by Cody Wagner
Toward the end of the evening, when we engaged in a really heated All-Play—Roze and I were scribbling “Shoe laces”—some kids at the TV shushed us. Roze paused the game by putting the hourglass on its side and stood up.
“Excuse me, this is the common area. If you want quiet, go back to your room.”
One of the kids, a girl with a really high hairline, wasn’t intimidated. She stood up and said, “Zimmerman’s Zealots are protesting again.”
Cassie pushed herself up and raced to the screen. I stared after her and turned to Roze. She seemed impressed by the other girl’s sass, but kept the attitude on her face as she followed Cassie and sat down. Jimmy did that thing where he pretended not to pay attention. He pulled out some cards and began drawing, but I could see him eying the Zealots. I inched over to Roze, my legs stiffening like a corpse.
When I reached the TV, a news camera panned across a familiar crowd of people holding signs. Like before, the group was comprised mainly of men who looked like they’d just returned from a hunting trip. The number of people blew me away. There must have been five hundred losers! They shouted curse words the station tried to bleep out.
How many crazies are in the world?
The camera moved to a woman holding a microphone. She stood about fifty yards in front of the protesters. A banner below her name read ‘Ashley Montgomery—Field Reporter.’
“As you can see here, Zimmerman’s Zealots are back,” she said.
“Zimmerman’s Zealots?” The question was posed by a man back at the station.
“Yes. Zimmerman’s Zealots are a newer anti-gay group. They claim random acts are punishments for homosexuality.”
A man with a huge comb-over darted by and yanked the microphone from Montgomery’s hand.
“They aren’t random acts,” he drawled. “She deserved to die.”
Montgomery glared at him and grabbed for her microphone. The camera rattled around as the cameraman moved to get involved. The loser dropped the microphone and ran off, whooping. Montgomery took a step, like she wanted to chase him down. But she stopped, smoothed down her slacks, and picked up the microphone.
“Sorry about that, Doug.”
“They’re definitely passionate.”
“That they are,” she said, frowning.
“So who, exactly, deserved to die?”
“Apparently, they are referring to two-year-old Melissa Bailey. She was raised by Bill and Joel Bailey, a gay couple in Massachusetts. A year ago, she was diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia. She passed away last week.”
“And Zimmerman’s Zealots think she deserved to die?” asked Doug.
“Yes,” said Ashley.
My hands balled into fists. “They think a little girl deserved to die because her parents are gay?”
Cassie didn’t look back at me, but nodded. Her eyes were wide and glued to the TV. I was gaping myself and wanted to kick the screen. Protesting Kyle’s grown uncle was one thing, but a little kid?
I wasn’t the only enraged person. Roze gripped the couch like she was strangling comb-over guy. I think everyone here would have helped her.
The camera flashed back to the crowd. Jerks danced around in a circle, shouting, “That’s what you get.” A few men high-fived each other and traded signs. Zimmerman’s Zealots weren’t just protesting the child’s death, they were ecstatic about it.
I couldn’t watch anymore. I flew back to the table and tried watching Jimmy draw, but my mind was on fire.
How could something like Zimmerman’s Zealots exist today? Wasn’t homosexuality winning the war? And how could anyone rejoice the death of a baby?
Memories of Kyle and his dad invaded and I slammed the Pictionary board. Pieces went flying across the room. Jimmy jerked back and yelled, “Hey!”
Cassie and Roze walked over, and Roze lightly punched my shoulder as Cassie placed the stray game pieces back onto the coffee table.
“I have to talk to Molly,” I said. “Now.”
Without a word, Cassie held out her phone. I grabbed it and walked outside, dialing the number to home.
I’d thought about calling Molly several times. I figured that, without me, my parents might convince her I had an evil side. She needed me (or maybe I needed her), and seeing Zimmerman’s Zealots kicked me into high gear. The last thing I needed was to see her at a protest.
Groaning at the thought, I pressed my ear against the phone.
After a few rings, Mom answered.
