Against the Grain

by Phil M. Williams

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Matt.”

  Matt stands still.

  “That wasn’t a question,” she says.

  Matt sits, his heart thumping in his chest, his mouth dry.

  Dr. Hansen sits behind her desk. “Now I know you’re used to a more laissez-faire style of life. Do you know what that means, laissez-faire?”

  Matt nods his head.

  “Well, it’s good to know you’ve learned something over the years. What I’m trying to say is that we do things a little more structured than how you grew up. You’ll just have to try a little harder to do what all the other kids are doing. They all find a way to eat their lunch and get to class on time, so I know you can too.” She smiles.

  “Okay,” he says.

  “I can’t hear you. Speak up.”

  “I just said, ‘Okay.’”

  “You’ve made some bad decisions. I hope you’re going to start making good decisions. I’m going to let you off with a warning today but don’t let it happen again.”

  “Okay,” Matt says, with his head bowed.

  Matt staggers to class, his stomach in knots and his head pounding. He passes a boys’ bathroom. He rushes inside and dumps his textbook-laden bag on the floor. He falls to his knees in front of a porcelain bowl and heaves. Nothing comes at first. He retches powerfully and chunks of red partially digested pieces of chicken plop into the water. He heaves again, and a hot reddish-yellow liquid pours out, burning his throat. He vomits over and over again, until only warm bile spews from his mouth. Bits of bile dribble down his chin.

  The toilet smells of hot sickness. He collapses on his side breathless, the cold tile floor soothing against his body. After a few minutes he sits up, then stands, flushes the toilet, and spits in the bowl as the sickness is vanquished. He wobbles to the sink and turns on the faucet. He looks in the mirror. His face is pale; his eyes are red. He splashes cold water on his face and rinses out his mouth. He reaches for a paper towel, but the dispenser is empty. He lifts his T-shirt and dries his face. He cups his hands under the water and rinses his mouth out again, then dries his hands on the back of his jeans. He staggers back into the stall and locks the door. He kicks the seat cover down, sits, and places his head in his hands, using his thumbs to rub his temples.

  The bell rings. He pushes from the stall and collects his bag on the way out of the bathroom. He shuffles down the hall, his head lowered, like an old man in a retirement home. He stops at his locker and removes a tiny piece of paper from his back pocket with three numbers. He follows the instructions, and the combination lock releases. He shoves his bag, filled with textbooks, inside. He grabs his notebook and pencil, and slams shut the locker. He catches a glimpse of a familiar face down the hall. Emily’s designer jeans hug her waist and highlight her shapely figure. Her blond hair bounces, as she laughs and smiles at her partner. A chestnut-haired cowboy with broad shoulders and a strong jaw, smiles back with white teeth. They kiss briefly, before going their separate ways. Matt feels his gag reflex quiver. He swallows a little bile. He walks behind her.

  He enters C102, English with Ms. Pierce, behind Emily. The chairs are set up in a U shape. Colorful posters, with quotes from famous and not-so-famous authors, cover the walls. At the rear of the classroom are bookshelves and colorful bins, overflowing with books. A cluster of purple beanbag chairs is arranged in a circle next to the library. Ms. Pierce stands near her desk, dressed in black velvet pants and a thick white sweater. She’s tall, youthful, and energetic. Her blond hair is pulled up in a bun, with a few strands hanging along her cheeks. Her skin is creamy. Her smile is perpetual and infectious.

  “Good afternoon, Jared,” Ms. Pierce says.

  “Hi, Ms. Pierce,” Jared says, as he saunters past, a pick sticking from his afro.

  “Good afternoon, Emily. I like those jeans on you.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Pierce,” Emily replies.

  “Dan, always a pleasure to see you, kind sir.”

  “Hey, Ms. Pierce,” Dan replies, his green eyes shielded by a white PSU hat.

  “And who do we have here?” Ms. Pierce says, stroking her chin. “Are you not a vagabond trying to secure passage on this grand ship?” She falls out of character with a bright smile.

  Matt looks around confused.

  “I’m sorry. I get a little goofy toward the end of the day. Too much tea and all. I’m guessing you’d be my brand-new, shiny student.”

