Slave Day

by Rob Thomas

  “No,” I say, but I’m not a very good liar.

  Mr. Gant unlocks the doors into the administration building and points to a chair in his office. I sit down while he disables the alarm. I feel my palms getting soggy. I wipe them on my jeans, but I leave streaks where I do so.

  “This has been a very bad day for me, Keene,” Mr. Gant says as he enters his office. “Do you know why?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Because of you, Keene—because of an honor student.” Gant is still standing. I feel defenseless sitting in this chair, having to turn around to face him. “I get a call at six in the morning today from the president of the school board. He reads me your whole letter.”

  “Really?” I say, not nearly as upset by this news as I’m sure Mr. Gant would like me to be.

  “Let me see your hands,” he says, shifting gears. I do as I’m told. I’m sure I’m busted. Little beads of sweat are forming on my knuckles as Mr. Gant examines my hands, particularly the index fingers.

  “Well, if you had anything to do with the spray-painting, you did a fine job of washing your hands.”

  “I didn’t do it, sir,” I say.

  “Frankly, I was surprised you showed up here at all today,” says Gant, returning to the subject of my letter. “I heard about some of the stunts you pulled with Shawn Greeley this morning. I’ve just wondered how responsible you are for everything that’s happened today.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “We’re in the middle of some crisis involving a student being kicked out of the honor society. From what I understand, you’ve been telling people it’s a racial issue.”

  “Well, sir, you know that—”

  “Don’t try to convince me it’s true, son. I had Mr. Twilley for history when I was your age. He’s one of the best teachers I’ve ever had—high school or college. I believe you made an A in his class. That’s quite an achievement in itself. Do you suppose he didn’t notice you were black?” Gant runs his fingers through his thinning hair. “Bottom line? All he cares about is whether students—any students—learn the material he’s teaching.”

  Finally he decides to sit down.

  “Then, on top of that, I’ve heard that none of the black football players plan to play for the rest of the season and that they’re protesting Slave Day. I haven’t been able to get to the bottom of this one, but I’ve heard some pretty outrageous stories about what happened. Someone’s spreading a lot of misinformation. Could this be part of the master plan, Keene?”

  “Master plan?”

  “Did you know that every car in the parking lot with a Confederate flag bumper sticker on it has been egged?”

  I think immediately of Melvin and Rashard. “No, sir.”

  Gant studies me for a moment. “Well maybe you don’t, but you sure haven’t helped matters here on campus today. You know Slave Day is supposed to be fun for students. It’s been a favorite event since I went here, but real frankly, it’s not worth the aggravation. How would you like the rest of the students here thinking that you ruined one of the best-loved traditions on campus?” I try to keep a forlorn look on my face while Gant pulls what looks like a cough syrup bottle along with a teaspoon out of one of his top drawers, pours himself a spoonful, and gulps it. As he does so, the phone on his desk rings.

  “Gant,” he says when he answers it. Then I hear him say something like, “Yes, Mrs. Guzaldo.” It’s tough to decide what they’re talking about, but it sure seems to upset Mr. Gant, who proceeds to pull an aspirin bottle out of his medicine drawer. He mentions Timm Trimble several times. And then he says, “No, Mrs. Guzaldo, it’s not our intention to sponsor activities that put our girls in compromising positions.”

  Laurence has talked about the Guzaldo girl before, says she’s the smartest girl in the sophomore class. Laurence, of course, believes he’s the smartest boy, which he probably is. And I didn’t want to be compared to Laurence. You know, when he’s up on stage in a couple years, giving that valedictory speech, he’ll do more for blacks in Deerfield than Sleepy or Melvin or Rashard ever will. As long as I’m being honest … more than I ever will either.

  Gant looks up. The surprised look on his face makes me think the telephone call has made him forget that I’m still here. He pushes one hand into his temple and waves me out of his office with the other. The last thing I hear as I’m leaving is Gant saying, “Mrs. Guzaldo, I can assure you nothing like this will happen here again.”

  CLINT

  9:20 P.M. Bonfire

  It’s official. I’m a single man.

  I knew it was comin’, so when Jen broke into that, “You know, Clint, I don’t think we …” line, I just cut her short.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” I said.

