Hero-Type

by Barry Lyga

  "What do you mean?" I ask, all fake innocent.

  He holds up a copy of the Web printout. "Hero or villain? Which is it?"

  Fam goes ahead and hugs me quickly, then moves to Flip's side. "Leave him alone, Joey. He's having a bad day. Can't you tell?"

  Flip grimaces at the use of his real name. "He should have thought of that before he decided to piss all over the troops." But then he shrugs. "Not that I care. There might be something to this..." And he leans back on the desk and goes off into Flip-space, where he can think about such things.

  I shake my head. Fam gives me that dog-to-the-vet pity look again, and I can't handle it. But I guess it's better to be here and getting the pity look from her than to be in the lunchroom and getting pelted by flying utensils, right?

  Tit shows up and that's it—Speedo and Jedi must not have been able to slip away. "You're having an interesting day," Tit says, because Tit has a black belt in understatement.

  "Tell me about it. What the hell, man? Why are people so pissed? It's not like I did anything."

  "Beats me. What are you gonna do about it?"

  I throw my hands up in the air. "How can I do something about it when I don't know what the big deal is in the first place?" My voice goes all high and cracky, which I hate, but I can't help it. "I can't believe people actually care about this!"

  Fam pipes up. "Maybe you could—"

  "Hey!" Flip sits up. "Some quiet, please! Genius at work. Heavy thinking going on here!"

  "Sorry."

  I enjoy my respite from the halls of South Brook as long as I can, but eventually I have to leave.

  The rest of the day is just hellish. No one confronts me directly, but I hear mumblings and mutterings everywhere I go. And no one is giving me the worshipful hero look anymore. I don't get it. I can't believe people are so worked up!

  The burnouts and the band geeks and the goth kids are the only ones not ganging up on me, which doesn't help at all because I don't fit in with any of those people.

  This doesn't make sense. None of it makes any sense. They're magnets, for God's sake!

  "Not everyone hates you, Kross," Speedo tells me at one point during the day. "It's just that the people who do hate you are really loud and the people who don't hate you just don't give a crap at all, so they're not gonna rush to defend you."

  "Thanks for the good news."

  Speedo doesn't catch the sarcasm. "No problem, buddy." He punches my shoulder. "See ya."

  I try reading the story from the school paper, but it's just a mishmash of stupid. Stuff about how everyone thought I was a hero, but can one good deed wipe out what is clearly a deep character flaw and stuff like that and let me tell you: I know I've got deep character flaws. I mean, I've got character flaws like the Grand Canyon, but what's the big deal about tossing those magnets?

  It's funny, because if they knew the truth about me ... I guess if they knew the truth, they'd hate me for the right reason, not the wrong one.

  At the end of the day, when I get to the parking lot, there are about a million freakin' magnetic ribbons on my car. Poetic justice or general cluelessness? Who knows?

  When I get home, voice mail is jam-packed with reporters. Real reporters, not idiots from school. There's a guy from the Lowe County Times—the same guy who interviewed me after the thing with the Surgeon—and he's all freaky on the message. And then there's the Baltimore Sun, and I start to think, What the hell? Did nothing else happen in the world today?

  Everyone wants a piece of me again. They want to "discuss your political beliefs" and "get inside your head" and find out "why you've chosen now to expound on your leftist ideology" and stuff like that.

  I didn't know I had a leftist ideology. All of this over some strips of magnetic ... stuff. Whatever those ribbons are made of.

  "Is this some kind of joke?" Dad asks. He's looking out the window at my car, which is still brown, but not that you can tell with that swarm of yellow, red, white, and blue all over it. "Didn't I tell you to get rid of those things?"

  "Dad, do you even listen to voice mail?"

  "Don't change the topic."

  "I'm not! Everyone in the whole world thinks I hate America!"

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "Dad, they want to interview me about it."

  Dad blinks at me, like it's a totally alien concept. "You're in high school, Kevin. Trust me—nothing terrible is going to happen."