  “I’m Matt.” He hands his schedule to the teacher.

  She glances at the paper. “Welcome, Matt. I’m Ms. Pierce, and I am very happy to make your acquaintance. We have one rule in this class, and you will be severely punished if you do not abide by it. You must, absolutely must, … have fun.”

  Matt smiles.

  “There you go. You’re already having fun. Claim a seat for yourself, any one you like.” Ms. Pierce looks around at her students. “Let’s go, lovelies. Find a seat in the U.” She waits until everyone’s settled. “Now that we’re all comfortable, I’m going to … make everyone get up. Let’s take the chairs at the base of the U and put them in the middle, so we have two lines of chairs, and a small cluster in the middle.”

  “I love philosophical chairs,” Jared says.

  “Me too,” Emily replies.

  Ms. Pierce walks around, cradling an empty fishbowl. “You guys know the drill. Everyone dump your philosophical quandaries into the fishbowl.” Students drop folded pieces of paper in the bowl. She turns to Matt. “This is philosophical chairs, which is simply a framework we use for debating current events. I’ll pick a topic from the fishbowl, and you choose a side, for or against. If you’re unsure, you stand in the middle. If someone makes a good argument, you can switch sides at any time.” Ms. Pierce reaches into the bowl and retrieves a folded piece of paper. “The first topic was brought to us by someone who apparently really liked the movie Gladiator.”

  “Isn’t it supposed to be something recent? That movie’s about Roman times,” Jared says.

  Jared’s short, but powerfully built, dressed in baggy black jeans and a tucked-in vertically striped shirt.

  “You’re right, Jared, but whoever wrote this was clever. They found a loophole. Russell Crowe recently won an Academy Award, so it qualifies. We should make a rule that Russell Crowe should always qualify for philosophical chairs.” The boys groan, and the girls giggle. “It says, ‘In the movie Gladiator, vicious games are displayed that people love, not totally unlike football or boxing today. Do you think these games are good for people or not?’ Okay, people, if you think they’re good, mush on over to the right, with bad to the left, and unsure in the middle.”

  Matt moves to the middle of the room. Jared, Dan, and the boys go to the right. The girls, including Emily, go to the left.

  “This is really interesting. We’re split across the gender lines with the ladies not liking the violent games, but the guys liking them, except for my shiny new student, Matt, who’s in the middle. Anyone from the boys’ side want to speak up?”

  “That’s just how we are,” Jared says. “We like to fight and play violent games. I think it’s all the testosterone and shit. I mean, stuff.” The class laughs.

  “That’s a good point, Jared, but I don’t see anyone moving with that argument. Anyone from the ladies?”

  “I don’t think we should have violent games, because of concussions causing problems with brain function or kids getting paralyzed,” Emily says. “Don’t you guys remember Robert from last year? He was paralyzed on our own football field.”

  Two boys switch sides.

  “Sellouts,” the remaining crowd of boys says.

  “Very good, Emily. You moved two students to your side, using emotional appeal. Emotional appeal is the most effective argument that we have, because most people will respond to emotions before they respond to facts and figures. Matt, you’re still the man in the middle all by yourself. Can you tell us why?”

  “Well, I’m against the type of gladiator games fro
m the Roman times,” Matt says. “They slaughtered slaves and defenseless animals for fun. But a game like football or boxing today is harder for me to decide. I think, if adults wanna play a violent game, and they are informed of the risks, then it’s okay with me, but I don’t like it when sports teams use tax money from cities to build their stadiums or when colleges won’t allow athletes to make money. So I guess I think the NCAA and college sports are immoral for using players like a free farm system, where they control it like a monopoly that uses these players as slaves. But, on the other hand, pro teams are okay with me, if they don’t take taxpayer money.”

  A handful of boys and girls move to the middle.

  “Very good, Matt. I like the way you reason. All right, let’s pick another topic.” Ms. Pierce fishes out another quandary. “This is a good one. It says, ‘The Netherlands made same-sex marriage legal, the first country in the world to do so. Do you think same-sex marriage should be legal in the United States?’ Everyone who thinks yes on same-sex marriage to the left, no to the right, and, as usual, unsure in the middle.”