  “I hope we can still be friends,” she said.

  “Uh-huh,” I answered.

  She pulled the trigger as I drove us both back to the high school after we dropped Annabella off at her home. Annabella was lookin’ healthier by the time we got there. Jen sat with her in the backseat on the way. They were whisperin’ stuff that I couldn’t hear. Probably better I couldn’t. When I pulled into the school, I blazed over the speed bumps, and I was surprised when Jen caught a good foot and a half of air—on purpose.

  She hugged me when she got out of the Jeep. She told me that I owed her a box of cookies. Then she headed up to the old baseball field where the senior class builds the bonfire. I spotted Alex comin’ outta the field house, so I jogged over to tell him what I thought of the JV’s piss-poor effort against Liberty Valley, but as it turned out, the JV scored three fourth-quarter touchdowns to win the game. Figures I missed it. And for what?

  As we walk over to the bonfire, Damien joins us, and I tell ’em ’bout me ’n’ Jen splittin’ and ’bout havin’ to pull Trim offa Madonna.

  “What a dick!” Alex says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  The Future Farmer guys start dousin’ the railroad ties and cedars at the bottom of the bonfire with gasoline. Pretty soon the whole thing’s ablaze. Everyone has to take a few steps back. The band starts playin’ “Dixie.” I turn to see if Damien’s singin’ these dirty lyrics he made up for the song, but he’s disappeared. The cheerleaders begin their first routine right in front of where Alex and I are standin’.

  I check out Trinni Rea, and I swear she’s lookin’ straight at me. Everyone says she looks just like that SI swimsuit model, the Norwegian one. I’m diggin’ the way she dances, all sexy, and the way she looks away when I catch her checkin’ me out. They end the cheer with some line ’bout how “We’re Red Hot!”

  “Yes, they are,” Alex says in my ear.

  High fiveage.

  TIFFANY

  9:25 P.M. Bonfire

  After Brendan assures Daddy that everything has been taken care of, I drive him up to school to see if we can catch any part of the bonfire, and he asks me how old I was when some picture in my locker was taken.

  “What picture?” I ask.

  “You know, that one with you and your grandfather—well, I guess it’s your grandfather. Anyway, you’re holding a present in your hands.” Brendan demonstrates the pose.

  “Oh, that,” I say. “That was in my locker when I got it. It’s not me.”

  “Yeah, I guess it wouldn’t be,” he mutters. Then he starts whistling. The boy is a case.

  Once we reach the school, I park the Probe all the way out in the faculty parking lot and hike up toward the festivities. Eventually I find Rainy and Suzi. They’re standing at the edge of the ring of fire—the spot farthest from the Rebel band. The scuffling of Keds lets me know that the ubiquitous Brendan is still tailing me. Suzi hands me her forty-four-ounce Road Warrior mug as I join the conversation. Instant Bacardi party.

  “Kill me now,” whimpers Rainy as she takes the vessel from my hand and slugs down a lungful. Her eyes roll back in her head.

  “Pardon the girl. It’s that special time of the month,” Suzi says.

  “She hides it we
ll,” I say. “At least the Central basketball team can sleep a bit easier tonight.”

  “Feels like … someone … stuck knife … in stomach … twisting …,” Rainy’s voice quivers with each syllable. Her pain is convincing. She ought to try the method approach in all her work.

  “Are you there, God? It’s me, Rainy,” I add.

  “Die, bitch,” she hisses in response.

  “There, there, hon,” says Suz. “This is just nature’s way of celebrating your womanhood.”

  The cursed one grunts in agony.

  “Can I get you something? Some aspirin, maybe?”

  I glance behind me and see it’s a concerned Brendan who’s spoken. My friends stop talking and stare at my slave like he’s just asked them if they’re interested in a three-way.

  “A shotgun,” is Rainy’s suggestion. It’s pretty clear she doesn’t want it for herself.

  “Uh, yeah, okay, um, I’m sorry,” says Brendan.

  TOMMY

  9:26 P.M. Bonfire

  The chant starts almost as soon as we get there. I was counting on that. I let it build. Then when it seems like everyone at the bonfire is screaming for the Speller, I turn to Twilley.