  "Dad!"

  "Did you do anything wrong?"

  "No."

  "Is anyone shooting at you? Trying to blow you up?"

  Jeez! When you put it that way..."No, Dad, but—"

  "Then don't worry. It'll pass. Just deal with it."

  I can't believe it! I can't believe he's that clueless! I mean, yeah, I understand that when he was a little bit older than me, he had people shooting at him and trying to blow him up, but still.

  "Compared to that," he goes on, "you're just—"

  The phone interrupts him and Dad picks it up. "Hello? What? No. He has no comment. I don't care. Uh-huh. Lose this number." And hangs up.

  "Who was that?"

  He shrugs. "The Washington Post."

  "Washington Post!" Holy crap, this has gone national!

  "Or Washington Times. one or the other. There are bigger things to worry about than this, Kevin. The war. The economy. The environment. College."

  I get the feeling he could go on all day listing things for me to stress about, but then he actually yawns, as if his son being assaulted by the media happens every single day and he's bored with it all.

  "I have to go to bed. Now get rid of those things. I want you to think for yourself, not like the rest of the sheep."

  "You don't want me to support the troops?"

  He pauses halfway to the bedroom door. I can almost see the conflict in the set of his shoulders. He turns back to me. "You think putting a stupid magnet on your car supports the troops? Do you? Because I thought you were smarter than that. Putting a magnet on your car does nothing for the troops. They're still over there, still dying."

  "Well, what am I supposed to do about it?"

  Which, hey, shuts him up for a second. Now, if it was anyone else's dad, I would think that maybe I'd scored a point or two, but it's my dad, so he's probably shut up just long enough to actually figure out what I'm supposed to do about it.

  He looks like he's going to say something, but then he shakes his head. "Just ... Just get rid of those magnets, Kevin."

  Which is a total cop-out as far as I'm concerned, but I'm not an adult, so I don't get a vote.

  Chapter 14

  Meet the Press

  MY CAR SITS THERE IN THE DRIVEWAY, covered with those magnets.

  So, like, I wonder who gets all the money for those things? And do they do anything good with it, like give it to a veterans' charity, or do they just pocket it? And I never really thought about it before Dad brought it up, but...

  How stupid is it to pin all your patriotic fervor on a magnet? On something temporary that can be removed and replaced at will. Even an actual bumper sticker is kinda cheesy, when you think about it. Want to brag about going to a theme park or that your kid's a stud athlete? Sure, a bumper sticker's the way to go. Kind of weak for matters of life and death, though.

  It seems like someone got the magnet idea and they just went to town and everyone else followed along like sheep, like sheep following more sheep, everyone putting those things on because everyone else is putting them on and that's supposed to, I don't know, supposed to ease their consciences or something.

  Man, I hate it when Dad's right. It messes with my world.

  So I start to pull the magnets off. First I look around to make sure there aren't any school reporters lurking in the bushes or ready to pop up from the sewer or anything. Not that it matters anymore. The damage has been done, and it's not like I'm not used to being in the paper at this point. People can't hate me any more than they already do.

  Man, I'm really
riding the fame roller coaster, huh?

  I've got a nice little pile of about twenty-five magnets when someone walks up to me. I sorta kinda recognize him; he's the reporter for the Lowe County Times. Bill Something-or-Other. He interviewed me after the whole thing with the Surgeon. He was pretty cool, so I kinda give him a little half smile, but his expression is greedy and hungry.

  "Here we are again," he says, his voice tight. "Want to talk?"

  Crap. He wants to talk about the ribbons. Just like all the idiots on voice mail. Hell, he was one of the idiots on voice mail.

  "No comment, dude."

  "Come on, kid. What are you scared of?" He thrusts a tape recorder into my face.

  "Hey, watch it," I tell him, pushing the recorder away.

  "What are you afraid of? The truth? Afraid to show the world your true face, Mr. Hero?"

