The Alliance

by Gabriel Goodman

  Most recently, VictorEE was hating on just one person. His five latest tweets had all been aimed at @CMendoza. I clicked on CMendoza’s profile and saw the photo of a girl I recognized.

  Carmen Mendoza. I kind of knew who she was. Everyone knew she was a lesbian. She lived in River Oaks, the rich part of town, but you’d never know it by how she dressed. Unlike most rich girls, who flaunted what they had, Carmen never made it a thing. That’s why a lot of people liked her.

  According to her feed, she was giving back to VictorEE just as good as she was getting. She seemed to enjoy making him angry. But the more she stuck it to him, the more violent his tweets got. I hoped she knew enough to watch her back.

  That settled it for me. I had to talk to Mr. Winston about recruiting in other lunch periods. So people hated me. I’d have to find a way around that. Southside needed a GSA to deal with just the sort of thing that was happening to Carmen Mendoza. I couldn’t stop now.

  – – – – –

  I got to school early, hoping to catch Mr. Winston. Convincing him to let me visit all the lunch periods wouldn’t be too hard. My grades were perfect. I’d only be missing English—which I was acing—and a study hall.

  But as I walked through the doors, I heard an overhead announcement.

  “Scott King, please report to Mrs. Carney in Room 318. Scott King to room 318.”

  Mrs. Carney? I was still a bit sore about the advice she’d given me. Talking to the football team had ended with the team ignoring me and me breaking up with my girlfriend.

  When I got to Room 318, she invited me in and closed the door. Sitting at a table across from her desk was the girl I’d seen last night on Twitter: Carmen Mendoza. She didn’t look thrilled to see me.

  “Sit down, Scott,” Mrs. Carney said. “I think the two of you need to talk.”

  “S

  trangers on a Train.”

  Mrs. Carney sat at her desk, waiting for us to respond to the weird thing she’d just said.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “It’s a Hitchcock movie,” Scott said. “We watched it last year in Media Studies.”

  I frowned. The last thing I needed was Scott King lecturing me on movie history. Why was he even here? Mrs. Carney said she wanted to help me get signatures for the petition. There was no way I could think of where that solution involved Scott “Golden Boy” King.

  Mrs. Carney nodded. “Glad you remember it. Tell Carmen what it’s about.”

  Scott looked at me like he had no idea why she was asking this. “Well, it’s about these two guys who meet on a train. One is a tennis player who hates his wife because she won’t divorce him. The other is this rich guy, or at least he would be rich if his dad gave him the family money. These two guys talk about the people they hate, and the rich guy says the easiest way to solve their problems would be to kill them.

  “But they can’t just do it. They’ve each got a motive. The police would figure it out quick and arrest them. So, the rich guy suggests they swap murders. ‘Crisscross,’ he called it. The rich guy would kill the tennis player’s wife, and the tennis player would kill the rich guy’s dad. No one would suspect anything.”

  I turned to Carney. “What does this have to do with anything? You said you’d help me get the signatures I needed for the GSA petition.”

  Scott held up his hand. “Wait a minute. What GSA petition? You mean my GSA petition.”

  I whirled on him. “No, I mean my GSA petition. I’m trying to start a real GSA.”

  Scott’s brow furrowed. “And you think my GSA isn’t real?”

  “Okay, both of you, stand down,” Mrs. Carney said. “This isn’t about real or fake GSAs. You both have the same goal. But, from what I understand, you’re having trouble reaching it. Am I right?”

  I looked down at my desk. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Scott doing the same. We were both quiet for a long time.

  “I can’t get any teachers to sign,” I said finally. “Just three lousy names is all I need, and I can’t get them.”

  Scott laughed. “You’re joking, right? Getting teachers to sign on is the easy part. I can think of six who’d be willing. Just try finding thirty students in this school who give a damn about starting a Gay–Straight Alliance. They’re either afraid of being labeled queer, or they’re too homophobic to care.”

  “Well,” I said, “you obviously haven’t been talking to the right students, because I could fill that petition with signatures, but they’re useless without teachers…”

  Right about then, both Scott and I noticed that Mrs. Carney was leaning back and beaming, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary, as my mom would say.

  “Crisscross,” she said simply. “Carmen, you fit in a lot of different cliques. People respect you. You ask them to sign, and they’ll sign. Scott, Carmen’s right. All the signatures in the world won’t do any good if you can’t get three faculty members to sign. There’s not a teacher in this school who doesn’t use you as an example of a good student. They’ll listen to you.”

  I looked over at Scott, who’d gone red with embarrassment. Chances are, I was looking the same way too. It was an obvious solution. I didn’t exactly like the idea of working with this guy. Everyone knew what a self-involved jerk he was. But Mrs. Carney was right. The faculty loved him. I didn’t trust him not to abandon the GSA once it got going, but if he could get us there, it didn’t matter. Starting the GSA was the only thing that mattered.

  Scott pulled out his petition. At the bottom, where it said NAME OF STUDENT ORGANZIER, he’d already filled in his name. With a black pen, he added my name next to his, then handed me the petition.

