Alan Cole Is Not a Coward

by Eric Bell

  “I’ve lost it all.”

  When I shift my feet, the floorboards creak. She looks up, mutters a hasty good-bye to Denise, and watches me from across the room. “You should be in bed,” she says.

  “I got thirsty,” I say.

  She folds her hands over her lap. Standing in the living room doorway I remember how she smiled at me when I came home with a gold star for a great drawing, and how she laughed when I told a knock-knock joke I overheard at recess, and how she hugged me when I fell and scraped my knee. Her face had fewer lines then. I also remember how light a sleeper she is, how she hears everything that goes on between me and Nathan, how she’s backed away from me, left me raw and naked against the hawk’s talons. How all the glasses of orange juice in the world can’t wash down the acid brewing below our throats.

  A fortune cookie should ask, what makes somebody disappear? What makes them accept a painful situation, shut down, retreat away from the people they care about? How do you bring someone you love back from the depths?

  Can you?

  “Get some sleep,” Mom says. “Tomorrow’s another day.” She smiles a worn smile and turns back to the TV.

  I’ve lost it all.

  I stand there for Lord knows how long, watching her, zonked out in front of the news. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I just watch.

  Emphasis.

  SEVEN

  “And once again, I would like to remind all students that toilet paper is to be used for bathroom purposes only, and not for decorating your locker or book bag.”

  All around me, snickers. Rudy Brighton yells, “What if we have an accident in the middle of class?”

  “Guess you’ll need to buy a new book bag,” Miss Richter says. She takes a sip from her thermos. “Now be quiet and pay attention.”

  From the loudspeaker, Principal Dorset’s voice blares out in all its grainy quality. “Finally, today we have our class president elections for Saplings, Sprouts, and Shrubs. The candidates for each grade will take part in a debate, with questions posed by their peers. I want to stress how we must all be on our best behavior. Do not ask questions which are lewd, offensive, or banal.”

  “Why is everybody looking at me?” Rudy asks, pointing at himself with both thumbs and grinning.

  “Nobody’s looking at you, geez,” Sheila Carter grumbles.

  Connor leans in toward me. “What’s ‘banal’ mean?” he whispers.

  Oh God, I can smell the spearmint gum on his breath. “C-Cliché. Unoriginal. Boring.”

  “What does that have to do with being offensive?” Connor asks.

  I shrug. “Maybe he doesn’t know what the word means.”

  Connor laughs, which makes Miss Richter sigh. “Can’t we keep it together for one round of morning announcements?” she asks.

  “I don’t know, Miss Richter,” Rudy says, “you’d have to be pretty morning announce-mental to not find this stuff funny.”

  Sheila moans. “Please kill me.”

  When the announcements are done, Miss Richter stands up. “Let’s all wish Talia the best of luck against Bridget Harvey today.”

  Talia’s eyes look like they’re going to set anything in their path on fire. “I don’t need luck. I’m going to crush her.”

  “If you win, can you fix the water fountains?” Zack asks. (He made it to homeroom at the last possible second today, picking leaves out of his bird’s-nest hair. Don’t ask.) “All the ones I’ve used, the water barely comes out, it’s like a little trickle, and it tastes stale, like you wouldn’t think water could get stale, but all our water fountains really taste like water that’s been left in plastic bottles in somebody’s warm car at the beach for the whole summer. You should make that a top priority. ‘Talia Fountain-Fixing MacDonald.’ I’d vote for you.”

  “I’m not answering that,” Talia says. “Do I have to answer that? I’m not answering that.”

  Rudy blows a raspberry. “Some debater. You should run for Congress. Hey, did you know the opposite of Congress is progress? Get it? It’s funny because—”

  Miss Richter cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “Be respectful, and don’t make bad jokes. Set the bar high, Rudy.”

  When the bell rings, Zack turns to me and says, “So here’s how you’re going to save my life. We’ll find a giant pendulum from somewhere, maybe in the theater closet, and I’ll tie myself up underneath, and you’ll rush in heroically and save the day before I’m sliced into little Zack cubes. Or crushed by Discovering America. Sound good?”