  He comes down on the "hero" part really sarcastically. I don't get it. Right after I stopped the Surgeon, this guy was so far up my butt he could have given me a dental exam. And now it's like I'm an enemy of the state or something.

  I shrug and keep peeling ribbons off my car.

  "Why do you hate this country?" he asks.

  "Man, what is with you?"

  "Come on, Ross. Talk to me. Give me an exclusive."

  I stare at him. "You're kidding, right? Have you heard how you're talking to me? Why should I help you?"

  He shrugs. "It's win-win. I get the interview. You get a platform for your beliefs."

  "Oh, yeah, because the Loco is such a great platform." The Loco is what we call the Lowe County Times.

  "Are you kidding me? With this story, with an exclusive? I could go to the Sun. Maybe higher. Maybe get it put out on the AP or something."

  Oh. Now I get it. I'm his ticket to the bigtime. I see.

  "So come on, kid." Greedy eyes. "Why did you throw away those ribbons?"

  The easy answer would be "My dad made me do it," but I'm not ducking like that. Tell the truth, I don't want to see a new headline that reads: Local "Hero" Actually Big Wuss.

  When I don't say anything, he shoves the recorder at me again. "I know how you 'heroes' work. I've been covering people like you for years. I know all about your father's past. You want to see that in the paper?"

  What? What about my father's past? I want to ask him, but even I have the brain power to know that that's a bad idea. So instead I just keep my mouth shut.

  "Apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?" he goes on.

  "Dude, totally shut up about my father, OK?" I can't help myself.

  "Why? Did I push a button?"

  "Man, you really think what I do with some cheap magnets is more important than stopping someone from getting raped and killed?"

  "See, that's the problem, Ross. You don't get it. You don't get why the rest of us hate people like you. It's because of a little something called patriotism. You don't see it. People like you. People like your dad. People who want to outlaw the Pledge. People who think it's OK to burn the flag. You can say they're just magnets, but you know damn well they're more than that. They symbolize something."

  I look down at the stack of symbols in my hands. "I guess I don't get it."

  "You need to support the troops."

  "How do magnets support the troops? Seriously. Look." I slap one of the ribbons back on the car. "There. Did some kind of magic energy wave just fly off overseas and wrap a soldier in a force field or something?" I slap on another one. "There. Did a bomb just not go off somewhere?"

  "You're a little smart aleck. Aren't you proud to be an American?"

  "Well ... yeah. Sure. I guess I just don't feel the need to tell everybody."

  He sniffs and nods at the pile in my hands. "What are you going to do with them?"

  "Give them a deserving home." And I hand them right to him, shoving them at his chest. His hands come up by reflex and he takes them from me without even thinking, which is awesome.

  "Make sure you read the paper in the morning," he snarls.

  Oh, great. But I'm not going to let him know he got to me. I grin, throw him a salute, and head back inside.

  Chapter 15

  Love it, Leave it

  UGH. WHEN WILL I LEARN TO KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT?

  Next day, I wake up and look at the newspaper and there's Reporter Guy's byline in the Loco, right over a story about me and right under a headline that says, Local "Hero" Unmasked. I can't even bring myself to read it.

  If I thought that this ribbon thing would just go away, not only am I a moron, but I'm also a moron brought right back down to earth very fast. Mrs. Mac is watering the azaleas next to the porch as I head to the car in the morning, and she gives me a brief snort. Great—now even old ladies are pissed at me.

  "They said you're a hero on the TV," she says. "Now I'm not so sure."

  Lady, I agree with you, I want to say, but don't.

  On the way to school, I try not to think about the Loco and the school paper and all of that, but Reporter Guy's words from last night keep echoing in the empty chamber I call my head. He was talking about going national with this, maybe. That's the last thing I need. Could Justice! take back my reward? Man, that would suck. I've gotten used to having this car, and I've only had it a couple of days!

  But worse than that is what could happen if someone learned the truth about that day at the library. About me catching the Surgeon. I think of my tape of Leah, how I captured her on video at the Burger Joint and she didn't even know. How I watch it over and over, looking for something new every time.