“Hello, who is this?” Her voice was harsh, but I wasn’t surprised; she typically didn’t answer unknown numbers.
“It’s Blaize.”
I heard Mom catch her breath.
“Blaize, how are you honey?”
I wasn’t in the mood for casual chat.
“Fine. Hey, can I talk to Molly for a second?”
She paused. I didn’t know if she was surprised or unsure. However, after a few seconds, she said, “OK.” Then she yelled Molly’s name and I heard, “Coming!” from another room.
While we waited, Mom said, “Are you learning a lot, honey?”
I knew what she really meant and wanted to say, Please don’t ask if I’m being cured, but something hit me—I was supposed to be healing at Sanctuary. This was my chance to play the part, to ensure I’d be able to stay. Forcing some calm into my voice, I kept things vague by saying, “Yes, Mom. A ton!”
Just then, a boy walked by and yelled, “Healing!” into the phone. I covered the receiver and gaped at him. It was Matthew, our tour guide. He grinned at me then continued toward the older dorm. I laughed. The anger was still there, but I was so caught off-guard, I couldn’t help it. Luckily, Mom didn’t hear me crack up.
“That’s wonderful, honey. Maybe if you’re good, we’ll send you your phone. Or even your ‘Intendo.” I rolled my eyes but, before I could respond, she said, “Oh, here’s Molly.” After a brief pause, she added, “We love you, honey.”
“I love you, too.”
It wasn’t a lie. I did love them. I just hoped I wouldn’t see them at a Zimmerman’s Zealots protest anytime soon.
“Hello.”
The voice was quiet and withdrawn, but my heart jumped. I couldn’t believe how nice it was to hear Molly’s voice. Could she have changed in the past month? Could she already be on her way to judging me?
“Hi Molly.”
“Blaize?”
“Yep, it’s me, dork.”
She giggled but told me to shut up.
Our conversation went great. I decided to keep everything light. I didn’t need to preach at her; I just had to show her I was still the same kid who used to tell her ghost stories so she’d hide while I watched TV. We talked for almost an hour, and, before hanging up, I promised her (and myself) I’d ring her more often.
“Do you want to talk to Mom or Dad,” she asked, before ending the call.
“No.” It might have been rude, but I didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good talk. Thinking of an excuse, I said, “I’m on someone else’s phone and don’t want to use up her minutes. Tell them I love them, though.”
There, I kind of took the high road.
Eight
The Pumpkin Bash
The next morning, some guy from my algebra class mailed Zimmerman’s Zealots a stink bomb. A bunch of students jumped on board and, by the following week, packages were going out like crazy. Several boxes leaked, causing Wolcott to announce that all outgoing mail would be “personally sniffed by the sender.” The funny thing was, no one knew where to send the packages. It’s not like Zimmerman’s Zealots could be reached at 23 Zimmerman’s Zealots Road. I guess inventing empty threats made people feel better, which was fine by me.
I handled the situation in my own way. I searched YouTube, found the video Wolcott had shown me, and watched it over and over. Pausing where Wolcott did, I studied Kyle for what felt like hours. Honestly, I thought that, given enough time, I’d notice something important. Maybe a wad of cash shoved into his pocket as a br
ibe or dancing fairies egging him on. But I didn’t. There was nothing strange about Kyle, other than a gigantic zit visible from space. What had Jimmy seen?
Rubbing my eyes for the millionth time, I leaned back in my chair and thought about Wolcott and Jimmy both saying the situation had nothing to do with me. For the first time, I began to accept the fact they might be right. I’d been at school for two months and nothing had affected me directly—no Kyle coming to Sanctuary Prep with a homemade sign, no Zimmerman’s Zealots interrupting me in the bathroom, nothing. Besides, what was I expecting?
I decided to let it go.
A couple weeks before Halloween, something came up that helped take my mind off things. A lot.
It was a pumpkin, the biggest one I had ever seen. It randomly appeared, like a UFO, in the middle of the exercise field one day before gym. The thing had to weigh half a ton. It was so big, it couldn’t retain it’s roundness—it sagged on the ground like a full diaper.