  I sigh. “Do I want to know?”

  “How else are you going to get well-known?” he asks. “It makes complete sense. Save a life, make the front page of the Evergreen Leaf Blower, and you’ll be Mr. Well-Known. Your brother can’t compete with that!” He makes two thumbs-up and wiggles them above his head.

  “I’m not doing that,” I say flatly, like I’ve said to everything else he’s suggested.

  “Come on, haven’t you ever wanted to be a superhero? Now’s your chance. You can be Alan Man. Or Swimmer Dude. Yeah, that’s it—I’ll pretend to drown, and you save my life. Bravissimo!”

  “I can’t swim. Remember?”

  Zack’s thumbs in the air slowly deflate. “Oh yeah.”

  I told Zack and Madison everything about CvC yesterday, except the stakes—as far as they’re concerned, I won’t be able to do any art for a year if I lose, and not . . . the actual punishment. Now they know what I have to do, what I’m up against. They said they’d still try to help me win, and I wasn’t sure if I should’ve said “thank you” or “what size paper bag would best fit my head?” Madison got excited about coaching me on how to get my first kiss. I think I’d rather get kissing advice from a hungry lion.

  “Gentlemen,” Madison says as we all exit homeroom. “I’ve got it. I know how Alan is going to become well-known.”

  “Is he going to save your life too?” Zack asks. “I’ve got dibs on the pendulum. That’s going to be sooooo cool.” He holds a hand to his forehead like he’s going to faint from excitement.

  Madison looks at Zack like he’s trying to scrape the guy off his shoe, then he focuses on me again. “You’re going to ask a question at the debate today.”

  “At the debate?” My stomach churns. “In front of all the seventh graders?”

  “Not just Saplings. The other grades will be there too. That’s why it’s perfect. You’ll ask a deep and meaningful question and bring attention to a serious problem—”

  “Like fixing the water fountains!” Zack yells.

  “I can’t.” My voice drowns in the crowd of kids in the halls. “I can’t do it.”

  Madison stops walking, reaches up, and grabs my shoulders; Zack promptly crashes into Madison’s back. “Alan, listen to me,” Madison says, jerking his body away from Zack’s. “You can do this. You have to do this. If you ask the right question, people won’t just remember you: they’ll remember you as a hero. I’ll brainstorm questions for you to ask. You’re in good hands!” He rubs his “good hands” together and disappears.

  Of all the horrible misdeeds Nathan’s forced me to perform for CvC, public speaking wasn’t one of them. I’ve made a horse’s keister out of myself lots of times, but getting up in front of a room and saying something? I don’t even think Nathan could’ve made me do that.

  And yet, here I am.

  Like it or not, it’s a good idea: ask a good question at the debate, in front of the whole school, and everyone will know me . . . as some mumbly, tall, white kid. Would it be enough to make me well-known?

  After Nathan left last night, I couldn’t paint at all. Not even the outline of a head. If I lose this, will I ever paint again? Will I ever be relaxed enough, in tune enough, to do anything?

  That old wooden clock of Dad’s in the kitchen keeps ticking. I have a week left, and time doesn’t stop for anyone, certainly not Alan Cole.

  I stop walking, trying to catch my thoughts, and Zack promptly crashes into my back.

&nbs
p; After swimming class (“Today you’re going to move your arms around a little, one at a time, and make sure you really look like you’re working hard when Coach Streit walks by”), it’s time for the assembly. Trying to pack all of Evergreen into one auditorium is hard enough without all the noise that comes with it. It’s like herding yodeling cattle.

  After I check in with Miss Richter, Madison motions me over to a seat with an impatient flutter of his hand. “I’ve been brainstorming,” he practically yells in my ear. “I’ve come up with several amazing ideas.”

  “I can’t do this,” I mumble.

