by Cody Wagner
By the time we reached the exercise field, our feet were crunching in the snow. Mom reached into her purse and pulled out two hats and handed them to me and Molly. Leave it to her to come prepared. She was a regular Mary Poppins. But I didn’t make fun; it was bitter cold, and I took the hat without question and pulled it over my frozen ears.
I decided to show them the field to impress them with stories of my athleticism. However, when we stepped onto the asphalt track, everything went to hell.
I found Luke with what had to be his parents—they were both good-looking and well dressed. His father’s finger was in his face and he shook furiously. Something was obviously wrong, so I said, “I’m getting cold. Wanna see the gym?”
Suddenly, Luke’s father shoved him back and screamed, “YOU’RE STILL ROOMING WITH THAT BOY?!”
Luke trembled as he tried to hold himself together. Normally, I might have been OK with a situation that made Luke uneasy. But I was horrified for him. I knew for a fact couples weren’t allowed to room together; Luke and Darrin even lived on different floors from what I’d heard. So what had happened? I wondered if maybe his parents found a picture of them together and Luke lied—better to have a questionable roommate than a boyfriend.
It didn’t seem to matter to his father, who grabbed Luke by the collar and shook him. Luke’s head bounced around as his father yelled, “YOU HAVE NO POWER, YOU UNDERSTAND ME? I CAN DO WHATEVER I WANT TO YOU!”
He threw Luke backwards. Luke yelped and crashed into the snow, landing flat on his back. My bones ached for him, but I was desperate to run away, before Mom and Dad got involved.
Too late.
Brushing off his hands, Luke’s father noticed us watching and, face flushing with anger, turned on us.
“You got a freaking problem?”
OK, first off, he didn’t say, “freaking.” Second, his eyes were crazy and bugged out. He looked so insane, Luke remained motionless on the ground.
My dad protectively stepped in front of us, while Mom, oblivious to the tension, puffed up and said, “Well I don’t think that’s a respectful way to talk to your child.”
If there’s anything Luke’s father didn’t want, it was a scolding. He barreled towards us, fists balled. Were he and my dad going have it out on the practice field? Worse, was he going to rat out the school? My legs stiffened with fear as I peeked at my family. I had never seen my dad fight and, honestly, didn’t think he had a chance. Regardless, he pushed us back and threw his hands up.
“Let’s be adults about this,” he said to Luke’s father.
“Are you telling me how to raise my son?”
“No,” my dad said. “I’m trying to set a good example for our children.”
“So, I’m not a good father,” he said.
This was crazy. We had seen the guy for two seconds and he was losing it for no reason. I didn’t think there was a single person, other than Luke’s father, who wasn’t confused. Even his mother shrank back in fear, although she said nothing.
Thank goodness Coach Adkins stepped in to bail us out.
Just as Luke’s father raised his fists like a boxer, Adkins sidled in. He put an arm around Luke’s father and whispered in his ear for a long time. Luke’s father squinted at Adkins as if he wasn’t sure he believed him, but slowly turned and walked back to his wife. Reaching out a strong, hairy hand, Adkins hefted Luke up and the small group began a quiet conversation.
Seeing our chance for escape, I dragged my parents to the gym. On the way, they exchanged worried glances, and I assumed they were questioning the whole situation. My entire body was shaking. This was the exact situation I had nightmares about. I didn’t want to get involved, but felt I had to say something.
“That guy and his best friend are the biggest bullies here.” I looked at my mom. “Remember the Jackson twins?” Of course she’d remember. They terrorized my middle school and almost broke my nose in seventh grade. Mom had raised a stink about them and, now comparing them to Luke, she shuddered. I nodded at her and said, “They’re worse and I hope they get expelled.”
I held my breath.
Mom stared back at Luke. After several tense seconds, her shoulders relaxed.
I resisted the urge to pat myself on the back; any motion probably would have made me pee my pants. Still, I was glad to make it out unscathed. And my story wasn’t a complete lie. Luke and Darrin were jerks. However, I didn’t necessarily want them expelled. Especially after seeing the way Luke’s father treated him. I’m sure there was some psychology around why Luke acted the way he did, but it was beyond me and I let it go.
As soon as we were in the gym, I tried to lighten the remaining tension the only way I knew how: exercise and diversion. Running to the ball rack, I grabbed a basketball and, together, we all played a game of H-O-R-S-E. It was actually fun. Molly had been practicing, and her shots could reach the rim now. Mom, on the other hand, was as klutzy as ever. At one point, she hurled a layup, and the ball hit the bottom of the backboard and bounced off the top of her head.
The rest of the day went reasonably well, too. Molly and I tried making snowmen, but the snow was so mushy, we ended up creating “snow mounds.” Mom pulled out her phone and took pictures of us goofing around. True-to-form, she made us take so many, we got frustrated and half of them were of us looking dejectedly at the camera, telling her to stop.
That evening, everyone ate together in the cafeteria as sort of a group bonding thing. I sat us in the farthest corner, a few seats from the nearest family. Naturally, Mom got a kick out of the weirdly named food. She especially liked “Cleansing Corn” and began thinking of her own ideas.
