Slave Day

by Rob Thomas

  “Won’t you get in trouble for skipping halftime?” says Hump.

  “Who gives a fuck?” I say.

  BRENDAN

  2:04 P.M. Fifth period, English

  After I walk Tiffany to Spanish, I cross the courtyard to the English wing. Lloyd motions me over to his desk before class gets started.

  “State of the world?” he asks. “Or do I have to log on and read it with all your new fans?”

  “H-D,” I say. That stands for hunky-dory.

  “And …,” says Lloyd. He crosses his legs and rubs his palms together, hungry for dirt. I notice the flip-flops he wears to school every day, all the way up until Thanksgiving. He says the cold doesn’t affect him, but I think it’s just a random way of getting attention. What’s the point, though? Does he think girls are saying, “Wow, that boy doesn’t wear shoes? I wonder what he kisses like?”

  Who am I to criticize? I dress to evanesce.

  I’m not exactly athrob with desire to share the latest developments of my day. On the way back from Austin I asked Tiffany why she bought me. After all, I told her, there were plenty of other guys before me.

  “I was late,” she said. “You were all that was left.”

  That would explain it. I didn’t really expect her to say she had been fantasizing about me or anything. I guess I just hoped for something like, “You looked like a nice guy,” or “I wanted to meet someone new.” Pretty dumb, huh? “Scraps” makes more sense to me now.

  You know, I think most people—if they had been put in the same position I put Tiffany in—would have tried to come up with something more diplomatic, or at least they might have said it like they were a bit embarrassed. Guess that’s not Tiffany’s style, though. She just blurted it out like, “What else could it have been, Speed Bump?”

  When Tiffany served me a bowlful of undiluted truth, I heard Kyle Gallon’s voice in my head say, “So I guess a blow job is out of the question.” Here’s a shocker: I said nothing. The girl in the picture in Tiffany’s locker doesn’t look like she could be so heartless. The way the girl was smiling—she was so absolutely giddious. Maybe the gift she held in her hands was for her grandfather. One of those clay imprints of her hands that you make in kindergarten. Or maybe it was a gift from her grandfather: a music box or a doll. Either way, I doubt Tiffany has smiled like that in years. I’ll bet that when everything comes to you so easy, it’s hard not to be bored. And when there’s nothing you care for, it’s probably impossible to be sensitive to other people’s feelings. There’s nothing I could say or do that would hurt Tiffany’s feelings.

  Well, maybe it’s a good lesson to learn … Brian.

  I realize Lloyd’s still waiting for a reply. “She’s a bitch,” I tell him.

  That jolts Lloyd, because I don’t swear much. Then I spill the whole melancholious saga.

  He looks briefly flummoxed but recovers quickly. “You wanna get even?”

  “How?”

  “Meet me in the computer lab after school. I’ll show you.”

  KEENE

  2:05 P.M. Fifth period, courtyard

  So I run into Laurence on the way to physics, and he wants to know what’s up with Mr. Twilley and Tamika. I tell my brother that I was under the impression that he didn’t want to be seen talking to me for the rest of the school year.

  “You really think Twilley’s kicking her out because she’s black?” Laurence asks doubtfully. “When you were in his class, you used to talk about what a tough, good teacher he was. You said he taught history straight up, no frosting. Now I’m reading on all the computer bulletin boards about how you’re accusing him of nineteenth-century lynchings.”

  “The man’s old enough. Have you checked his alibis?”

  Laurence is funny. His computer screen name is THE FALCON, maybe the only black comic book hero. That screen name is the only area I know about in which Laurence acknowledges his race. Sometimes I’ll check my E-mail and I’ll get these messages asking for a ride home signed THE FALCON. Hell, the Falcon was nothing but Captain America’s boy. Ask anyone.

  “I’m telling you again, big brother, don’t get carried away today. You may end up over your head.”

  The warning bell rings and Laurence’s ears prick up like the Pavlov dog they’re turning him into.

  “Later,” he says as he makes like one of those Olympic walkers heading to class.