  I don’t know if Madison can’t hear me or if he’s ignoring me; either way he keeps talking. “You need to ask something hard-hitting, something that will make the candidates really stop to think about the issues students face. Here’s a list.” He pulls a sheet of paper out of his backpack; my eyes bulge out at the writing covering both sides of the paper. “Let’s see here . . . newer supplies for classrooms—I have a chart outlining some examples . . . field trips to museums and art exhibits instead of the local paper mill, which could still be exciting, given the right approach . . . updated computer supplies . . . outdated and inaccurate textbooks that incorrectly portray James Madison in an unfavorable light—that’s one you should definitely consider—”

  “I can’t do this,” I repeat. The stage spotlight is on two podiums, and Principal Dorset is talking to both Talia and Bridget Harvey. Talia keeps glancing out at the crowd while Bridget twirls her hair. I guess Principal Dorset tells Bridget to take the gum out of her mouth, because she spits it into a little wrapper, then waves to somebody in the front row.

  “—and that one’s a little confrontational, but you’ll need to be firm if people want to remember you,” Madison keeps going. And going. “If you want my honest opinion, you’re obviously too quiet to be much of a public speaker, so you’ll need to speak clearly. Breathe through your stomach and don’t stutter. Make sure your hair doesn’t fall over your face; only well-groomed people are remembered. Also—”

  Zack slides into the seat next to me. “Help,” I whisper.

  Unlike Madison, Zack has no problem hearing me. “If you’re going to ask a question,” he says, “it’s pretty simple, right?”

  “Excuse me,” Madison says, glaring at Zack. “We were having a conversation.”

  “I thought you needed at least two people for that,” Zack says, sounding surprised. “Wow, I’m learning a lot today.”

  Madison puffs out his cheeks. “Alan does not need your help. He’s in good hands.”

  “I think Alan should be himself,” Zack says.

  Madison flaps his paper, diagrams and charts and all, toward Zack, waving it in front of my face. “It’s much more complicated than that! There are laws and rules and when Alan asks his question—”

  “I can’t do this,” I groan. It’s so loud in here. Why is everything so loud?

  Zack ruffles my hair, which I’m pretty sure nobody has done to me, ever. “Just be yourself,” he says.

  Before Madison can raise another objection, Principal Dorset calls for attention, and the crowd hushes. “Thank you, Evergreen,” he says in his deep, baritone voice. “Today we are engaging in an important part of the democratic process. We will hold three debates here today for each grade’s class president. They will take questions from you, after which you will cast your vote for one of them. I want to remind everyone—”

  “Go Bridget!” yells someone from the front of the auditorium, followed by scattered clapping. Bridget waves and smiles. Talia grips the side of her podium.

  “I want to remind everyone,” Principal Dorset continues, “that you are middle schoolers; we expect you to act like them.” He adjusts his tie. “The Sapling candidates have prepared opening statements. Miss MacDonald, you may go first.”

  Talia adjusts her microphone. She looks down at her podium—and says nothing.

  Someone coughs.

  “When I am class president,” Talia starts, talking very slowly, “I am going to change some things. This will be, um, a school of competition and accountability and promise and, and, and—”

  She drops her opening statement on the stage. Her hands are shaking, and her face is pale, and all her careful acts of confidence have fled out the fire exit. Talia’s doing about as well as I would up there, which is really not what I want to be thinking about right now. A few people in the audience laugh as she scrambles to her feet, adjusting her glasses. “Um, that’s all,” she says quietly. “I’m done.”

  Principal Dorset says something to Talia away from his mic, but she just shakes her head. “Very well,” the principal says. “Miss Harvey?”

  “Thank you, Principal Dorset,” Bridget says, flashing a perfectly white smile. “Being class president is such an important job, and I feel I am the best candidate possible. If elected, I will work to bring students and teachers together, and I will really listen to students’ needs and do my best to serve the class and the school. Thank you very much.”

  More clapping, mostly from the front. “She didn’t say anything!” Madison whispers. “She made a bunch of statements without any examples.”

  “Better than Talia,” Rudy says from Madison’s other side. “Yikes.”

  Miss Richter, standing to the side, shushes them.

  Bridget smooths out her skirt and looks out into the audience, ready for the first question. Talia, however, keeps her eyes locked on her podium, chewing on her lip like her teeth are waging war against the rest of her face.

