Rick went through his mail while Gwen cooked dinner. Forty minutes later, the kitchen smelling like oregano and basil, Rick cleared the table of letters and bills, and Gwen set down two plates of spaghetti.
During dinner, Rick said, “My finances are worse than I thought. After paying my bills, Mr. Ziegler included, I don’t see how I can pay my mortgage next month. We need to get jobs soon.”
“I know, but can we talk about something else?” Gwen asked. “I just want to enjoy being with you. Let’s pretend we’re a regular couple. What would we talk about?”
Rick nodded. “You’re right. Let’s take a break from it. What’s your favorite movie?”
Gwen smiled. “I don’t know. Let me think for a minute.” She tapped her index finger to her lips. “I like eighties’ movies, like Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club. I loved Good Will Hunting and Titanic. I’m sure I’m missing a bunch of others. What about you?”
“The Shawshank Redemption.”
“That was a good movie. I didn’t see the escape coming at all.”
Rick smiled. “Neither did I. Why don’t we get some popcorn and soda and stream all those movies tonight? We can stay up late and sleep in tomorrow.”
Gwen leaned over and kissed him on the lips. “I’m in.”
“The silver lining of unemployment.”
After dinner, Rick said, “I’ll clean up. Why don’t you find the movie you wanna watch first? Just turn on the DVD player and select Amazon Prime Video.”
Rick cleaned the dishes, and Gwen padded to the living room. Shortly thereafter, Rick heard the television and Gwen’s channel surfing. She stopped on what sounded like the news.
“Rick,” she called out from the living room.
Rick cut the water and dried his hands on a towel.
“Rick,” she said louder.
He hurried to the living room. “What is it?”
“You have to see this.” Gwen pointed at the screen.
Rick stepped closer, getting a better vantage point of the television. The headline at the bottom of the screen read Students on Strike. The local newscaster, a middle-aged man with helmet hair, appeared with his likeness in one half of the split screen, Jamar appearing in the other half. His caption read Jamar Burris, President West Lake Students for Change.
“We’re organized, and we’re not backing down,” Jamar said. “We have 114 students prepared to strike until our demands are met. That may not seem like a lot, but that’s one-third of all the high school students.”
The newscaster said, “We’ve had reports that among your members are approximately half of the varsity football team, the same football team that’s scheduled to play for the state championship this Friday.”
“That’s true.”
“And you’re the quarterback. A very good quarterback from what I’ve heard.”
Jamar couldn’t help but smile a little.
The newscaster asked, “Are you and your teammates prepared to forgo the state championship game?”
“Absolutely.”
They cut back to the news desk.
Rick turned to Gwen and said, “It’s not over.”
CHAPTER 128
Janet and Truancy
“I’ve already called the police,” Janet said into her cell phone. “Swatara Township’s sending two officers tomorrow morning. Whoever’s out without an excuse will get a citation.”
Superintendent Virgil Matthews sighed. “I wish you would’ve cleared that with me first.”
Janet paced in her bedroom. “They’re breaking the law. We have a duty to report truancy.”
“It’s a special circumstance, given the controversies.”
Janet blew out a breath. “What would you have me do? Let a hundred kids take off school because they disagreed with the school board? If we let these kids blackmail the school district, what’s to stop them from doing it again?”
“It looks bad. All of it looks bad. We have the national press covering us now. The Washington Post and the New York Times are running stories tomorrow. We have to be very careful about what we do. I’ve been in talks with Solicitor Burks and the school board. Depending on how it goes tomorrow, we may offer a settlement to make it go away.”
She shook her head and clenched her jaw. “That’s a terrible idea.”
Matthews paused for a moment. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
CHAPTER 129
Gwen and Good Conscience
Rick and Gwen drove to the outskirts of town, passing denuded cornfields and soy fields. An upscale suburban neighborhood was planted dead center, surrounded by farms and fields. During the real estate boom, a farmer-turned-developer had made far more from selling vinyl and chipboard houses than he ever made farming the land. It was a small enclave, only twenty houses or so, each on acre lots. Rick drove through the neighborhood and parked his truck in the driveway of a stone-faced colonial. He cut the engine and the headlights.
They walked up the driveway to the front stoop, porch lights leading the way. Gwen pressed the doorbell; the chime audible even outside. Shortly thereafter, Enid Burris opened the door, looking slender and tall, wearing slacks and a sweater.
“Hi, Enid,” Gwen said. “Rick and I wanted to talk to you and Jamar.”
Enid nodded. “I imagine you do. Come on in.” She stepped aside, beckoning them inside.
Gwen and Rick stepped into the foyer. The home was immaculate. Open floor plan. Beautiful cherry furniture. Oriental rugs.
“Should we take off our shoes?” Gwen asked.
“No, you’re fine,” Enid said. “Jamar and Gerald are in the dining room. We were just finishing dinner. Are you hungry? I made plenty.”
“Oh, no. But thank you,” Gwen said.
