Slave Day

by Rob Thomas

  First off—she knows my name. I wasn’t sure.

  “Uh, yeah, uh, I’m looking, uh, for, uh, something by Robert E. Lee. Or, uh, I mean, uh, about Robert E. Lee.” I hold up the biographies I’ve found. “These are pretty old.”

  Tamika takes the books from my hands and checks the copyright dates. “We’ve got some newer stuff in the back,” she says, walking out from behind the counter. I follow her to the far wall of the library. She pulls out the encyclopedia of biographies and starts to look up Lee, but before she can find him, tears start streaming out of her eyes and she has to cover her face with her hand.

  “What’s wrong?” I say. “Look, it’s not that important. I could do my report on someone else.”

  “It’s not that,” she says, trying to stop sobbing. “They’re going to kick me out of National Honor Society.”

  That takes a second to sink in. What does it have to do, after all, with Robert E. Lee? And how could Tamika Jackson be getting kicked out of National Honor Society? She’s probably the best English student in the school, and she gets good grades in everything.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “They said I was cheating.”

  “Who said that?” I ask.

  “Mr. Twilley,” she says. That, at least, makes sense. The man is a good teacher, but, Lord, is he paranoid about cheating. “This ruins everything,” Tamika adds. I step forward and put a hand on her shoulder and she just sort of melts into my arms. Cool.

  Tamika sniffles, and I wish I had a handkerchief that I could pull out of my pocket, but naturally I don’t. I rub her shoulders in a reassuring way, not like I’m operating. The Speller guy walks back past the bookshelf that shields us from the rest of the library, and I kind of jump back from Tamika. That probably makes me look like I’m doing something I shouldn’t be doing. I can be such a spaz sometimes.

  It occurs to me that the only reason I’ve shown up for NHS meetings for the past year is because Tamika was always there. Maybe I’ll quit in protest. Good thinking, Keene, that would leave three black students in the group.

  You know, now that I think about it, Tamika is the only female of color in all of the honor society. What’s up with that? Maybe if we had some multicultural education around this place, we’d be represented properly. Every year the number of black students in the honors program seems to get cut in half. When I was a freshman, we had a good mix, but now it’s, like, a sea of white faces. And what about our faculty representation here? Three black teachers and one teaches drivers ed, one coaches JV basketball, and one monitors the in-school suspension program. Most of the black faces we see on campus belong to the custodial staff and the lunchroom ladies.

  By any means necessary.

  I tell Tamika I don’t need the Robert E. Lee books.

  I don’t need to know the facts for the speech I’m going to write. More than two hundred years of white American history has shown me one thing. The ends do justify the means.

  CLINT

  11:47 A.M. Third period, field house

  I’m sitting in my drawers, just starin’ at the dryer spinning round ’n’ round waitin’ on forty practice jerseys and my Skoal-stained 501s, when Humphrey walks in the laundry room. He sits there for a minute without sayin’ anything, but that’s pretty standard behavior. He’s what they call a “quiet leader.” He doesn’t hop up ’n’ down or slap butts like some guys. He leads the team in touchdowns, but when he scores, he doesn’t high-step or dance or rip his helmet off and pose in front of the crowd.

  Trim, on the other hand, kneels and crosses himself in the end zone, like God himself chose to award his devout follower a chance to get more boo-tay. Boy ain’t seen the inside of a church since he went out with Leslie Aitken, daughter of Pastor Aitken, long enough to “teach her how to drive standard.” That’s what Trim calls it. You figure it out.

  (A word here about end zone celebrations: I won’t tolerate them. If you’re lucky enough to score on the mighty Rebel D., just hand the ball to the ref, and get back to your huddle. Once, a Pflugerville tight end made the mistake of pointing at me as he danced across the goal line. The next time he came across the middle I got a flipper up under his face mask. Cost us fifteen yards, but they had to bring a stretcher out. There was no more dancin’.)

  Anyway, we’re sittin’ there, me and H. B., and I know somethin’s on his mind. He’s pickin’ at a sticker on the side of his helmet. On the back of his “hat”—that’s what the coaches call ’em—he’s got about a million little Confederate flags that we get for amazing plays. I got a bunch myself, but not nearly as many as Humphrey. Finally, he speaks.

  “What do you s’pose Coach meant in there?”

  “’Bout what?”

  “That part about, ‘if you hit a brother hard enough, he just folds’?”

  I sit there perplexed. Coach talks like that to the defense all the time. I’ve just never thought too much about it. Now that I’m thinkin’, it’s making me uncomfortable.