  “You’re on, slave,” I say.

  Twilley’s eyes grow into cue balls.

  “Tommy, you can’t mean …”

  “You’re the man,” I shout. By now it’s the only way he’ll hear me. “It’ll be just like old times.” The way he gawks at me—he knows that I know. “Come on. I want to see the master at work.”

  For a split second, I see something there. A gleam, like he’s far away or somewhere back in time. And I think he might do it. But then it’s gone, and I’m positive that nothing I could say or do would make him get up in front of Lee High and perform.

  By now students around me are pushing me toward the fire, away from Mr. Twilley. I quit fighting them. I’ve got a duty. I jog to an open spot and students scream. I arc my body, and the school whispers R. I keep going, letter by letter, but my heart isn’t really in it.

  SHAWN

  9:31 P.M. Bonfire

  I convinced Keene that it would be better for everyone if we just went our separate ways after school. I had a lot of work left organizing the party. He seemed more than happy to split up.

  First thing I did was I had this office aide sneak into the teachers lounge and make us a couple hundred flyers. They’re tight. At the top they say LEE HIGH’S FOOTBALL GAME FRIDAY NIGHT WILL BE BLACKED OUT LOCALLY. I’m always amazed how much shit you can get by white people. There’s probably not a black student here who doesn’t know about the party, and I’ll bet you only three white people in school even have a clue, one of ’em being Jason Cohen—half of the Zebra Posse—and he don’t know he’s white. Priscilla has no clue. I’m sure she’d advise me against doin’ what I’m doin’, but she’ll get a secret thrill about “acting in my stead” at tomorrow night’s game.

  The ag boys have already fired up the bonfire when the band breaks into our fight song, “Dixie.” You know what? I can listen to that whole song, and all I think about is draining three-pointers. I don’t think for a minute about Colonel Sanders–lookin’ dudes whippin’ my ancestors and makin’ ’em change their name to Willie. Dumb me.

  The band finishes, and it’s time for me to free the slaves. It took Lincoln a war and an amendment to the Constitution. I do it with the sound of my voice. “We’d like to thank all the slaves and owners for making Slave Day such a success. I know I had a cotton-pickin’ good time.” Laughter. Much laughter. “But all good things must pass—that’s what my gramma always tells me—so let it be known that, as of this minute, all slaves are free!” The drum corps bangs out an appropriate racket, and my duties for the day are complete.

  Humphrey and the rest of the football players didn’t show up for the bonfire. Now don’t get me wrong—I love the boy. It’s just that he always had more pride than savvy. He’s gonna spend the next four years in some backwoods town playing in front of nobody. Ain’t no scouts gonna see him. Ain’t gonna be nothin’ to do on weekends. He’s gonna be tellin’ all the other nobodies there that that’s his friend on TV, the one with the ball, the one takin’ it strong to the hoop, the one gettin’ interviewed after the game. Ain’t nobody gonna believe him.

  I spot Keene across the way from me. He’s lookin’ all confused. And the poor boy doesn’t even know what he’s gotten himself into yet.

  Tomorrow night’s party’ll be hype. I’ll ditch my date early. There’s a couple sophomores I’ve had my eye on. Plus, we can’t forget amazon Denise. I’ll call up Mr. Denhart sometime tomorrow mornin’. Tell him I got stomach cramps or the flu or something, really play it up for him. Then, when this whole thing settles down, I’ll be right back where I started—without a care in the world.

  Yeah, tell me ’bout politics.

  JENNY

  9:33 P.M. Bonfire

  I tell our dance team sponsor, Miss Taylor, that Annabella’s sick and won’t be able to make it to the bonfire.

  “She was healthy enough to make it to school today,” says Miss Taylor as she jots down Annabella’s name on the demerit list. Then the former Texas Junior Miss examines me critically. “Check your buttons, dear.”

  I look down and discover my blouse is buttoned up wrong. I’ve got an extra buttonhole by my neck.

  “And where’s your lipstick, young lady?”

  Miss Taylor says the last two words totally sarcastically. She’s got her painted eyebrows raised up to her wigline.

  “I think Heidi Fleiss still has it,” I say, and before Miss Taylor thinks of anything else to say, I sink into the line of other Rebelettes.

