by Barry Lyga
"Dude. I'm trying to get people to think for themselves. You know? To stop doing what everyone else does just because everyone else does it. Or just because everyone has always done it."
"Why the hell do you care?"
I don't have an answer for that. I just do. Isn't that enough?
I try Speedo next. "You know what I've been thinking?" he says before I can even start to read my speech. "I think there should be ribbons ... for ribbons."
"What?"
"Yeah. Like ribbons for your car that say 'Ribbon Awareness' or 'Support the Ribbons,' you know? Wouldn't that be funny?"
"Dude, your tightie-whities are so tight they're cutting off the blood supply to your brain."
"I started wearing boxers this weekend," he informs me. "It's very strange that everything can breathe down there."
Ew.
"You need to chill," he says. "Everyone'll forget about all of this over the weekend anyway."
OK, so Speedo's no help.
Tit's my last call. He actually lets me read through the whole thing. Then he's quiet for a while before he says, "Kross, you sure you want to do this?"
"Why?"
I can almost hear him picking his words. "I mean, I get that you're doing this to impress Leah with how fearless you are, but—"
"That's not why I'm doing it!"
"Man, you've got a boner the size of the bridge support for her. And she goes hanging around with Riordon and his pals—"
"Shut up, Tit."
"—and you know that you don't stand a chance against any of those guys in a fight or anything, so—"
"Dude, shut up."
"—you figure you'll stomp him into the ground with your mouth instead and then she's all impressed and everything and you guys go off into the sunset together, right?"
I sit there. I stare at Dad's bedroom door because it's one of the only things to stare at in this place.
"Right?" Tit says again.
"No," I lie. But he's right. I didn't realize it until he said it, but he's right.
"You really think any of that's gonna happen?"
"I don't know. I'm just trying to make a point. I just want people to get off my back about things. Show them that just because you don't have a ribbon or whatever, it doesn't mean you're a bad guy."
"Good luck with that." He sounds like he really means it.
"Thanks, Tit."
Monday morning, before school, Dad's gone and I watch a tape again. I still hate myself for doing this; I'm still powerless not to do it. I should destroy it, is what I should do. I should tear them up—all of them—and smash the cases like my camcorder is smashed and then I could never watch again, but I just can't bring myself to do it.
On the way to school, I listen to the radio: WIIY's Morning Madness with Skip and Skippy. And this is how I learn what Flip was really up to over the weekend, and it didn't involve negotiating the clasp on Fam's size-AA training bra.
"It's gotta be kids," says Skip (or Skippy—I can never keep them straight).
"No, man," says Skippy (or, again, Skip). "Kids can't pull that off."
"Are you crazy? Only kids could pull it off. It's so juvenile..."
"You're just jealous you didn't think of it first."
"True ... If you're just joining us," says Skip, "we're talking about the image that was spammed out to newspapers and TV stations in the area today, including our own Morning Madness anchor desk..."
"Located in the third-floor men's room, in the stinky stall."
"Right. Anyway, it's a fu—"
"Watch it, man! FCC!"
"I was going to say 'funny.'"
"Sure you were."
God, get to the point!
As if he can hear my thoughts, Skip says, "It looks like someone took a blow-up doll and dressed it up in some red, white, and blue lingerie—"
"Very tasteful," Skippy interjects. "Very patriotic."
"—and has it, uh, her posed with a, uh..."
"A marital aid."
"That's no aid. That's a marital tower." Skippy starts cracking up. "I mean, that's the biggest, uh..."
"Marital aid," Skippy gasps.
"I've ever seen. This thing needs its own zip code."
"And an altimeter."
"Needless to say, she's in a very, uh, compromising position with this thing—"
"Not that it looks like she minds."
Skippy still can't breathe.
"And there's a word balloon here that says, 'Keep it UP, America!'"
"Tell them the best part!" Skippy says.
"Well, the best part is that in the background, you can see ... Well, it looks like a car dealership, with flags and some of that red, white, and blue what-do-ya-call-it? Bunting."
"Bunting," says Skippy, like it's pornographic.
"And a caller in the previous hour tells us that this is, in fact, the car dealership up in Brookdale, the one owned by the mayor of Brookdale. And Brookdale's where they're having all this mess with the kid who—"
I turn off the radio. I don't need to hear any more.
Speedo, as usual, is totally wrong. The weekend has made no difference at all. I get the hard looks that I've become accustomed to by now as I enter school. Leah sort of tilts her head as I walk by. I choose to interpret that as a quiet show of support.
In the media center, Mrs. Grant sits me at a table and points a camera at me.
"Are you sure you're ready for this?" she asks.
"I don't really have a choice now."
She shrugs. "There can be something wrong with the camera today."
"Thanks, but no."
Dr. Goethe announces "something special this morning," and explains that "our local hero" is going to discuss politics and free speech. You can almost hear a hiss throughout the school.
"And tomorrow morning, John Riordon will present an opposing viewpoint." This time, there's no "almost" about it—I hear cheers echoing all the way down the hall.
Great.
Mrs. Grant nods to me, and here I am, on TV for the second time in as many weeks.