  It’s funny how Shawn just forgot about his slave duties after Humphrey got in his face. I mean he should be walking me to class right now. Then again, it kind of momentarily slipped my mind as well. It was like everything just ended back there on the cafeteria steps. I won’t be surprised if I don’t see him again for the rest of the day.

  Right as I’m thinkin’ this, Sleepy and a couple out-of-place-looking underclassmen catch up to me. The copper-skinned youngsters are decked out in enormous, glossy Karl Kani boots, calf-length shorts and size XXXXXL T-shirts featuring the Gravediggaz and the Wu-Tang Clan. One of the duo wears a red leather beret and the other, slightly shorter dude has the male symbol carved into his hair with the arrow pointing forward. Sleepy gestures to me and says, “The man.” It takes me a second to realize that he’s introducing me to them. The Man—I like the sound of that.

  They turn out to be Rashard and Melvin Jones, brothers who moved down from Chicago last year when their parents decided they were less apt to get into trouble living “in the country.” It takes less than sixty seconds of conversation to learn they hate the South. In that span, and without stopping for breath, they manage to curse the humidity, the size of the cockroaches, country music, Mexican food, and our “shuffling, bug-eyed, grinning student-council president.” I realize the two of them have been around every time I’ve had Shawn perform. They were the ones yelling for him to speak up during the Robert E. Lee speech. I seem to recall them urging other students to come over and watch Shawn shine shoes as well.

  “Man, that ‘I’m Robert E. Lee’ speech you made Shawn read—I thought a couple of those white boys listenin’ to it were about to fetch a rope,” says Melvin.

  “Then havin’ him shine shoes on the cafeteria steps—by the end of the day, no one’s gonna wanna say they know him,” adds Rashard.

  “So what’s up next?” asks Melvin, the chattier of a chatty pair.

  “I don’t know if anything’s up next,” I say. “I don’t have any more plans. You saw Humphrey Brown get in his face, didn’t you? I think he may have learned a thing or two back there.”

  This news seems to disturb both Melvin and Rashard.

  “Yo, man, we just begun.” Melvin says it, but it’s the way that Rashard cackles that makes me uneasy. “We can’t let up now. We’re this close to winning.” Melvin holds up his thumb and index finger an inch apart. “Have you heard about the football team?” he asks.

  “I heard they’re having a good year.”

  “Not anymore, they’re not,” says Rashard, cackling again.

  Melvin takes back over. “Humphrey Brown overheard one of the coaches calling him ‘our franchise nigger.’ Humphrey went after him, but some of the assistant coaches held him back. When the other brothers on the team heard, they all up and quit.”

  The first thing I feel is rage—intense and consuming. How many generations, I wonder, will it take for racists to just die off? But as quickly as that emotion hits me, it’s gone, and I’m left wondering how much of what I’ve just been told is the truth. One of our coaches saying something that obviously racist? It sounds pretty unbelievable. It doesn’t mean we can’t use it, though.

  “For the rest of the day, tell anyone you see that the football players are quitting to protest Slave Day.”

  Melvin grins at Rashard. “I like the way the man thinks,” he says. Then he turns his attention to me. “Don’t worry about us doing our part. I promise you, tonight’s gonna be a night everyone’ll remember.”

  And I wonder what he means by that.

  JENNY

  2:22 P.M. Fifth period, Sp
anish

  Thursdays are rehearsal day in español for our weekly Teatro para Dos. We get paired up with some other student in the class, and we’re supposed to come up with a two-minute play that accomplishes something beneficial: getting your car fixed, ordering a meal at a restaurant, asking directions to the local biblioteca. This week my partner is Tiffany Delvoe, and I’m scared. Tiffany, I’ve heard, spends half of her summer in Cancún or Puerto Vallarta. She uses slang that makes Ms. Cisneros blush, and she invents situations a lot wilder than anyone else in the class. Memorable lines from Tiffany’s Teatro para Dos include …

  “¡You must sell a lot of cocaine to be able to afford an apartment like this!”

  And …

  “Send over the cabana boy. I need a rubdown.”