”I can’t wait to make . . . um . . . Cleansing Cabbage.”
Dad kissed her cheek. “Great idea, honey.”
Molly and I looked at each other and I crossed my eyes. The thought of eating her creations at home was agony. It was OK, though, because Molly began calling her food “Stupid Spaghetti” and “Butt Bread”.
After loading up a plate, Jimmy joined us. Mom was visibly wary meeting my roommate. But he was so goofy and disarming, like a dumpy little elf, she quickly warmed to him. I noticed his crazy stories were in full swing. Apparently, his father couldn’t make it because he was undercover in Mongolia.
Funnily enough, Mom knew a lot about Mongolia, and began questioning him. He had no idea what she was talking about, and finally answered, “It’s secret stuff so he doesn’t tell me a lot about it.” I smiled into my “Pontific Potatoes”.
Fifteen minutes later, Cassie entered, alone and upset. I excused myself and ran to join her in the line.
“Are you OK?”
“Fine.”
“Where are you parents?”
She paused for a second, then said, “They said everything appeared acceptable and left.”
I frowned. “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
I wanted to ask more questions (“What exactly does that mean? Don’t they care about you?”) but I was worried I’d say something insulting, so I just invited her to eat with us. She graciously accepted and I deliberately placed her next to Molly. They immediately hit it off. My parents seemed to like her as well. Her practicality and intelligence shone through as she offered information about my “progress”.
As if that weren’t enough, Cassie led my parents to our room after dinner, and pulled out spreadsheets with my name on them. As she fanned the papers on the desk, I gaped at the work she had done. She’d put together data on what I’d been doing since school started. It included healing updates, grades, studying habits, and cleansing meditation reports (which, considering my late-night exercises, weren’t entirely false).
Looking at Cassie’s efforts, something hit me. I’d done absolutely nothing to help her out. Or anyone else. What if Cassie’s parents had talked to me? Other than an idiotic, “She’s healing!” I didn’t have anything substantial ready. I felt very selfish as Cassie showed my parents a chart showing estimated healing projections.
When she finished, my parents were extremely impressed and thanked her. Molly, on the other hand, backed away from Cassie like she’d turned into a giant centipede. Cassie noticed but didn’t get upset. She turned her back to Molly and kept talking to my parents.
What was that about?
I inched closer to Molly and she leaned against my leg. Feeling a sudden need to change the subject, I blurted, "Wanna go to the lobby?"
Molly was eager to leave; the spreadsheets seemed like poison to her. Before anyone could object, she ran to the door, yanked it open, and stepped out. I looked at Cassie, who flashed me a glance that said, We’ll talk later.
The lobby was half-full when we entered, with random families scattered around. Trying to avoid the healing video games, I led them to the coffee table, where a group of students talked about game night. I smiled and told my parents about it.
“How wholesome,” Mom said.
Before I could brag about my Pictionary victories, I heard noises from the TV and turned. I didn’t think anything of it, until students began shifting around and eying each other. One even made to change the channel, when a parent said, “No, leave it on.” Curious, I turned to watch.
I’d never understood the saying “my blood turned cold,” but, as I took a few steps toward the television, I stiffened as if freezing. A familiar woman reporter on the screen stood in front of a bunch of people with signs. Beneath her scrolled the words Zimmerman's Zealots Stage Another Protest. I wanted to grab my parents and drag them from the room. This was the last thing I needed. But the TV sucked us all in like a black hole.
According to the reporter, Senator McCall, a proponent of rights for gay couples, had passed away. Again, Zimmerman's Zealots had come to protest. And, like before, it was more a celebration than a protest. They danced in the street and twirled each other around. I didn’t think it was possible, but their signs were even more insulting.
The room went horribly still. We teetered on a mountain and the smallest squeak of a shoe might set off an avalanche.
"What jerks."
It was Molly, triggering the landslide.
“Serves him right,” a smug guy said.
“Death isn’t something to celebrate,” a woman said, crossing her arms.
“Neither is being gay.”
Within seconds, the entire room was in an uproar. Actually, let me correct that. The grownups were in an uproar. The students watched in horror, unable to take action. Nothing in Wolcott’s speech prepared us for something like this. How could it?
One guy’s father became so angry, he yanked a poster off the wall, and made his own protest sign (“He deserved death!”). Another woman tried tearing it up, and the father ran around the room with a pen, keeping his back to her as she clawed at the paper.
The bickering grew into shoving fights. Talk about insane. People who’d seemed perfectly rational minutes ago were pushing and yelling at each other. A few others ripped posters from the walls and made their own signs. Cassie walked around the room as if watching a science experiment gone awry.
Staring at the chaos, I got angry—normal people supported Zimmerman’s Zealots? I’d told myself that only backwoods people—and high school jocks—were part of the group. I wanted to stand and scream at the idiots, but couldn’t. That might jeopardize the school (or, more importantly, my future at the school). A familiar whimper hit me. Molly. Growling, I spun, fists raised. She was alone, huddling in the corner, staring at me.
