by Joe Meno
During her lunch period, Amelia takes a confident position in front of the Coca-Cola machine in one of the corners of the cafeteria. She holds her hands out when a young freshman tries to get herself a soda pop, bravely announcing:
“Do you have any idea of how many third world workers have died just so you can have a can of Coke? Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Do you know Coke has its own death squads in Central America? Do you know they won’t let their workers in Colombia have a union?”
The girl, shy, with enormous silver braces, shakes her head. “I didn’t know,” she says.
“The storm cloud of capitalism casts its shadow over everything,” Amelia declares. “But communism is on the march. We can overcome corporate greed if we all just work together.”
The girl nods and stumbles off, unsure of what has just happened, staring down at the unspent change in her palm. A few minutes later, another student, a lanky boy wearing silver headphones, approaches the soda machine, counting out the shiny quarters in his hand. Amelia leaps in front of him, her cloud costume awkwardly chafing her neck.
“Did you know that last year an independent study was conducted by the Center for Science and Environment in India and they found that Coke had thirty times the legal amount of pesticides in their drinks, pesticides which lead to cancer and totally destroy the immune system?”
The boy is silent, trying to understand what she is asking.
“Did you also know that Coca-Cola is made with high fructose corn syrup, which has links to obesity and type two diabetes, and that Coca-Cola knowingly uses this ingredient instead of something else because it’s a lot cheaper?”
“Why are you telling me all of this?” the boy asks, looking from the sparkling change in his hand up to Amelia’s shiny face.
“I’m telling you all of this because I’m trying to keep you from making a terrible mistake.”
“Don’t you have something better to do?” the boy asks quietly. He forces his change into the pop machine, grabs his Coke, and then walks off without glancing back.
A few minutes later, a third student, a surly-looking senior with a wadded-up dollar bill in his fist, approaches the soda machine. He pushes past Amelia with such force that he bends a large corner of the cloud outfit. “Nice potato costume,” the large boy mutters, quickly inserting his dollar bill.
“Excuse me?” Amelia asks.
“I said nice potato costume.”
“It’s supposed to be a cloud, dipshit.”
Amelia sneers at him, but the boy ignores her, snatching his can of soda pop, happily strolling away.
After an hour of this, of the self-centered guffaws, of the mediocre wisecracks, of the unintelligent answers, Amelia gives up and finally removes the cloud outfit. She forces it inside her locker, irreparably crushing it—the cloud now looking more like a misshapen fruit or malformed rock—before she rushes off to her English class.
WHEN AMELIA STRIDES into the school newspaper’s office after fifth period, she expects to be greeted as a journalistic hero, like Woodward or Bernstein, or like somebody else famous for standing up for something, but instead she finds she has been summarily demoted to “Culture Vulture,” the lowest of the student newspaper’s ranks. Mr. Wick tells her this without looking her in the eyes once.
“I think, with your intelligence, you will be able to add a new level of scrutiny to the assignment.”
“What am I supposed to be covering, Mr. Wick? Football games? Pep rallies?”
“Well, there’s popular music. And also television.”
“Television? Are you serious?”
“You might find it a great challenge.”
“Well, who’s going to be the paper’s editor if I’m not?”
“Well, Mr. Stuart, he, well, he insisted on finding someone that better represented the personality of the school.”
“Who? Who is it?”
“William Banning.”
“William Banning? He’s the president of student council. How can he be the editor of the school paper? Don’t you understand anything about checks and balances?”
“Amelia, I know you’re upset, but you have to understand this is only a small school paper, after all.”
“Maybe to you. But I don’t believe there’s such a thing as a small revolution. You fired me and put someone totally unqualified in my place. And now you want me to write about TV shows. This, this is a complete joke. William Banning? You got to be fucking kidding me,” she shouts, storming out of the Midway’s office, her neck turning red, a prickly sensation beginning to rise. She can feel it happening, the intolerable itching, a formation of pinkish hives spreading all along her bare arms, her neck, her wrists. Amelia tosses her books on the ground, holding her speckled hands over her face. Two seniors, Bret Standler and Mickey Dupre, stare at Amelia as they pass. One of them whispers what Amelia thinks she hears as “Lezbo.” Amelia glances up at them and hisses, “I will fucking destroy you!” The surprised boys, like two frightened animals, quickly hurry off.