Two lines had been drawn, each about twenty yards from the pumpkin. One was red and the other blue. I didn’t know what to think, so I approached the pumpkin warily. I mean, what if we had to drag it around the field during gym? That would have been awful. Cringing, I peeked around to see if there was a harness or anything attached. Luckily, there wasn’t.
As I poked it to see how firm it was, a few older students arrived and started whooping and cheering. Luke, Darrin, and Tracey gave me a look that said, You’re in trouble. I turned to Roze, who glared back at them.
“What is this?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I have no idea. A giant exercise ball?”
“That’s what I was thinking. But it’s huge!”
She approached the pumpkin and gave it a shove. The thing didn’t budge. Older students laughed and drew their fingers across their necks. What is up with this thing?
Adkins didn’t mention it, which made me even more curious. Weirder still, our class had nothing to do with the pumpkin so, after class, I hung back and badgered him. I figured it would be OK; we had a pretty good, albeit sparse, relationship. He was oddly impressed when I didn’t join Luke and Darrin. And he knew how hard I worked.
Unfortunately, he wouldn’t tell me a thing.
“You’ll find out soon enough, Trales.” He had a look that said he was done talking. I knew better than to push him, so I made one more pass around the pumpkin, looking for clues, before heading to the showers.
Throughout the rest of the day, I asked a few older students what it meant. They all smiled and shrugged, like I’d asked them for the square root of seventeen trillion. One girl—who was usually cool to me—just held her thumb down. It was driving me crazy. What was the deal with this stupid pumpkin?
“I actually have no idea,” said Cassie, in history. I figured if anyone knew, it would be her. She didn’t and I couldn’t blame her. How would she know about something this random and secretive?
After describing everything to her, we spent a few minutes speculating.
“Maybe we’re going to decorate it for Halloween,” Cassie said.
“Then why would the older dorm be so weird about it?”
“That’s true.” She thought for a second, then said, “So the pumpkin is in the middle of two lines?”
“Yep.”
“Sounds like a tug-o-war to me.”
“That’s an idea.”
“Seems a little boring.”
I agreed. The last time I did a tug-o-war was at my dad’s company picnic when I was six.
Cassie smiled.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s so obvious.”
“What?” I said, more urgently.
“Jimmy.”
“What about him?”
“He was here last year.”
I smacked myself on the forehead. “Of course.”
Waiting for dinner was so freaking hard that night. The older students laughed and made gestures at us all day. Even the teachers seemed to be more upbeat. But no one said a word. I guess it was a rule that we newbies remain in the dark.
After what felt like years, we walked into the cafeteria. I scanned for Jimmy when something else caught my eye. New posters hung on the walls all around the food. They were bright yellow and green, reading:
Campus Clean-up Day
Saturday, October 24th @ 8:00AM
Gloves and trash bags will be provided
Attendance is Mandatory
I groaned. This must be how they handled cleaning the grounds; put it on the students. It made sense—there was a lesson about cleanliness buried in there somewhere—but the thought of walking around picking up old socks didn’t sound like much fun.
“Great idea,” Cassie whispered.
I made a farting noise at her.
“I bet I fill more bags than you,” Roze said.
I grinned. “You’re on.” Any type of competition would make it more bearable.
After getting in line and throwing food onto my tray, I saw Jimmy at a table, waiting for us. He caught me looking and waved. I gripped my tray and ran over. Cassie took her sweet time getting food, and I was about to explode by the time she arrived.
When we were all situated, the three of us turned and stared at Jimmy. He grinned uncomfortably.
“What?”
“What’s the deal with the pumpkin?” I blurted.
The smile vanished and he poked at his hamburger.
“You know!” I said. When he didn’t respond, I added, “You have to tell us.”
Cassie leaned in. “It sounds so secretive.”
Jimmy shook his head. “It’s just the Halloween tradition.” He didn’t seem particularly thrilled about it.
“It’s a big tug-o-war, isn’t it?” Roze said.