  Every student, except three, packs in on the right side of the room. Matt, Emily, and Jared stand on the left. Emily flashes Matt a fleeting smile; he looks away.

  “Wow, guys. You’re almost in total agreement. Anyone against same-sex marriage want to speak up on the topic?”

  “Everybody here knows Leviticus 20:13,” Dan says. “‘If a man also lie with mankind, as he lie with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them.’ So according to the Bible, it’s not just a sin, but it’s punishable by death.”

  “Now, Dan, I respect your opinion and your knowledge of scripture, but just so we’re all clear about one thing,” Ms. Pierce says, “if someone kills a homosexual, because it’s in the Old Testament of the Bible, they deserve to go to jail … forever.”

  Dan’s face reddens.

  “Jared, Emily, and Matt, you guys are all alone over here. Tell us why you think same-sex marriage should be legal.”

  Emily’s red-faced and scowling; her eyes are narrowed. “I get so sick of how close-minded this town is. We need to learn to think for ourselves. We’re supposed to be Christians. Jesus was accepting of everybody.”

  “Not fags,” Dan says.

  Ms. Pierce’s friendly demeanor vanishes, and she marches up to Dan. “I will not have that kind of talk in my classroom. If I hear that word again, I will write you up. Do you understand?”

  Dan nods.

  “See, this is what I’m talking about,” Emily says. “Do you really think someone would choose to be gay, when your life ends up being so much harder? Why can’t we leave them alone and let them be happy?”

  Two girls and a boy change sides.

  “They choose to be gay,” Dan says. “God doesn’t make mistakes.”

  “He made you, didn’t He?” Emily says.

  “Emily, stick to the argument,” Ms. Pierce says.

  “Sorry.”

  “Jared, you look like you have something to add,” Ms. Pierce says.

  “I don’t understand why this town’s always trippin’ over this,” Jared says. “In Philly, they’re everywhere. It’s not a big deal. The way I see it, it’s more ladies for me.” A wide toothy grin spreads across his face.

  “It’s not more ladies for you, because the lesbians go with other ladies,” Dan says with a smirk.

  Jared laughs. “See, now I know you’ve been stuck in this town your whole life. The lesbians I’ve seen look more like a man than you do. On the real, they don’t look like they do in the porn you’ve been stealin’ from your daddy’s collection.”

  The class erupts in laughter. Several more students change sides.

  “All right, all right, settle down,” Ms. Pierce says. “For the record, lesbians are every bit as beautiful as straight women. We should probably move on. We’ve already pushed past the boundary of what Dr. Hansen would deem acceptable. We do have time for one more topic though.” Ms. Pierce grabs a folded piece of paper from the bowl. “This one says, ‘Vice President Cheney is calling for increased use of domestic fossil-fuel supplies and nuclear power to meet America’s energy demand.’ What this means is that the vice president would like for the United States to use more oil, gas, coal, and nuclear energy to power our country. If you’re for increased use of these energy sources, go to the right, against to the left.”

  Emily moves to the middle; Matt stays on the left. Everyone else goes to the right.

  “Emily and Matt out on an island again,” Ms. Pierce says. “Let’s start with you, Matt.”

  “The fossil fuels are nonrenewable, so why would we wanna use more of them? We should be using a lot less, because, without fossil fuels, our entire way of life doesn’t work. Without diesel fuel, coal, and gas there is no food or electricity. Even nuclear energy is nonrenewable, because uranium is depleted. The United States is already using 24 percent of the world’s energy with only 4 percent of the population. We should be doing everything we can to conserve what we have, because, eventually, it will run out.”

  Emily moves to Matt’s side along with a handful of girls.

  “So why did you ladies move?” Ms. Pierce says.

  “I don’t know. It just made sense to me, that we shouldn’t waste things,” a girl says.

  “Anyone from the right?”

  “My grandfather was a coal miner, and, when the mine went under, it hit my whole family real hard,” a boy says. “So, if we use more domestic energy, it will create good jobs for Americans.”

