some corny old song about how all this kid wants for Christmas is his two front teeth so he can say “Merry Chrithmas.” Whenever they sing “my two front teeth,” the boys give wide open smiles and point to their two front teeth which have been blacked out to make it look as if their teeth are missing. They’re total hams on that one.
Next is a Hanukkah song which the program says is from the Jewish tradition. Then a Nasheed from the Islamic tradition. At the end of the last long note, the grandma behind me says, “That music sets my teeth on edge! It’s not even music!”
“Hush, Harriet,” the quieter grandma says.
There’s a brief lull while the singers reposition themselves. Brent elbows me in the arm. Hard. “You dragged me to this, and Adele’s not even here!”
“Yeah she is! On the end of the second row, and Brianna’s right in front of her.”
Brent looks up at the group, then back at me, puzzled.
“On your right, Blockhead!”
He looks again, like he’s concentrating as hard as he used to do during those third-grade math tests. “She looks so different,” he says, staring harder. “They both do.”
Finally, it’s time for Rosie’s solo, “O, Holy Night,” from the Christian tradition. She steps forward, pauses, then gives a nod toward the piano, and Sofia plays an introduction.
“At last! Some real Christmas music!” the loud grandma behind me says. Then the whisperer: “Shush!”
Rosie’s voice is strong and pure. “O holy night, the stars are brightly shining...” Her mom and dads—“real” and step—sang in choir in high school. I guess Rosie comes by singing naturally.
It’s strange not to see Rosie’s shiny, chestnut hair framing her face. I like her face. But I miss her hair. I hope this is only a one-time thing.
During intermission, Brent tells me, “I’m over Adele.”
“Really?”
“For sure. She doesn’t look so good without her hair. Brianna looks prettier. Plus, Brianna’s nicer.”
“Just like that, after all these years, you’re over Adele because you saw her with her hair covered?”
“Yep. And because Brianna’s the one who likes me. And because no math tutor! No math camp!” He raises his hand for a high five/two.
AFTER THE CONCERT, the chatty grams walk out behind us. The chattiest one, who I now know is Harriet, is talking about how her granddaughter, Cherise, should have had the solo Rosie sang.
The quiet grandma says, “I thought the girl who sang did a beautiful job.”
“Hmph. Cherise said everyone thought she sang better at the audition, but the other girl is the teacher’s pet...”
Brent taps me on the shoulder. “Earth to Eddie. Earth to Eddie...As I was saying...What is it I was saying again??”
“Ummm...” I stop eavesdropping and turn my attention to Brent.
“What was that about? Did all of the girls convert to Muslims or what?” Brent says.
“Islam,” I say.
“Islam, Muslim, same thing.”
“Islam’s the religion. Muslims are people who belong to that religion,” something else I learned from Rosie, who learned it from Sofia.
“Whatever...”
Ding. A text from Rosie: Meet at Matt’s. Party. 9
Me: big house on Primrose?
Rosie: thumbs up
Me: with Brent?
Rosie: K
Me: K
Rosie: heart
“9:00 at Matt’s,” I tell Brent. “Brianna will be there. And your ex.”
“Choir party?” Brent says. “Like I’d fit in at a choir party?”
“That last party at Matt’s? There were a bunch of people there who weren’t in choir... I’m just going to hang out with Rosie. You can hang out with Brianna. There’ll be plenty of food.”
“Yeah? Okay, then,” he says, lifting first one arm, then the other, sniffing his pits. “I better get a shower before I get close to Brianna.”
The grammas stop at a car in a handicap parking space, and Brent and I walk on to the back of the lot. The last I hear of them is Harriet spouting off about how if she’d known there was going to be so much foreign music, she’d have stayed home and watched reruns of Andy Williams’ Christmas show.
Maybe it’s fine not to have a gramma. I guess the quieter one might be okay, but what if she was a Harriet? Besides, I’ve got Tia Josie. And her chocolate chip cookies, and her soft-body hugs. She’s sort of like a gramma.
I take Brent to his house and wait in the car for him to come back out, clean and deodorized.
MATT’S GOT A FLOOR-to-ceiling Christmas tree, all decorated and lit up. I walk close and take a deep breath. Yep. It’s real. We’ve got a real tree, too, but it’s a baby tree compared to this one. And this tree’s got fancy ornaments. Ours has some fancy decorations too, but it also has a paper ornament that Imani made in school and some other old, faded paper ornaments that Mario and I made a long time ago.
Most of the choir kids are here, but not Sofia or Fatima. They we
ren’t at the last party, either. Matt’s dad comes in, congratulates the choir on a great concert, tells everyone to have fun, and leaves.
I make my way over to where Rosie’s standing in the middle of things. The girls are talking about how it wasn’t until the last minute that Sofia’s parents decided to let her be in the concert tonight, and how it felt to wear the scarves, and why would anyone do that to Sofia? And then, it’s “Oh, my God! Eddie!” and how brave I was, and how if it wasn’t for me, that guy would have got away with what he did, and nobody should get away with that bullying stuff and...and...
I stutter and stammer around, and then Brent looks over at Brianna like it’s a big surprise to see her here, and says, way loud, “Brianna! Hi!” It’s so loud that everyone pauses to look at him. Some of the girls giggle ‘cause I guess there’s been some talk about Brent and Brianna, like isn’t it cute, and isn’t it great that Brianna’s got someone special, so, much to my relief, the attention shifts. I pull Rosie away from the group and over to the food table. We load our plates and find a quiet corner near the tree.
Rosie talks about how glad she is that the concert is over, how nervous she was about her solo, and then how nervous everyone was after all that happened with the choir on the last day of school, and how relieved she is that we’ve got a two-week break, and...and...and...
It’s funny about Rosie. When she’s nervous or stressed she talks nonstop about whatever it is. The opposite of me. When I’m stressed, I get quiet. I mean like silent. So, I guess we’re a good balance. And I like that Rosie talks a lot because then I don’t have to. I’m sitting close to her, enjoying her monologue, when she spoils it by telling me that I’m her hero.
“Don’t say that,” I tell her.
“Why not. It’s true. You were so brave...”
“I wasn’t brave. It was a reaction. I was pissed at the guy, and then he was running right past me. Probably anyone would have brought him down if they’d been standing where I was.”
“I don’t care what you say. You’re a hero.”
“And I don’t care what you say. I’m not.”
Eddie's Choice Page 13