  This is going to be a slaughter.

  Sure enough, when someone asks the question of what the girls’ favorite school subject is (which doesn’t really seem relevant in a debate, as Madison is quick to grumble about), Bridget chimes in with, “Science and social studies, but I think every class has something to teach.” Talia stammers out, “I—I like school.” More people laugh this time.

  After the third question—“Who’s your favorite band?”—Principal Dorset says, “Remember: this is your chance to ask important questions, to choose the candidate that best represents you.” That makes Madison poke my arm. I look down at the floor. There’s got to be another way I can become well-known. There’s got to be another way I can win the game.

  I look up, and Zack is looking at me, smiling.

  I hear Connor in my head talking about the great Alan Cole.

  I see faces, faces everywhere. One of them could transform into my cretpoj. But my brother will never let me change the world if I don’t stand up to him. It’ll just keep happening, over and over, until there’s no art left inside me. It won’t ever stop unless I make it stop.

  Dang it.

  My hand trembles so much I can barely raise it. But I do.

  And somewhere in this vast auditorium, right now, I know Nathan’s not bored anymore.

  All eyes in the auditorium—every single kid at Evergreen—are on me now. The back of my shirt instantly gets wet. Someone passes the microphone to me. “Stand up,” a kid a few rows in front of me calls, so I slowly get to my feet. It sure is bright when you stand up in the auditorium. Bright and blurry and, oh God, I think I’m going to faint.

  “Do you have a question, young man?” Principal Dorset asks.

  Of course I have a question! Why would I take the mic if I didn’t have a question? But because I am a gigantic moron with a brain the size of a snowflake, I don’t actually have a question. I was too busy being lulled by Zack’s stupid encouragement, and I didn’t bother to come up with one. Clearly this is his fault and not mine. I try to express all of this into the mic, to apologize up and down to the entire school for wasting their time and could they please let me use the little boys’ room, I think I’m having bladder spasms, and my goodness those lights are bright, how can anyone see with those turned on full blast like that, I guess that’s my question, hahaha thanks for letting me share this special time with you, but instead all that comes out of my mouth is, “Bruhgurglefoopfoopfranglepan.”


  “Young man, please ask a question or surrender the mic,” Principal Dorset says. “This debate is a serious process—”

  Now, I don’t know why it happens. I don’t know what triggers it. I don’t know if I’m tackling a serious issue or being myself or spewing out word vomit like I’ve got a vocabulary infection. Whatever the reason, I interrupt Principal Dorset, and I ask: “Where do babies come from?”

  The entire auditorium—no, the entire world—starts howling with laughter. It’s still not sinking in what I’ve asked, what I’ve done, until Madison practically shoves me back into my seat, and between the rippling, roaring waves of laughter from the entire school, I turn to fire and melt into a pool of ash on the floor.

  That probably could’ve gone a little better.

  “Everyone, quiet down!” Principal Dorset yells over the noise. “This is simply unacceptable behavior—you need to be quiet—”

  “Alan,” Zack yells, “Alan, look!”

  I can barely raise my head, but I do anyway: Talia has taken the mic, determination carved into her cheeks. “It’s simple,” she says.

  Then she starts to describe how babies are made.

  In detail.

  She doesn’t get very far before she’s drowned out by even louder laughter, and by Principal Dorset yanking the mic from her grip. She looks more surprised than embarrassed. (Bridget Harvey, by the way, is laughing along with everyone else.)

  Principal Dorset barks into the mic, “Sapling teachers, please take your classes to homeroom. Your debate is over.”

  “What was that?” Madison groans as everyone files up to leave. “What was that? Alan—what was that?”

  “I knew my fortune would come in handy,” Zack says with a wide grin. “Didn’t it, Alan? Didn’t it predict your future?”

  I can’t speak. I can barely move. This was a train wreck of colossal proportions. It can’t get any worse.

  “Alan Cole!” Principal Dorset says into the mic, before we exit the auditorium. “Alan Cole! Stay here. You’re coming with me.”