  “Naw, you don’t have to answer that,” Humphrey says. “I know what he meant by it.” He peels off one of his Confederate flag stickers and begins working on another.

  “Coach didn’t mean nothin’,” I say. “He’s just talkin’ ’bout any team’s runnin’ backs. It just so happens that most of ’em are brothers. I wouldn’t take it personal.”

  Humphrey doesn’t say anything. He just peels off another one of his Confederate flags, sticks it on the side of the dryer, and walks out of the room.

  JENNY

  11:49 A.M. Third period, yearbook

  I wait until Damien has been gone a few minutes before I even think about unfolding the note. I check to make sure no one is reading over my shoulder. That’s just what I’d need. Yearbook attracts all the major socialites at Lee. Gossip would be all over campus within seconds. Confident I can read in peace, I begin unfolding.

  JEN,

  I’D LIKE TO BEGIN BY APOLOGIZING IF I EMBARRASSED YOU DURING TODAY’S ASSEMBLY. MY ORIGINAL GOAL WAS TO KEEP YOU FROM BEING EMBARRASSED. I DIDN’T WANT TO SEE YOU SOLD FOR THE ABSOLUTE MINIMUM. SO WHY DID I KEEP BIDDING PAST TEN DOLLARS? THAT’S WHAT I’LL TRY TO ANSWER HERE.

  DID YOU EVER READ CYRANO DE BERGERAC? IT’S A FRENCH NOVEL ABOUT THIS BADASS SWORD FIGHTER WHO’S GOT A COLOSSAL NOSE. HE’S IN LOVE WITH A GIRL NAMED ROXANE, BUT HE KNOWS SHE’LL NEVER LOVE HIM. AT FIRST, ALL CYRANO WANTS TO DO IS MAKE ROXANE HAPPY, SO HE HELPS OUT THIS GUY WHO HE’S SURE ROXANE DIGS. SEE, CYRANO CANNOT ONLY WHIP SOME ASS, HE’S A SERIOUS POET. HE GIVES THIS GUY THE WORDS HE’LL NEED TO SEDUCE ROXANE, EVEN THOUGH IT BREAKS HIS HEART. EVENTUALLY HE FIGURES OUT HE SHOULD HAVE MADE HIS OWN PLAY FOR ROXANE, BUT BY THEN IT’S TOO LATE. HE DIES MISERABLE AND ALONE.

  I’M HOPING TO AVOID THAT, SO I GUESS IT’S CONFESSION TIME …

  THOSE POEMS THAT CLINT LEFT ON YOUR ANSWERING MACHINE—I WROTE THEM. AND IT WASN’T LIKE I TRIED TO PUT MYSELF IN CLINT’S 14EEEES. THEY CAME FROM THE HEART. THEY WERE MY THOUGHTS, MY FEELINGS.

  AND ANOTHER THING. I WASN’T REALLY AS DRUNK AS I WAS PRETENDING TO BE THE NIGHT I LET THE CAT OUT OF THE BAG ABOUT THE TRIP OUT TO CANYON LAKE. I GUESS I HELPED CLINT GET YOU BACK—AT LEAST PARTLY—BECAUSE I FELT SO GUILTY. THAT WAS, UNTIL NOW, THE WORST THING I’VE EVER DONE.

  I’M NOT GOING TO LIE TO YOU ANYMORE. FIRST OF ALL, CLINT IS A GREAT GUY. HE’S THE BEST FRIEND I’VE GOT, AND I KNOW IF THE SITUATION WAS REVERSED, HE WOULD NEVER BE DOING WHAT I’M DOING NOW. HE’S LOYAL TO HIS FRIENDS, THAT’S A GIVEN. CLINT’S PROTECTED ME WHEN GUYS HAVE WANTED TO KICK MY ASS, TAKEN CARE OF ME WHEN I’VE BEEN DRUNK, ENCOURAGED ME WHEN I START TALKING ABOUT BEING SOME GREAT WORLD TRAVELER. BUT THAT’S WHAT HE’S DONE FOR ME. MY QUESTION IS, WHAT DOES HE DO FOR YOU?

  I KNOW THAT BEFORE THE END OF THE DAY I’M GOING TO RUN INTO CLINT. IF YOU’VE SHOWN HIM THIS LETTER, I WON’T HAVE TIME TO EXPLAIN. HE’LL CUT ME OUT OF HIS LIFE WITHOUT A SECOND THOUGHT. EVEN IF YOU DON’T TELL HIM ABOUT THIS, I’LL PROBABLY HAVE TO LIE TO HIM ABOUT THE ASSEMBLY, SAY I WAS JUST GOOFING O
FF.