HAVING SKIPPED lunch in order to challenge the empire of American capitalism, Amelia decides to ditch her sixth-period class so she can buy an enchilada. She sits alone in the rear of the rectangular cafeteria with the wormy little freshmen. As she’s unhappily eating, someone takes a seat beside her. It is a boy, a tall, skinny boy with blond hair, wearing a blue sweater. Amelia glances at him out of the corners of her eyes and feels her whole body tighten. It is William Banning, the student council president, the new editor of the school paper, and her greatest arch-nemesis of all time.
“Amelia?”
She ignores him.
“I just…I just wanted to say how awesome it’s going to be working with you. I think…I think your stories are really good. I mean, the last one…the one about the lunch ladies—”
“Cafeteria workers,” she corrects, still refusing to look his way.
“Right, the cafeteria workers, well, that was, I mean, that was really insightful and like everyone was talking about how great it was.”
“Wonderful,” she hisses, shoving another forkful of enchilada in her mouth.
“And, well, I thought…I was hoping, you know, that it would be cool…I mean, I’m really excited to have…the opportunity to be working with you.”
Amelia slams down her fork and faces him. His nose is crooked, she realizes. His eyes are gray and he is not as handsome as she had thought he was. She stares at him, narrowing her eyes and clenching her teeth. “The only reason they asked you to be editor of the paper is because this school is just like this country. It’s full of cowards. You and I are not going to be friends or buddies or whatever you had planned. As far as I’m concerned, you don’t even exist. And if you even try editing my work, I will totally emasculate you.” She sighs, then turns again, lifting up her fork.
“Oh…okay, well…I just wanted to…I just wanted to try and make sure things were, you know, cool.”
“William. I think you are a total imbecile. Someday soon, like in college, or whatever, you’re going to find that nobody cares that you were a track star or were on the stupid student council. This place, this place has nothing to do with the real world. Until then, just leave me alone, okay?”
“You really don’t like yourself very much, do you?” William asks, then stands and quickly walks off. Amelia sets down her fork and stares down at the miserable food on her plate, then throws it in the trash with an inaudible scream. As she does this, she sees the backs of her hands are now covered in bright red spots.
AMELIA DITCHES MOST of her last-period class and heads over to the university to find Professor Dobbs. She waits at the back of the lecture hall, a gaggle of bright-eyed girls surrounding him, batting their stupid eyelashes, gushing like cheerleaders. Professor Dobbs, seeing Amelia there, smiles, and in one silent move he winks his eye at her, revealing his disdain for the noisy, girlish exuberance around him. Finally they are alone, and, placing his hand on her shoulder, he says, feigning disappointment, “
Amelia, I would love to spend a few moments with you but I’ve got a four o’clock meeting with the dean. Maybe sometime later this week?”
Amelia nods, looking away, “Sure, I mean, it’s not like…a big deal. I just thought…”
Professor Dobbs checks his watch and then, glancing around, he leans close and says, “Okay. We’ve got ten minutes.”
AMELIA FINDS HER FACE in Professor Dobbs’s lap again. In the faculty parking lot, behind the questionable cover of the Saab’s tinted windows, Amelia sighs, closing her eyes, bobbing her head up and down. She hides her spotted skin from him, gently pushing his hands away from the hives that have appeared all over her body. When he ejaculates, it ruins her dark gray blouse.
AFTER THAT, Amelia sulks in her room, playing her French music much too loudly. She switches CD after CD, from Edith Piaf to Brigitte Fontaine to Air. Anything foreign, anything sad, anything that suits her shitty mood. After a half hour of this, her sister, Thisbe, knocks at her door. When Amelia doesn’t answer, Thisbe slowly opens it, poking her head in.
“Amelia? Hey. Um? Are you sleeping?”
“There’s a reason my door’s closed, asshole! Stay the fuck out of my room or I will waste you!”