“We can come back if we’re disturbing your dinner,” Rick said.
Enid waved her hand at the air. “Nonsense.”
They followed Enid past the living room, through the kitchen with the sparkling stainless-steel appliances, and into the dining room, complete with china displayed in a backlit hutch. Jamar and Gerald sat at the table, their dinner plates mostly empty. Both men stood as Gwen and Rick entered the room.
They exchanged greetings with Jamar and Gerald.
Enid said, “Gwen and Rick wanted to talk to us.”
Rick nodded. “I’m sorry to interrupt your dinner. It won’t take long.”
“Please sit,” Gerald said, motioning to the empty chairs.
They all sat around the dining room table.
“Rick and I wanted to thank Jamar for speaking out at the school board meeting and again on television.” Gwen looked directly at Jamar. “Thank you. Your support means a lot to us.”
Jamar shrugged as if it was no big deal. “It’s the right thing to do.”
“It’s more than that,” Rick said. “You’re risking a lot. We don’t want you to suffer because of us.” Rick looked at Enid and Gerald. “There could be consequences for you too.”
“We think Principal Wilcox will report the absent students to the police for truancy,” Gwen said.
“That’s means citations and fines and the police forcing kids to go to school,” Rick said.
Gerald Burris nodded, his slender fingers steepled. “There comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular, but he must do it because conscience tells him it is right. Those are Dr. King’s words, not mine, but they’re fitting for the occasion. As a family, we’ve spoken at length about the risks, but we can’t in good conscience stand by and do nothing.”
“We’re prepared to weather whatever storm comes our way,” Enid said.
“We have the numbers. Over a hundred kids are striking tomorrow,” Jamar said.
“What about them?” Gwen asked. “Do you think those families are prepared to pay expensive tickets?”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Jamar said, wincing.
“I’m embarrassed to say that I hadn’t either,” Enid said.
Rick and Sick Days
“How are you able to contact the students who are on strike?” Rick asked.
“I put together a closed Facebook group,” Jamar replied, “but not everyone’s on Facebook, so some people are on the text list or the email list.”
“How quickly do you think you could get them all a message?”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes, depending on how long the message is.”
“What do you guys think about telling the parents to call the school and say that their kid’s sick?” Rick glanced around the table.
“That would solve the truancy issue,” Gwen said.
“I doubt they’d check the veracity,” Gerald said. “That would play in our favor, if they did.”
“I agree,” Enid said. “Parents would be up in arms if the police went to their homes to make sure their child’s actually sick.”
“How long can a parent keep a child at home before a doctor’s note has to be produced?” Gerald asked.
“I think it’s three consecutive days,” Rick said, “but I’d have to look it up to be certain.”
“I think you’re right,” Gwen added.
“That gives people until Thursday,” Gerald said. “Friday will be the fourth consecutive day.”
“What happens after that?” Enid asked.
“We may not need more than three days to force a decision,” Rick said. “I’m sure they’re feeling the heat from the press, and West Lake’s never won a state championship in any sport. They’ll wanna get those kids back on the football field before this week’s out.”
* * *
Rick drove toward the apartment, shadows dancing on his face, Gwen in the passenger seat.
“I think I should talk to Ashlee Miles,” Gwen said.
Rick glanced from the road to Gwen and back again. “I appreciate it, but she won’t tell the truth. I doubt she’ll even talk to you.”
“I had her in class. We weren’t close, but I learned a lot about her through her writing. I think I can connect with her, if I can get her alone. She does have some emotional walls I’d have to break down.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“That picture she stole from your house gave her story credibility. It made people believe her.”
Rick nodded. “I know, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“I have an idea.”
CHAPTER 131
Janet and Disrespect
Janet stood in the hallway, near the main office, her arms crossed over her chest. She glared at the students as they hurried to lunch.
“Slow down,” she said.
Someone among a large group of students said, “Bitch,” muffling it with a cough. Janet was losing control of the school. No doubt about that. About sixty parents had called in sick for their kids, a far cry from the 114 they claimed. But another thirty or so kids were no-shows without an excuse. Many of those kids got a visit from the police, and their parents received a citation. The officers were still working down the list, but they’d assured Janet that they’d get to them all over the next day or so.
It had been a brutal morning. She’d had twenty-seven kids sent to her for disciplinary reasons. A few kids refused to do anything, one laying on the floor until he was forced upright by the school resource officer. Many were insubordinate, ignoring teachers, refusing to put away their phones. One barked like a dog every time the teacher turned her back. A varsity football player called Coach Schneider “a fat fuck.” In one class, half the kids started chanting, “Wilcox is a liar,” over and over again. Janet had given the offenders immediate in-school suspensions. She had quarantined the degenerates in an empty classroom, Vice Principal Burns keeping watch.
Janet walked behind the students headed to lunch. She’d been dreading lunch. Usually the most serious infractions happened there. Normally two teachers had lunch duty, but today she’d made sure to have additional firepower. In addition to Bob Schneider and Lewis Phelps, the school resource officer was there, not to mention Janet’s presence.