"Hi, South Brook. I've been thinking about some of the things that have been said around here. The things I've said and the things that have been said to me. And you know what the best part is? That we're allowed to say them. We live in a country where we can say whatever we want.
"But I guess what's been bothering me is that people don't really feel like they can say whatever they want. Because if they say something that isn't popular, they're going to be yelled at or laughed at or beat up. And that's not cool.
"After I was on Justice! everyone in school wanted to hang around me. It was crazy. It was like I was some kind of hero. And then with a picture in the paper, it all changed. And no one ever came up to me and asked me why I took those ribbons off my car. No one ever wanted to know. It's like everyone was sharing one brain and one thought: 'Ribbons good. No ribbons bad.'
"Well, what's the point of freedom of speech if everyone says and thinks the same thing anyway? What's the point of freedom of speech if everyone is forced to say the same thing? Or afraid to say anything different?
"So here's why I took off those ribbons: because no one can tell me what they're for. It's the easiest thing in the world to spend a buck on a ribbon and slap it on your car and think that you're doing something to support the troops. But you don't support the troops by putting things on your car. That doesn't help anyone. It's not like all of the money people spend on ribbons goes to the troops. I looked around and I can't even figure out if any of it goes to them! I found all these places online that sell ribbons, but none of them say they donate any money to the troops.
"It's like ... It's like someone's making a lot of money on this, you know?
"If you want to support the troops, raise money to send them care packages and maybe try to figure out how to bring them home so they don't die. I did some research, and did you know that during World War II, people really made sacrifices for the troops? They col
lected scrap metal and old rubber tires to be recycled into weapons and stuff. They recycled paper for the troops to use. They rationed gasoline and food, all to help the war effort. They sacrificed.
"And what have we done? Not much. We spend a buck on a magnet and we tell anyone who doesn't that they're not patriotic or they don't love their country or they hate the troops. We don't sacrifice—we just go with the flow and don't ask questions.
"And look, about the Pledge. People say it every day, but no one thinks about it. So what's the point, then? And why is it only kids who say it? My dad doesn't say the Pledge every morning when he goes to work, and unless your parents are teachers, I bet they don't either. So why say it? If you want to say it, great. But why should you have to say it? I've heard some people say that it shows you love your country. Well, that's fine, but you could hate the country and still say the Pledge and no one would ever know. Nothing would blow up, you wouldn't glow or anything. And if you don't know the story of the Pledge and what its purpose is, then, well, you're just mouthing the words. And then they don't mean anything.
"I guess what I'm saying is that I wish people would think for themselves. Don't just do what everyone else does—use your own brain and figure things out for yourself. If you want to put a ribbon on your car because it's important to you, then great—just don't do it because everyone else is doing it or because you're afraid not to.
"Because freedom of speech is pretty pointless if everyone keeps saying the same thing."
And that's it. Mrs. Grant cuts away to Dr. Goethe, who thanks me and goes into the morning announcements. Meanwhile, I've got ten gallons of sweat streaming down my back and under my arms, but I feel pretty good. I feel like I've accomplished something.
Then I go to the locker room for gym class, and I get the crap beat out of me.
Chapter 21
Corn Bread
WELL, NOT TOTALLY. But it's not fun. Mr. Kaltenbach comes in just as two guys have me backed up against the lockers in a little nook behind the showers.
"Think you're some kinda hot shit hero?"
Bang—punch to the shoulder. Just a warm-up punch, showing me what they could do, what they would do.
"Whiny little liberal. Your dad ought to kick the shit out of you for the stuff you've been saying."
I guess they didn't read last week's Loco.
I'm figuring I stand a decent chance of at least nailing one of them in the balls before they take me down when Mr. Kaltenbach wanders over.
"What the hell is this?" he asks.
"Nothing," says the guy on my left, grinning.
Mr. Kaltenbach sighs and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Move it."
"Thanks," I say when they're gone.
He snorts at me in disgust. "Yeah, whatever."
Oh, good. Now even the teachers hate my guts. Hero to zero in no time flat. I think I set a world record.
***
For lunch, I don't feel like being around Flip while he crows about the magnificence of his latest Officer Sexpot scandal. Doesn't he realize his pranks are just making it harder for me?
I go to the auditorium, head backstage, and then—after a quick look around to make sure no one is watching—I scale the skinny ladder that leads up to the lighting catwalk over the stage. With the curtains down, you can't see up here unless you're actually looking for someone. And who ever looks up?
It's a shaky ladder and it always feels like it's going to crumble by the time you get to the middle (of course it would be the middle), but it's cool. And I'm skinny anyway, so I'm not worried. It'll hold. It always has.
I take a stab at eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but the jelly has bled into the bread so it looks like a massive purple bruise, which makes me think of the bruise that's probably forming on my shoulder, and I can't eat. The rest of my lunch bag is some potato chips, some pudding, and a bunch of little carrots. None of it looks appetizing. Why did I pack this junk?