  Ms. C. checks roll, then tells the class to start working on our assignment. I glance over my shoulder to the back corner of the classroom. Tiffany waves me over. I pick up my English/Spanish dictionary and a notebook and head back. As I’m walking I remember the night that Jill and I spent the night at Tina’s, and we all took turns trying to imitate Tiffany Delvoe’s walk. None of us had much success.

  “So, hon,” Tiffany says, “did you have anything you were hoping to act out? Bartering for one of those red ceramic bulls, maybe?”

  I can’t tell if she’s making fun of me or the assignment, so I just say no.

  “Well, I’ve got some ideas.” This doesn’t surprise me. “I was thinking we could be two groupies invited backstage at a Julio Iglesias concert. We know one of us is going to be the lucky lady, so we keep slagging each other. You know, to try to make ourselves look better.”

  “Please, let’s do something that doesn’t involve boys,” I say. I’m sure I sound a bit bitchy as I say it, but Tiffany doesn’t seem to notice or care. I lay my head on the desk.

  “Cramps?” Tiffany asks. “You want a Midol?”

  “No, it’s not that—just boy trouble.”

  “Valium?”

  I shake my head no. Tiffany returns to the subject at hand.

  “How about if we pretend that we’ve been sent to assassinate that Colombian soccer player who …” She goes on and on, but I can’t stop thinking about what I’m going to do tonight. So many girls would jump at a chance to date Clint. A lot of my friends would, I know. So why am I not happy? Would Clint ever make me a present like Damien just did? Put me first? Even the poems that I gave him so much credit for turned out to be Damien’s words and thoughts. But there’s something a bit sleazy about the way Damien is coming on to me behind Clint’s back and all. Damien was right about one thing—Clint would never do that to one of his friends. But Clint was willing to cheat on me. He …

  “… so after I lure him onto the balcony, you’ll step out from behind the fountain and … Hey! Missy! Anyone home?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Whatever you want is fine.”

  Tiffany looks peeved. She narrows her eyes to thin slits, glances at her watch, and takes a deep breath. “Look, let’s take care of this boy thing first. Otherwise we might not ever get to the good part of this assignment. Your problem can’t be too difficult. Just remember that boys are dogs.”

  “What, you mean, like, they lie and cheat?”

  “No, I’ve never had a dog lie to me. What I mean is—they’re simple like dogs. Easy to please. Easy to keep in line. Throw them a bone once in a while, and they’ll be like …” Tiffany sticks her tongue out, holds her hands out in front of her like a begging dog, and pants.

  “What do you mean, ‘throw them a bone’?” I ask.

  Tiffany rolls her eyes in a major way. “Not important. Look, why don’t you tell me the situation? Write a little ‘Dear Tiffany’ letter. Advice for the lovelorn—it’s my specialty.”

  I can’t believe I’m even thinking of telling Tiffany Delvoe about this. I don’t even know her. Then again, I already know what all of my friends, otherwise known as the Clint DeFreisz Fan Club, would tell me. Plus, I’m fairly certain Tiffany doesn’t give a flip about high school romances. She hasn’t gone out with a boy here since she was a sophomore. Why should she, when half the guys at Central have asked her for her phone number?

  “Well …?”

  And I tell her. I leave out the names, but she’s not stupid. She knows I date Clint, and she probably saw Damien talking to me before class. She interrupts a couple times. When I tell her all of my friends think the world of my boyfriend, she says, “So?” She says “So?” again, when I tell her how attentive Boy Two is, and how he’d do anything for me. Is my story boring her, or is she just unimpressed with these details? When I’ve finished explaining everything, Tiffany takes over.

  “First of all,” she says, “you’ve got completely the wrong attitude about this. Two guys fighting over you—that’s a good thing. That’s something we can work with. Quit acting like today sucks. This is an opportunity. Do you know how many girls here will go four years without one guy liking them?”

  I nod along, already starting to feel a bit better.