“Kind of.” He didn’t offer up any more information.
“Geez, just tell us,” I said, shoving him.
“OK.” He grabbed his stomach like he was about to puke.Then, after pausing to look around, he whispered, “Campus Clean-up Day and the pumpkin actually go together.”
“They do?” I found myself whispering back.
“Yeah. The upper classmen fill their trash bags with the grossest things they can find. Old milk, rotten meat, socks. One guy even found a dead raccoon.”
Roze covered her mouth. “That’s disgusting. Why would they do that?”
“Because at the end of the day, all the trash we collect is dumped in the pumpkin.”
“What? Why?” I said, wondering if this was one of his dumb stories. I peeked at Roze, who looked a little queasy. Cassie appeared thoughtful, as always.
Leaning in even farther, Jimmy continued, “Starting that night, the Pumpkin Bash begins.”
“What’s that?” Roze asked.
“It’s a game. The red line on the field is ours.”
“Ours?” I said.
“Our dorm. The blue line is the older dorm. If the older dorm pushes the pumpkin past our line, they break the pumpkin and we have to clean it up.”
I wrinkled my nose. “You mean all the nasty food and stuff?”
He was turning green. “Yeah. And it’s all been rotting in the pumpkin. It’s really disgusting and takes forever.”
“When’s the tug-o-war?” Roze asked.
“There’s no date. The Pumpkin Bash starts the night of Campus Clean-up Day and you have a week.”
“Til Halloween,” Cassie said.
Jimmy nodded.
“I’m not sure I understand,” I said.
Jimmy paused to cut up his hamburger, which drove me crazy, but I didn’t say anything. After taking a bite, he went on. “A team can win at any time during that week. They just have to push the pumpkin across the line.”
“At any time? Like even the middle of the night?”
“Yeah. So both dorms post guards around the pumpkin 24/7. Two people from each dorm sign up for shifts around the clock.”
I started to understand and glanced down at my food, suddenly less hungry. The mac
aroni and cheese looked like a big pile of curdled milk. “So we have a week to push the pumpkin to their side? If we lose, we have to clean it up.”
“Exactly.”
“Can two people push the pumpkin by themselves?”
“They have before. Last year the older dorm slipped laxatives into one shift’s food. When the younger dorm was, um, taking care of business, two upper classmen pushed the pumpkin. That’s rare, though. From what I know, the dorm usually works as a team.”
“How do you know this? And about the laxative?”
Jimmy looked down. “Cuz I was one of the guards.”
That’s why he was so hesitant to talk about this. He lost the Pumpkin Bash last year. It didn’t sound like his fault, but I’m sure everyone blamed him.
“We can’t let that happen this year,” Roze said.
Cassie cleared her throat, very deliberately. We all looked at her.
“You’re not in our dorm, Roze.”
I jolted. Cassie was right. Because we hung out so much, I had grouped Roze with us. She had too, apparently. But she was in the older dorm.
I pushed away from her, like she’d been struck with a bad case of gas. Cassie shot me a scolding glare, but Roze took the same posture as me.
“I have to go,” she said, standing up. After she dropped off her plate, she looked at me. “You’re going down.”
“Have fun helping Luke and Darrin,” I retorted.
That caught her off-guard. Her eyes grew wide for a second, then she composed herself. “Better than cleaning road kill.” With that, she marched out the door.
“When does our dorm learn about all this?” I asked, jumping back to the Pumpkin Bash.
“Not til after the cleaning,” Jimmy said.
“So, we gather all this trash and then, from out of nowhere, are told to put it in the pumpkin?”
He nodded. “It’s sort of an initiation thing.”
“Not this year,” I said.
Normally, rousing the troops would not have been my thing. Going door-to-door made me feel like a salesman and I hated that stuff. I remember when I had to sell raffle tickets as a kid. It made me want to throw up, going to strangers asking them to buy stuff. I ended up burying the tickets into mud and telling my parents I sold them all. Going around the dorm to gather everyone felt about the same. But the spirit of competition did something to me. Anything to win.