As pens began flying around the room, I jumped to Molly and stuck out a hand. She seized it and, lifting her on my shoulder, I pulled her from the room; fleeing was safer than fighting. The other students followed suit. By the time I was ten feet down the hall, every kid was lined up behind me. It’s like we were collectively escaping Alcatraz.
The lobby quieted the instant we left. I wasn’t sure what that was about. Did the grownups realize how ridiculous they looked? Or maybe they questioned our leaving? Did they wonder if we weren’t healing properly? The thought made my stomach hurt as I led Molly back to the room and, together, we climbed up into my bed. I could hear Cassie panting below me.
“What’s wrong?” Jimmy asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” Cassie said.
A few minutes later, light from the hallway filled the room as our door eased open. Inching inside, my parents looked at each other then back at me. I peeked at them without turning my head.
“Blaize,” my dad said. “Why did you just leave like that?”
I wanted to say, Because if you made a poster, I was going to lose it. Honestly, I felt I deserved to know their position on the matter. But the situation was too tense to get into it. The problem was, I couldn’t think of what to say. Luckily, Cassie came to my rescue.
“Because adults shouldn’t fight like that. No one should. It’s a terrible example to set for kids.”
I noticed she deftly avoided any opinion on Zimmerman’s Zealots.
My mother, the consummate know-it-all, nodded her head.
“You’re right. Fighting isn’t the way to solve problems. We should have escorted you out.”
She wasn’t one to apologize, so I took that as I’m sorry.
No one really knew what to say after that so, riding a wave of awkwardness, we all stared at each other for awhile, until my family said how tired they were and left for their hotel room.
“We’ll see you in the morning.” Mom came over and hugged me. So did Molly. Dad kept his distance and stuck out a hand again. Ugh.
Staring at the door after they’d gone, I reflected on the crazy incident, putting my parents in every possible scenario. When I imagined them making a poster that read, I hate my son, it brought back all the hurt I’d experienced months ago at the funeral with my ex-best friend Kyle. I’d been pushing those feelings away but, after what just happened, it felt like someone scraped all those scabs with sandpaper.
Lying there, rocking back and forth in my bed, I decided I deserved answers.
Before my cowardly side could talk me out of it, I raced to the foyer and approached a white phone sitting on a small round table near the video games. The thing had a long, curly cord connecting the phone to the base. How old is this? I pushed the thought away; that’s the sort of thing my wussy side did to distract me.
Sitting on a black plastic chair next to the phone, I dialed Kyle’s number.
One ring.
Two rings.
My nervous, sweaty hand almost dropped the phone.
Someone answered. “Hello?”
I jumped in my chair hearing Kyle’s voice.
“Hey.”
I heard him catch his breath.
“Yeah?” His voice was stony.
I pulled the phone away and stared at the receiver. First he went crazy at the protest, then he didn’t say a thing when his best friend vanished. Now he responded like I was a salesman. All fear vanished and I heard myself say, “Why did you do it?”
“What?” he said, matching my intensity.
“You know what. At the funeral.”
A brief silence engulfed us.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Then let me refresh your memory. You blew off your uncle’s funeral to go raise signs saying he deserved to die.” I yanked the cord. It stretched out and ricocheted back at my leg. “Hmmmm, I think that pretty much sums it up.”
“Why do y’all keep saying that?”
“Because it’s what you did.”
“Dude, that freaking story’s jacked my family up.” His hurt emanated through the phone. “Why are you lying?”
I leaned closer to the small table.
“So you really don’t remember abandoning your mom, walking over to the protesters, and joining them?” I got louder. “You don’t remember Ryan and Justin coming over and . . . ” I trailed off, realizing I didn’t want to talk about the brochure. The last thing I needed was to get into the whole gay thing.
&n
bsp; “No!” he insisted, like he’d denied the story a million times.
I was speechless. How could he really expect me to believe I imagined everything?
“So what did happen?”
“We went to the funeral,” he said, without hesitation.
“Then tell me about it.” I admit I wore a self-satisfied smile at that one.
Kyle paused.
I went to say, “Ha!” when he spoke.
“I don’t really remember. It was a hard day. I remember walking to the church. We saw the protesters. Then we heard that chant telling us to join them. After that, everything was a blur. It’s just, a lot of stuff happened. But I didn’t join the damn protest.”
I slammed my hand against the wall. “I’ve seen you on video!”
“What?”
“On video. I’ve seen it. You joining the protest.”
“Lies.”
I smirked. “Want me to send it to you?”
“Screw off.”
I figured a talk with Kyle would give me some closure in the friend department. Instead, it tore me open with questions. Was Kyle really such a liar, he believed his story? Or was he such a jerk, he expected me to believe it? Or was something weird going on I just didn’t understand? Either way, I was done with the conversation.
“I gotta go,” I said.
“If you want me to apologize for whatever you think I did, I will.”
The statement caught me off guard; Kyle never apologized.
With as much sincerity as I could muster, I said, “I want you to apologize because you feel bad.”
“I can’t feel bad for something I didn’t do.”
I yelled, “I have proof! You have nothing!”
I heard a slam on the other end. “You’re the one who went off to a private school without telling me.”
I stared at the phone. “Blame shifting? Whatever. Bye.”