  “Me too,” Dan says. “My grandfather lives with us. He never got another job, after the mine closed.”

  Two girls move back to the right; Emily stays.

  “That’s a good point, guys. We are talking about jobs and people’s lives,” Ms. Pierce says.

  “But those mines were abandoned when the coal ran out,” Matt says. “The mining towns rusted and fell apart, because nobody had money anymore. If we use more fossil fuels, yes, we will have more jobs today, but we’ll have less in the future.”

  The bell rings. The class groans.

  “Okay, lovelies, go home. What are you going to do tonight?” Ms. Pierce asks.

  “Read,” the class says in unison.

  Emily races from the room with her classmates. Matt lingers, feeling faint, his face drained of color. He grabs his notebook and shuffles toward the door. He hears Ms. Pierce in the background like an echo.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  Matt leans on her desk, the room spinning. Ms. Pierce pushes her chair behind him.

  “Just sit back, right here.”

  Matt slumps into the chair. After a moment he regains his faculties.

  “Here, drink this.” Ms. Pierce hands him a miniature carton of orange juice with a straw.

  Matt sips the juice. He gains some color in his face.

  “Did you eat lunch today?” she asks.

  “Yeah, but I threw it up.”

  Ms. Pierce touches his arm. “Should I get the nurse?”

  “No, I just ate lunch too fast, and I was stressed, plus the food was awful.”

  “I’m sorry, Matt. Sounds like a rough first day. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I was last in line at lunch, so I only had a few minutes to eat. I was so hungry. Then the lunchroom monitor lady tried to throw me out before I was finished, so I ate as fast as I could. Did I say that the food was terrible?”

  “You mentioned that.”

  “Well, I told the lady that I wouldn’t leave, then she called the police, and they took me to Dr. Hansen’s. After that I was stressed and nauseated. Anyway that’s it.”

  “Who wouldn’t be nauseated after that?”

  “Do you eat the school lunch?”

  “Oh, God no. I wouldn’t eat that. I did pressure the school board into getting a salad bar. Of course they keep threatening to get rid of it, because they say the students don’t eat salad
. What lunch period do you have?”

  “B.”

  “If you want, you’re welcome to bring a lunch and eat here. I have my planning period during that time.”

  “Hey, blondie,” a male voice says from the hallway.

  Matt and Ms. Pierce turn toward the hall. Mr. Dalton stands in the doorway wearing Jefferson High football shorts and a T-shirt, with dense dark hair covering his bulging muscles. He grins wide, his eyes trained on Ms. Pierce’s chest. She stands and strides over to Mr. Dalton.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Dalton?” she asks.

  He eyes Matt in the background. “I thought we could work out, then have a couple drinks afterward,” he says in a hushed tone.

  She crosses her arms over her chest. “I already made myself clear.”

  “Come on, Liv.”

  “I should get back to work.”

  Mr. Dalton motions to Matt by lifting his chin. “Kid’s a dirt ball. Watch yourself,” he whispers.

  Ms. Pierce frowns. She walks back to her desk; Mr. Dalton follows the sway of her hips with his eyes. She sits on the edge of her desk, next to Matt. Mr. Dalton leaves. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “That’s okay,” Matt says. “I should probably get moving, I have to be somewhere at three.” Matt pushes off the chair, as he stands up. “Thank you for the juice.”

  “You have to take a book with you. I have the perfect one. Just give me a second.” She marches to the bookshelf, scanning titles. “I really liked hearing your point of view in philosophical chairs today. This school could use a little divergent thinking. I bet you and Emily would really hit it off. Oh, here it is. I knew I still had it. Nobody ever checks this out.” She grabs a worn copy of a book with the Earth on the cover entitled Limits to Growth. “Don’t let the raggedy look fool you. There’s truth in here.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Pierce. I appreciate it. I would like to eat here, if that’s okay?”

  “Of course. See you tomorrow?”

  Matt nods.

  Matt ventures down the empty hallway, clutching Ms. Pierce’s book recommendation. He passes his locker, leaving his textbooks and homework stranded. He passes the school media room. The door’s propped open.