Flip and the rest of the Council wander in down below and head into the janitors' office. A few seconds later, Flip emerges and roams the stage for a little while, looking for me. I can hear him whispering my name loudly, poking around, but he can't find me. I hold back my arm, resisting the urge to pelt him with the carrots, just to see if I could get him. Would that be Foolish or just foolish?
Instead, I just watch him look around, and then give up, throwing his hands up in the air before returning to the office, leaving me alone.
***
By the end of the day, the rumors that I'm clinically insane, on massive doses of antidepressants, or both are in full swing. My car has not survived unmolested today—someone keyed the passenger-side door pretty good.
I'm pretty sure that at least two cars from school follow me home. I slow down at the driveway, but at the last second decide not to pull in. Instead, I keep going, take a left at the light, and drive around a little bit more. They keep following me.
I lose one of them at a light by signaling left, then turning right.
I notice that the signs that praised me a week ago are all down now, except for the one at the Narc. At the WrenchIt Auto Parts store, the sign now reads, United We Stand! Good Faith Lutheran says, simply, God Bless America. And so on.
And man—it kills me because I don't disagree with any of that, but I know that those signs are up now because the people who put them up think I don't think that way. I don't have a problem with standing united. I don't have a problem with God blessing America, should he decide America's worth blessing. I just want people to think about it and not charge into things blindly and not assume that just because I don't wear my heart on my sleeve that I don't have a heart at all or that—
OK. Cool. I'm pretty sure I've lost the second car.
I head home. Dad is actually cooking something, which is weird. He usually goes to bed so early that I fend for myself, but here he is, mixing something in a bowl.
"How was school?"
"Fine."
He nods and keeps mixing.
"Hey, Dad?"
"Hmm?"
I freeze up. I was about to ask him about his discharge. I even had the sentence all prepared: What they said in the paper about you ... it's not true, right?
But now I just can't. He seems sort of happy and content standing here, mixing stuff. I can't bear to wreck it.
"What is it, Kevin?"
"Nothing, I guess."
I don't get my dad. I'm not ashamed to admit this. Tell the truth, if he was your dad, you wouldn't get him either. Part of it is probably that I don't see him a lot. The other part, though, is that he's a man of few words, and I'm the opposite. Once I get going, I can't keep my mouth shut, which is how I end up in situations where it's me against South Brook and Brookdale and the whole freakin' planet.
Dad can read guilt, though. It's like a second language to him. He can tell something's wrong. "You're not involved in any of that stuff the police were asking about, are you?"
"No, Dad."
"Because I told them that you've been home with me every night, but I know that once I leave for work, you could be sneaking out of here..."
"I'm not, Dad."
He grunts and starts spooning the mixture into a pan.
"What are you making?"
"Corn bread."
Right. I don't know whether to laugh or just stand there with my jaw hanging down to my knees. Corn bread. My dad is making ... corn bread.
"You got a problem with that?" he asks, but it's not a total tough-guy tone. There's a little glint in his eye.
Once it's done, much to my surprise, it's good. Really, really good. Buttery and sweet at the same time, crumbling to melt in my mouth with every bite. We eat it with some mi-crowaved turkey sandwiches, and the corn bread makes the sandwiches taste better somehow.
"Where did you learn how to make this?"
Dad shrugs. "Your mom."
Since we seem to be having something of a moment, I figure I'll take advantage of it.
<
br /> "Hey, Dad? What was it like in the army?"
I blurt it out so fast that I barely realize I've said by the time I'm done. It's not exactly the question I wanted to ask, but it's a start.
"It was fine," he says. "It was the army."
"Did you have to kill people?"
He sighs. "Why is that always the first question people ask? Saved a lot of lives. No one ever wants to hear about that. Not scary enough. Not sexy enough." He gets up and dumps his dish in the sink, and the next bit comes out in a rush, like he's forcing it out, and I don't need Mom's telepathy to understand: "People should stop worrying about what I did or didn't do and start thinking about whether or not I should have been there in the first place. Violence never solved anything."
"Yeah, tell that to Leah Muldoon." It slips out before I can stop it.
But it's like he didn't hear me. "I was nineteen. And that was the average age for the guys in my squad. We were kids, not much older than you. Give us guns and bombs and helicopter support and tell a bunch of kids to make foreign policy work." He shakes his head. "Kill people to save people's lives. Blow things up to build them up. And what's the result? Ten years, fifteen years later, we're right back there again, doing it all over again. Fucking it all up."
My dad never curses. Never. It's like an unwritten rule of the world or something. So hearing him drop the f-bomb so casually makes me feel like I should apologize or ask him if he really meant to say that or hide under the sofa or something.
"'Blind faith in your leaders or in anything will get you killed,'" he says, and then shakes his head again.
"Is that ... Is that why we don't go to Mass anymore?"
It's like he suddenly remembers I'm in the room. "What?"
"Blind faith—"
"No. No. That was a quote. Something someone said at a concert I went to when I was ... God, I was your age, I guess. It doesn't have anything to do with ... Do you miss Mass? Do you want to go back?"
I shrug. "I don't know."
He gazes at me. "Be honest with me."
"I guess I miss it."
"OK. I can see that."
"Why did we stop going?"