  All the girls are talking about tomorrow night’s homecoming dance. Everyone wants to know what everyone else is wearing and where they’re going to eat afterward—and, in the case of girls without boyfriends, who they’re going with. Sandy and Sherri are mouthing off because their boyfriends rented a limo for the dance. Sherri takes a break from telling us about the TV in the backseat to ask me what Clint and I are going to do.

  “Nothing,” I say. “We broke up.”

  And all of a sudden it’s like a funeral. Everyone is trying to console me. Tell me everything will be okay. I know that some of the girls putting their arms around me now will be the same ones who “just bump into” Clint after the bonfire. No matter how many times I say, “I’m all right,” someone else comes up and says, “But no, really, how are you feeling?” Everyone is using baby talk with me. It’s driving me crazy.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see a flash. Damien’s taking pictures of the bonfire for the yearbook. He’s a sweet guy. A girl couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend—sensitive, funny, smart, cute in his own way. I smile, thinking about the note he wrote me this morning, and I wonder how long he’ll wait for me in the yearbook room. He’ll be a real prince of a boyfriend.

  But for someone else, not me.

  I’m nobody’s girl. And I’m fine.

  TOMMY

  9:35 P.M. Bonfire

  Once I’m done spelling, I kinda want to stick around and tell Twilley I’m sorry for putting him on the spot like that, but I can’t push my luck timewise. Probably every Whataburger fryboy is already whining to Miguel about me getting “special privileges.” Besides, Twilley’s likely halfway home already, wonderin’ why in the hell he put himself through Slave Day and cursin’ the fact he ended up with me and not some egghead.

  I’m cuttin’ through the crowd tryin’ to avoid any one of my “bad crowd” friends who’ll lure me into stayin’ longer. That’s when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn and see it’s Twilley. He’s shoutin’ somethin’ at me, but that band has kicked in again, and I can’t hear a word of it. Maybe this is where I get bitched out. He leads me outside the circle, where it’s not so loud.

  “I’ve got something for you,” Twilley says. His hand reaches inside his coat pocket, and it makes me think of the scene in Reservoir Dogs where Chris Penn pulls out
a .44 and executes that cop. Twilley doesn’t murder me, though. He takes a small pad from his pocket and scribbles something on it and hands it to me. “This is the number of an admissions officer up at Central. He used to be a student of mine.”

  I’ve got no idea where he’s going with this, but I take the slip from him and stuff it in my pocket.

  “Tell him I suggested you call. They have a lot of work-study programs available to students who can’t afford college. They might let you in on probation.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I say. “Hey, I wanted to tell you—I wasn’t tryin’ to embarrass you back there. I just thought it might be fun. I mean, for you, even.”

  “That’s what I thought,” he says, glancing back up toward the fire, before looking at me again. “Stop by my room sometime and let me know what you find out when you call.”

  “All right,” I say. “Why’d you do it, anyway?”

  At first I think I’m going to need to explain the question, tell him I’m talking about why he volunteered for Slave Day, but he just answers.

  “You know, Thomas, I couldn’t tell you.”

  That’ll have to do. We shake hands, and I walk back out to my truck. When I get there I pull the number out of my pocket. At first I’m having trouble imagining a student of his ever wanting to do him a favor. But when I think about Twilley bellowing Partridge’s lines or hunting me down in the cafeteria or bussing tables at Whataburger, I decide it could happen.

  I open the door of the pickup and pull my uniform back over my T-shirt. Sliding into the cab, I open my ashtray and cram the slip of paper in. It’s time to go back to work.

  TIFFANY

  9:41 P.M. Bonfire

  One of the Booster Moms, dolled up in a red and gray puff-painted sweatshirt swaddling a well-larded body, wanders up to the three of us and asks if we’re interested in buying a spirit button. (“Yes, and can I get an Epilady and a brain tumor with that?”) I stick my hand in my pocket, since Daddy always tells me to buy whatever trinkets the local citizenry are peddling, but I make the snappy realization that I never got my shake change from B-boy. I look around, but he’s nowhere to be found. It must be his bedtime. I explain to Madre Spiritus that she’ll have to catch me next time.