  IF YOU DON’T HAVE THE SAME FEELINGS FOR ME THAT I DO FOR YOU, TRY TO PRETEND THIS NEVER HAPPENED. AT LEAST I’LL SLEEP BETTER KNOWING I TRIED. IF, HOWEVER, YOU DO HAVE FEELINGS FOR ME, MEET ME HERE IN THE YEARBOOK ROOM AFTER THE BONFIRE.

  DAMIEN

  I know I should destroy the note right now. Destroy the note and tell Damien that I’m in love with my boyfriend. But I don’t. I fold the note back up and stick it in my purse.

  Five minutes left in class—time to meet Clint.

  TIFFANY

  11:55 A.M. Third period, government

  My pager starts vibrating at the same time the bell rings. I check the number. Stellar. It’s this guy—Ian’s his name—that I met up in Austin at a party last weekend. Eighth call in five days. I’ve been letting him dangle. He’s a film student. He says he wants to put me in his movie.

  I get up to leave and notice my eager peon waiting for me at the door. He pulls along beside me as we head for the double doors. When we get outside the building, I stop.

  “Shit! Hey, Brian, I left my government book on my desk. Would you mind going back for it?”

  “Uh-uh,” he says, and he bounds back to Mr. Warren’s classroom. I take a detour toward the pay phones in the courtyard. Both phones are busy, but I hover over some freshman girl who’s yammering to her junior high boyfriend. She gets the point soon enough and tells “Baby” she’ll see him after school at the bowling alley. Young love. It makes me misty.

  I dig through my purse, but all I come up with is thirty-five cents. Not enough for a call to Austin. I never have change. I always put it in those jars for “Jerry’s Kids” or leukemia victims or starving Guatemalans—whatever. I’m a saint.

  I notice that sleuthdog Brian’s tracked me. He’s standing there watching me scavenge my purse. “You got any change, Brian?” I ask.

  “It’s Brendan,” he says.

  Right.

  “Dial this number,” he says. Then he starts spouting digits while I punch the matching buttons. After the tenth or eleventh, he says, “All right, now. You should have a dial tone.”

  Sure enough, it’s there.

  “Is that your calling-card number?” I ask.

  “It’s a calling-card number,” he answers cryptically.

  After seven rings, Scorsese Jr. answers. “Yello,” he says.

  “It’s Tiffany. You paged?”

  Ian says he wants to have a business lunch with me. Discuss a shooting schedule. Get me a script. “Are you free?” he asks.

  “Tell me about the part again.”

  “Oh, Lou Ann? She’s got a big heart.”

  “That’s it—a big heart?”

  “And a drawl. Think of Laura Dern in Wild at Heart. Lou Ann’s simple yet complex. She stands by her man, but she’s her own woman.”

  Sounds familiar. But I don’t really want to go to trig anyway, so I agree to meet E. T. at Mad Dog’s, a hamburger palace on the Drag.

  I head toward the parking lot. Brian hesitates.

  “Isn’t your class this way?”

  “Yeah, but Austin is this way,” I say, pointing north. I keep walking. I don’t hear any footsteps behind me, so I assume my boy is staying on the plantation. Momentarily I catch the distinctive sound of Keds slapping concrete. Brian’s sprinting to catch up.

  CLINT

  11:56 A.M. Passing period, near field house

  What’d I do wrong this time? Jen’s walkin’ me to class, but she’s givin’ me the silent treatment.

  “I order you to speak,” I say.

  She barks a couple times, then hangs out her tongue and starts panting. Now this may sound like it was playful, but she wasn’t smilin’ or lookin’ at me. Then, talk about piss-poor timing, Angie walks by and winks. What a bitch!

  Jen lets go of my hand and puts three or four feet between us.

  “What’re you doin’?” I ask. This time I’m pretendin’ I’m stupid.

  “I saw that,” she says.

  “You didn’t see me do anything. I can’t control what she does.”

  “You must not have made it very clear to her that you’ve got a girlfriend,” Jenny says, lookin’ dead ahead.

  “Believe me, it’s clear to everyone in this school that I’ve got a girlfriend.”

  “I can think of two people it wasn’t very clear to this summer.”

  I am so sick of this jealous-girlfriend act. I take Jenny’s shoulders in my hands and try not to sound pissed—just frustrated. “How many times am I gonna hafta say I’m sorry for that? I’ll tell you what. I’ll say it one more time, but that’s it. Okay, are you ready?” Jen blinks. That’ll hafta do for a yes. “I’m sorry. Now, that’s it. You can’t keep makin’ me pay for that. It happened months ago.”