  What if someone else has done the same thing to me? What if someone out there taped my appearance on Justice! and is watching it over and over and over again, until the truth about that comes out? I don't know how that could happen, but that's what I worry about. Someone mean and smart, like Reporter Guy, watching me fidget and lie on TV until he figures it all out.

  I'm sweating all of a sudden. The air conditioning is blasting cold air all over me, but I'm still sweating.

  School sucks as much today as it did yesterday. I'm an outcast. I bump into a senior in the hall and mumble, "Excuse me," and he just shoves me against the lockers. Hard.

  His friends laugh. Two weeks ago, I might have said something, but now? Now I know that there's absolutely no one in this hallway who would take my side, and way too many people who would be happy to jump in and help pummel me into paste.

  In homeroom, I keep my head down. There's a buzz of conversation and I know it's about me.

  "My dad's in the Reserve," someone says, just loud enough that I can hear it. I look up—it's John Riordon, the only sophomore on the varsity football team. He's big and tough the way lions are big and tough.

  "He better hope I don't catch him dissing the troops," Riordon goes on, talking to Samantha Riggs but watching me the whole time. "Because if I do, there's gonna be hell to pay."

  OK, got it. Don't diss troops in front of John Riordon, else hell to pay. That is now filed away in my brain under the category THINGS TO REMEMBER—URGENT!!!!

  The morning announcements start and we all rise for the Pledge. My stomach isn't just in knots—it's in one of those special U.S. Navy knots that gets tighter and tighter the more you try to untangle it.

  I don't want to open my mouth to say the Pledge because I'm honestly terrified that my breakfast will come out. And that makes me think of Reporter Guy and his whole deal last night about people who want to ban the Pledge, and that makes me a syllable behind everyone else as we launch into...

  I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

  Whew! Got through it. I even managed to catch up so that I finished with everyone else. Score one for me.

  But John Riordon gives me a nasty look as we all sit down for the announcements, and I know that my one point means nothing. Because the opposing team has a million of them, and on that score, I'll never
catch up.

  School's a blur for me. I just can't seem to focus. I'm still sweating a little bit, still nauseated enough that I skip lunch. I don't want to be around anyone, not even the Council, so I go to the media center and find a computer tucked away in a corner and just stay there.

  The computers in the media center have the school paper's website as the homepage, so the first thing I see is a story about how my ribbon-trashing has now made the Loco. A student reporter interviews Reporter Guy and Reporter Guy says that he plans to pursue the story "for a state and national audience. Right now, the American public thinks Kevin Ross is a hero. They deserve to know how their 'hero' thinks."

  I wonder: Did he put "hero" in air-quotes or did the kid interviewing him just add that in there?

  And by the way: What the hell? What's up with a reporter interviewing a reporter? Is that what you do when there's no real news?

  I slump down in my seat. Mrs. Grant, the school librarian, comes by and sees what I'm looking at. She pats me on my shoulder.

  "Don't let it get to you, Kevin. Something else will get everyone's attention in a few days and then it'll all be over."

  "I guess."

  "Trust me."

  "Thanks, Mrs. Grant."

  But I know it's not true. I'll always be the Kid Who Hates the Troops. People might stop talking about it, but they won't forget something like that.

  I guess it could be worse. I mean, I guess I could be one of those people like Reporter Guy said—the people who want to ban the Pledge and stuff. Why would anyone even want to do that?

  My curiosity gets the better of me: I start Googling around.

  And I learn some interesting stuff. Stuff about the Pledge. Stuff I'd never even thought of before. Stuff no one ever bothered to teach me. Why did I have to learn this on my own?

  It's weird—you do something almost every day of your life, for as long as you can remember. And everyone else does it, too, but no one talks about it. No one knows how it started. No one wonders. It's just a minute at the beginning of every school day, when we all get up and do the same thing without even thinking about it.