  “Daddy—Ford dealer that he is—says you can tell a sucker the second he walks into the showroom. You can tell just by looking at him, the way he glances around at the salesmen or kicks a tire all shy-like. Daddy says all people can be divided into these two categories: proactive or reactive. Which basically translates to the screwers and the screwed.”

  Tiffany digs through her purse as she continues.

  “Proactive people take charge. They know what car they want, how much they want to spend, the color of the trim. If you’ve got what they want, they’ll buy. If you don’t, they’re out the door. Reactive people, on the other hand, have no idea what they want. The salesman ends up deciding for them. And believe me, what the reactive person wants is always on the lot.”

  I’m genuinely confused by what Tiffany’s telling me. How does this apply to me, Clint, and Damien?

  “Following me?” Tiffany asks as she plucks a Jolly Rancher out of her purse, unwraps it, and sticks it in her mouth.

  I nod.

  “See, I’ve tried to take this theory into the real world—I am the consumer, not the consumed. I know what I want, so I do the picking and choosing. I don’t allow myself to be picked up, squeezed, tried on for size, or taken through the express line.”

  “But I know I’m the one doing the choosing,” I say. “I explained that already. I’m just not sure who to pick.”

  “Really?” Tiffany says. “But are you being reactive or proactive? Are you being sold a package deal, or are you picking out exactly what you want? You know, in my store there are these long aisles, there are no clocks on the walls, I’ve got plenty of cash. And you know what? There are no salespeople. I don’t take my friends shopping with me. Or my parents.”

  “Well, that might work for you, but …”

  “Look, you know half the boys in this school probably want to win stuffed animals for you at the county fair and take you home to meet their parents, so don’t go sounding pitiful on me. It just sounds to me like you’re shopping in one of those old communist department stores.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They give you a choice, but it’s the blue shoes or the red shoes.”

  CLINT

  2:40 P.M. Fifth period, history

  Twilley puts his headdress back on, picks his pistol off his desk, and instructs us to use our time wisely. “Start reading chapter thirteen,” he says.

  Sure thing.

  Then he heads out the door. Immediately the classroom disintegrates: Books slam shut, headphones materialize from backpacks, desks get scooted across the room, Game Boys are fired up. I’m glad to see Damien get up and start walking back toward me, but he just walks by. Says “Hey,” though, as he passes. He sits down at one of the LONS in the back of the classroom. Every time he gets a free minute, he’s on one of ’em, always tinkerin’ with yearbook stories. Me, I avoid the LONS at all costs. I’m the guy who’d end up on the last page of a major paper when lightning hits the
school and fries the system. I always forget how to log on and have to get help, so why bother? I’m a notebook and pencil (#2) man; thanks for askin’. I get up from my seat, walk over, and lean against the wall next to Damien.

  “What’s the haps?” he says.

  “You tell me.”

  “Huh?”

  “What were you thinkin’ at the auction this mornin’? What were you doin’ biddin’ on Jen?”

  “Oh, that.” He pushes his glasses up but keeps his eyes on the screen. How can he type and talk at the same time? “I was just checkin’ out all our pitiful classmates quivering and shaking at the feet of the nasty linebacker.”

  “So?”

  “So, I couldn’t let you get off that easy.”

  “Well, that’s kinda what I thought, but then you kept biddin’.”

  Damien stops typin’ for a sec and looks at me. “Did you see how embarrassed Jenny was when it looked like she was gonna be the cheapest slave in school?”

  “She didn’t look any diff’rent than she always looks.”

  Damien returns his attention to the screen but keeps talkin’. “Man, you gotta pay better attention to her.”

  “Since when did you become Dr. Ruth? Look, if you think—”

  “You know you’re leadin’ the league in tackles?”

  “What?”

  “It’s right here. I’ve logged into the Austin American-Statesman’s on-line sports information databank. You’re three ahead of that guy from New London.”

  “Lemme see.”

  He scoots his chair over and I pull one up to the terminal. Sure ’nuff. There’s my name sittin’ above a buncha also-rans.

  “You can call that up from here?” I ask.

  “Absolutely.”

  Now I’m startin’ to see some practical applications for computers. “What else can you call up?”