Amelia rears up out of her bed and shoves the door against her sister’s head, locking it closed. Amelia’s hives have not gone away. She has taken like a hundred Benadryl, she has put clear calamine lotion all over her arms and neck, she has tried to lie in her stupid bed and just relax, but nothing is working. She falls back onto the mattress, closing her eyes, pulling the pillow over her head, but her sister keeps knocking. Amelia, furious now, leaps to her feet and rips the bedroom door open. Thisbe, wide-eyed, takes a step back, cowering a little.
“Why don’t you leave me the fuck alone! Or are you too stupid to understand English?”
Thisbe backs away toward the staircase, looking at her sister with trembling lips. “I didn’t do anything wrong…Dad told me to come get you…”
“What?”
“He said we’re all going to visit Grandpa now.”
“Well, tell him to fuck off. I’m not going.”
“He said we both had to go.”
Amelia slams the door, pulling at her hair, throwing herself on the bed.
“I am not fucking going,” she whispers, starting to cry, the sores on her arms beginning to shine and blister. “I refuse to fucking go. I am sick of being pushed around. I am not going to go.” She rolls over and switches the CD. Searching through her stacks of jewel cases, she finds a Sylvia Vartan album and pops it in, turning the volume up as loud as it will go.
Moments later, there is another knock. It is Thisbe again, now wearing her gray jacket. She is holding Amelia’s black coat in her hand. “Dad said to stop pouting. And he wants you to bring your radio.”
AT THE FAR END of her grandfather’s hospital bed, Amelia does her best to avoid his sunken face. He does not look like her grandfather anymore. He is not smiling. His eyes are weak-looking, only flicking open every few moments. His body seems to have shrunk. He looks like he is made of twigs. Finally Amelia has to look away, glancing anywhere but at his feeble shape, her eyes darting from the television set—which is on, though muted—to the plastic cafeteria tray beside her grandfather’s bed. And in doing so, Amelia catches sight of something sitting on top of her grandfather’s dresser. Almost at once, she sees it: a small silver airplane, an old metal toy, just about the size of her open hand. Help me, the airplane calls out to her. I do not belong here. I could be something more than what I am. Make something useful of me. It is perfect. It is the perfect addition to whatever it is she is supposed to be building. Amelia quietly marches over to inspect the toy plane and, looking over her shoulder to be sure her father or sister are not watching her, she stealthily slips it inside her purse.
When Amelia turns around again she sees that her stupid sister Thisbe is holding her grandfather’s hand. Thisbe is brushing his thin white hair with a black comb and kissing his forehead like a newborn baby. “There, now you look handsome,” Thisbe says. Amelia rolls her eyes. No one notices. Their father is busy plugging in Amelia’s CD player. Finding an open outlet behind the hospital bed, he turns it on, adjusting the volume carefully.
“Look what we brought you, Dad,” Amelia’s father says, placing the radio beside the old man’s bed. “Listen.” He opens the CD tray and puts in an unlabeled disc, then hits play. Immediately the tiny white-tiled room is filled with the warm swell of violins and trumpets, a slow bass beat tapping along with muted drums. Thisbe claps, then, taking her grandpa’s hands, she pretends to dance with him.
“It’s Glenn Miller, Dad. You always said you liked Glenn Miller.”
Amelia’s grandfather nods. He measures his words carefully, already down to four. “I’ll miss you all,” he says, his eyes momentarily bright again.
Amelia frowns. She doesn’t say anything. She watches her dumb little sister trying to dance with her crippled grandfather, detached, disconnected, uninterested in any of it. Her father takes a seat beside the bed, holding the portable player in his lap. “I brought some Woody Herman, too, Dad. The girls here, they thought it would cheer you up.”
Their grandpa nods, his face expressionless.
“You’re not going to die, Grandpa,” Thisbe chirps. “We’ve been praying for you.”
Their grandpa does not seem impressed by that. He closes his eyes as Thisbe continues to move his hands about, still pretending to dance. Amelia sighs, glancing out the small window at the top of a line of trees. She stares down at her watch, then out the window at the trees again.
“Amelia, tell your grandpa about what you’ve been doing. Dad, Amelia is writing for her school paper. She’s doing very well.”
Amelia rolls her eyes.
“I don’t know, it’s just stupid stuff. About school and stuff.”