  “Every time I see her I can’t help thinking about it,” Jen says. “You two’ve gone as far as we ever have. And I know she knows that!”

  “First of all, there’s no such thing as ‘us two.’ Second of all, there’s a simple way we can change the situation.”

  “Clint, we’ve talked about this. I just don’t think I’m ready …”

  “Fuck it,” I say. “I know this speech by heart.”

  SHAWN

  11:56 A.M. Passing period, flagpole

  Fat Boy’s handed me these index cards. I read through ’em real quick. Where’d he get this shit?

  “What am I supposed to do with these?” I ask, though I’ve got a pretty good hunch.

  “You’re going to do something you’re good at,” he says. “Give a speech.”

  “You want me to read this?”

  He nods and tells me to read it loud. I stand by the flagpole and wait for the bell to ring. Hopefully nobody’ll notice and I can just get this out of the way. I consider not doing it, but Priscilla told me that a lot of the council members are bitching about the stuff their masters were making them do. “It’s important,” she said, “that we act like we’re willing to do everything everyone else is doing.” Easy for her to say. She doesn’t have to read this.

  The bell goes off and pretty soon the courtyard is full of people. Before anyone notices, I start the speech.

  “I am Robert E. Lee,” I begin. All the racket goin’ on round me continues. So far so good. “I am Robert E. Lee, and I believe that the Negro is livestock—livestock that can be bartered in the same manner as any dairy cow, studhorse, or pig for slaughter.”

  “Hey, Shawn! Speak up, man. We can’t hear you.”

  It’s Sleepy Roberts. Where did that no-talking brotha find a voice? Then a circle starts to form around me, and a couple more young bucks yell at me to talk louder.

  “Start over, Slave,” says Keene. “Nobody can hear you.”

  So it looks like my plan to stay anonymous is doomed. I go to the reliable backup. I can make this funny.

  “I AM ROBERT E. LEE,” I shout. I don’t want that part misunderstood.

  Then I switch to my white-guy-with-something-up-his-butt voice. “I believe the Negro is livestock.” (I put my fists on my hips and give an “I mean it!” nod for impact.) “Livestock that can be bartered in the same manner as any dairy cow” (I point at some big-tittied girl up front and get a few laughs), “any stud” (I wink—more laughs) “horse, or pig for slaughter.” (I point at my master, and presto, it’s like an evening at the Def Comedy Jam.)

  I shouldn’t have worried about this. More people have crowded around the circle. This is fun. I glance down at the card and keep going.

  “I AM ROBERT E. LEE,” I shout again. “In 1862, I spoke to the Confederate Congress, and I told them that the Negro was incapable of reading or writing.” (I look up and scratch my chin. Then I flip the index card upside down, look confused, then flip it back the right way. I stutter through the next line like I’m on Sesame Street and I’m just learning to read.) “Th … that only mul … mulattoes could master those skills. I recommended that those of mixed blood who learn to read or write should be destroyed before they incite their fellow slaves to turn aga
inst their masters.

  “I AM ROBERT E. LEE, and you’ve named your school after me.”

  A couple of the same brothas who told me to speak up start booing. Boys better be booin’ the speech and not the speaker. Some people got no sense of humor.

  Stump Milton yells, “Somebody shut him up.”

  Right, Stump. You tell fag jokes all day, last period Dr Pepper was spewin’ out your nose when you were watchin’ me pick up cotton balls, but this pisses you off. I look down at the next line of the speech. Ain’t no way I’m readin’ this. The warning bell rings, keeping me from havin’ to flat out refuse.

  I am Robert E. Lee, and if you were a slave, I slept with your mothers, daughters, sisters, and wives. You named your school after me.

  I wonder if that’s true.

  JENNY

  11:58 A.M. Passing period, flagpole

  It always comes down to this—put out or shut up. It seems like half our dates these days end in the same fight. We start kissing, but he doesn’t know when to stop. I can’t just say, “That’s enough,” I have to actually take his hands off me.

  He wants to know, “Don’t you ever get turned on? Is it ever hard for you to stop?”

  Even the question makes me feel dirty. Don’t ask me why. But, yeah, I get turned on, but if I told him that, he would just press the issue harder. One time I said, “Clint, of course I’m having fun. I just know how to keep my head,” and he says, “I’m sure you know how to keep your head. I’m hopin’ you’ll learn how to give it.”

  It was so gross, but we both started laughing. That was one of the nights we didn’t fight.

  So things are ugly as Clint and I head for our locker. Well, my locker. Clint’s is in the foreign language wing. We keep most of our stuff in mine, because his is so far out of the way. When we get close, though, we find our way is blocked.