In the lunchroom, Janet was pleasantly surprised. It was especially quiet. Students talked softly, no shouting. Nobody shoved or roughhoused. They carried their trays with care. Lasagna, mashed potatoes, a dinner roll, and Jell-O, milk to drink. Maybe she’d already separated the bad apples with the in-school suspensions.
Janet approached Bob Schneider, who stood near the center of the room, keeping a watchful eye. “Bob.”
He nodded, not making eye contact. “Principal Wilcox.”
“I think they’ve finally calmed down.”
Bob nodded again, still not making eye contact.
“How’s practice been?”
He looked at Janet and frowned. “How do you think? I only have half my team.”
“I have the police issuing citations for truancy as we speak. They’ll be back for the game.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The students went from subdued to excited. The noise level increased. Janet looked around the room. The air felt charged with anticipation. Something hit the back of Janet’s head, not hard. She turned around. A dinner roll was on the floor near her. She scanned the audience. Students suppressed their smiles and laughter. Another roll hit her in the back of the head. She whipped her head around, hoping to confront the offender. That’s when it erupted.
Someone shouted, “Food fight!”
Instantly, a barrage of food and half-full milk cartons flung from one end of the lunchroom to the other and vice versa. Janet and Bob stood in the middle of the melee, at ground zero. It happened so fast. The dinner rolls weren’t a problem, but the lasagna, open milk cartons, and Jell-O doused Janet and Bob, along with much of the student body.
CHAPTER 132
Gwen and Parental Consent
Gwen drove her Volkswagen back from Lebanon city and Mr. Ziegler’s office. He’d prepared a boilerplate nondisclosure agreement for Gwen to pick up, and he’d found an important phone number. She drove back to her apartment and dialed the number, the car still idling and pumping heat from the vents. She stayed in her car because she wanted total privacy, worried that Rick standing next to her and listening in might throw her off her game.
“This is Nathan Jameson,” the man answered.
“Hi, Mr. Jameson. This is Gwen Townsend. I was your daughter’s teacher—”
“How did you get this number?” He sounded annoyed.
“This is an emergency.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“Ashlee’s in a bit of trouble.” Gwen went on to tell him what Ashlee had done.
Nathan knew about Caleb’s death. Heather had hit him up for funeral expenses even though Caleb wasn’t his kid. But he didn’t know about Ashlee and Rick. He’d been out of the country on business over the past month. Something about a factory in Malaysia. But he wasn’t the least bit surprised. He sighed and said, “Like mother, like daughter.”
Gwen told him how she had planned to help Ashlee and Rick at the same time. But she needed Nathan’s help. Ashlee was a minor and needed parental consent to enter into a legally binding contract.
“Ashlee hasn’t even agreed to this?” Nathan asked.
“She will,” Gwen replied. “I’m going to talk to her right now.”
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“I got to know her quite well through her writing. She has a logical business side. I imagine she takes after you in that regard. And, like you, I think she’ll see the benefit of participating.”
“Is this something I can do remotely?”
“I think it would be better if you were here.”
“I really don’t have time for this today.”
“Mr. Jameson. We’re talking about your daughter. She’s standing on the precipice.”
He blew out a heavy breath. “Call me if she agrees. I’m not making the trip unless Ashlee’s on board.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jameson
.”
Gwen disconnected the call and walked up to her apartment. She had Rick sign one of the nondisclosure agreements. He wanted to come with her, but she reminded him that they’ll catch more bees with honey. Then she drove toward West Lake High School, hopeful to get there before dismissal.
The student parking lot was only half-full, the strike reducing the number of parked vehicles. Gwen parked with a good view of Ashlee’s Jeep and waited, rehearsing her plan in her mind.
Half an hour later, students spilled from the school, entering their economy cars and beat-up trucks, and driving from the lot entirely too fast. Ashlee walked alone to her Jeep, her head bowed and covered by the hood of her jacket. Gwen followed her as she drove away from school.
Ashlee drove the short distance from school to her mother’s double-wide trailer. She parked her Jeep along the street. Gwen drove past, scouting the house. The carport was empty, meaning Heather Miles wasn’t home. Gwen drove past, turned around in a cul-de-sac, and returned to the trailer. She parked behind Ashlee’s Jeep and walked up to the front door, holding the manila folder filled with the nondisclosure agreements. Gwen knocked on the door several times. No answer. She knocked harder. Finally, Ashlee parted the curtains and looked from the window.
Ashlee spoke through the door. “What do you want?”
“I want to help you,” Gwen said. “I know kids at school have been bullying you, and I know the comments on Facebook have been really awful.”
“Like you give a shit. People keep calling me a liar and a whore on your page.”
“I’m sorry about that. It’s not right. I deleted the posts that called you a whore.”
“What about all the posts calling me a liar, saying that I ruined Rick’s life?”
“People are angry that you lied—”
“Fuck you. I didn’t lie.”
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