“Maybe we can take him for a walk,” Thisbe suggests.
“I don’t think he’s strong enough yet,” their dad explains. “Maybe in a couple of days.”
“Maybe never,” Amelia says to herself under her breath.
“How about some Woody Herman, Dad?” Amelia’s father asks. He pops open the CD tray and exchanges the discs. “Listen to this, Dad, do you remember this one?”
Her grandpa closes his eyes, smiling, maybe nodding off.
Amelia shakes her head, standing up, anxious. Her father frowns at her. “What’s the matter, kiddo?”
“It’s really depressing being here. I mean, he doesn’t even recognize us.”
“He recognizes you guys.”
“No. It’s like we’re totally bothering him.”
Her father nods. “Okay. Well, why don’t you go take a little walk or something?”
“Where? It’s all like old people out there.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you, Amelia. Your grandfather’s not doing so well. He might not be with us for much longer. You need to be a little more considerate. If you want to go wait in the car, you can. But I think you ought to say goodbye to him for now at least.”
Amelia crosses her arms in front of her chest. Her hives, still itchy, are now dull and fleshy. She stands beside her sister, leans over her grandfather, and kisses his wrinkly cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispers and then rushes out, taking the car keys from her father.
ON THE RIDE HOME, Amelia stares out the passenger-side window, watching as the dark skyline flashes by. Without looking at her father, she suddenly asks, “Did Mom move out?”
“I don’t know,” he says without heat. “I think she’s taking some time for herself right now.”
“Well, I think it’s ridiculous that you guys aren’t getting divorced. I mean, like why do you guys keep acting like everything is going to be fine?” She looks over at her dad, but he is pretending to be busy driving and does not answer. When the Peugeot nearly stalls at the next stoplight, her dad glances in the rearview mirror at Thisbe, then over at Amelia, and whispers, “Amelia. Someday you�
��re going to have to learn that being nice is much more important than being able to say everything you think.”
BUT THE VOLVO is parked in the garage when they arrive home. Amelia, in the passenger seat, almost smiles seeing it. Then she actually does, turning away from her father, the slightest grin appearing on her face. The family stumbles lifelessly into the house and Madeline, sitting before the television, says hello. That is all. No one asks her where she’s been. No one asks how long she is going to stay. No one tries to talk. The family, for one brief moment, all glance at each other, then cross silently into their separate worlds, Amelia and Thisbe climbing upstairs, Madeline returning to the television, Jonathan closing the door of the den, all of them disappearing without another word.
AMELIA, FINALLY ALONE in her room again, hunches over the nearly finished explosive device lying on her desk. The dresser drawer of stolen and found items hangs open across the room, the tragic voices of these disposed and disposable products no longer crying. Instead there is only an odd metallic hum, as if each object is quietly vibrating. Amelia hardly notices this strange sound, however. In front of her on the desk is the silver digital watch stolen from the principal’s secretary. There is the cigarette case from Professor Dobbs. There is the old metal airplane belonging to her grandfather. She will use them all. She will take these mass-produced, insignificant objects, the detritus of a rampant capitalist system, and make something meaningful out of them. The silver watch will be the bomb’s timer. The matches from the professor’s cigarette case will be torn from their matchbook, their flammable heads will be carefully clipped off from their paper necks, and then they will be refashioned as the bomb’s main explosive. The old metal toy itself—once hollow—will become the bomb’s container, the vessel, once it is packed fully with the match-heads and mixed with some black fireworks powder, which Amelia thinks she still has somewhere in her room, the remnants of a failed science project from last year. Carefully, Amelia will insert the lead wires through the plane’s cockpit—the object’s only opening—and then she will close up the cockpit with several passes of black electrical tape. Before she does any of that, though, she has to get her hands to stop shaking. She glances from the three newly liberated objects to the spools of tiny red and black wires, comparing these components to the diagram on her computer screen. With her hands still trembling, she begins snipping off the match heads with a small pair of scissors. She holds her breath with each cut, until there are enough match heads to begin to place inside the silver airplane. One by one, she slips them through the cockpit’s opening, trying to avoid any sort of friction. And somehow the amateur pipe bomb does not explode.