  “Unless you want your name on there first?” he asked. I almost thought he was being nice.

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Winston will take it more seriously if he sees your name first.”

  Scott laughed. “Can’t wait to see the look on his face when he sees both our names on this.”

  Without even wanting to, I broke into a smile. Maybe that would be the best thing to come out of this: watching Winston’s face explode.

  Mrs. Carney looked at the clock. “First period starts soon. You should get heading to class.”

  “Uh, not so fast,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “You brought us together. That means you must support the idea of a GSA, right?”

  Scott grinned and slid our petition over to her. “Someone’s got to set a good example for the other teachers, Mrs. Carney. We sure could use a faculty advisor.”

  Mrs. Carney reached into her desk and pulled out a pen. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  And as the first bell of the day rang, she signed her name in big, bright, beautiful red ink at the very top of the petition. The door opened, and students started pouring in.

  Mrs. Carney greeted them quickly, then turned back to us. “You’ve got a lot of work to do, you two. I’ll be very disappointed if my name is the only one on the top of that petition by the end of the day.”

  Scott and I stepped out into the hall. He held up the petition. “I can get the next two signatures easy. Meet me at my locker—number twenty-seven—before fourth period and I’ll pass it off to you.”

  I nodded. If anyone during my lunch period thought they were leaving the cafeteria without signing, they were in for a huge surprise. I quickly added my name to his on the petition.

  “Try not to let the teachers see my name before you ask them to sign,” I said. “They might change their minds.”

  He laughed. “Are you kidding? With your name on here, all I have to do is threaten them that if they don’t sign, you’ll take up every minute of class time arguing with them. They’ll sign in a second.”

  Scott took the petition and wove through the hall.

  All I have to do is threaten them that if they don’t sign, you’ll take up every minute of class time arguing with them.

  Now why hadn’t I thought of that?

  M

  r. Rosencranz studied
the petition carefully, reading it over and over and not saying a word. First period AP History had just let out. The room was almost completely empty, and the next class would be arriving shortly. Which meant I wouldn’t have a lot of time to get to my next class if he didn’t sign soon.

  “I’m not asking you to be the advisor,” I said, trying to speed him up. “See? Mrs. Carney signed there, saying she’d do that. All I need is two more signatures from faculty saying they think a GSA would be a good idea. I know you must have seen your share of bullying in the halls, Mr. Rosencranz. I’m sure you don’t want to be condemned to repeat that.”

  As a lover of history, there was a quote Mr. Rosencranz was always fond of: Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

  He looked up at me over the rims of his glasses. “Trying to use my own quotations against me, Mr. King?” A hint of a smile told me he was more proud I remembered the quote than angry I was playing him.

  But the smile disappeared as he held up the petition. “I assume this has something to do with Jamie Ballard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes. I remember the two of you sitting in the back of my room during junior year, laughing as we talked about the Vietnam War.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Mr. Rosencranz sighed. “I really admire what you’re doing here. But I feel compelled to warn you that you may not know what you’re getting into. There is a very strong conservative element in this school. You may not see it every day, but it’s there. Usually working behind the scenes. There are those who won’t appreciate you trying to start this group. Some might even try to stop it.”

  I just couldn’t understand that. Why try to stop a group that only wanted to help? Creating a place for queer students to feel safe was a good thing. Why couldn’t people see that?

  “Maybe, sir, but I have to try,” I said. “For Jamie.”

  He nodded, got out his pen, and signed his name next to Mrs. Carney’s. “If anyone can do it, Mr. King, it’s you. Oh, and Ms. Mendoza. She’s quite the firebrand, isn’t she?”

  I smiled. “I’ll tell her you said so, sir. I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear it.” The class was nearly full. I’d be late if I didn’t hustle. “Thanks!”

  I bolted from the room to find Cory leaning against the wall nearby.

  “Hey,” she said, waving.

  “Hey,” I said. “Look, I gotta get to class.”

  “Can I walk with you?” she asked.

  “As long as you’re going my way,” I said and moved down the hall.

  Cory fell into step next to me. “I’m sorry things ended the way they did, Scott. I’m hoping we can still be friends.”

  My heart beat hard in my chest. If I told her no, was I as guilty of intolerance as she was? “I guess,” I said. “Maybe.”

  Cory hugged herself with her arms, which was not a good sign. She only did that when she was really nervous.

  “Okay, good,” she said. “So, as a friend, I need to tell you. You really need to quit trying to make this GSA happen.”

  I growled. “I’m not quitting, Cory. And a friend wouldn’t try to talk me out of it. A friend would support me.”

  “My mama’s not happy about this, Scott.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. Cory’s mom, Sheila Walton, was well-known. She was a prominent member of the local Baptist church and had spearheaded several attempts to get books banned from the school. Some of them even succeeded. She was someone you didn’t make mad. She could be sweet as pie one minute and your worst nightmare the next.

  “You told your mama?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I was really worried about you. Honest, I was. She said she won’t let the school sanction sodomy.”

  “The school’s not sanctioning sodomy, for crying out loud!”

  “If the GSA gets approved, they can get school money. School money is tax money. And she doesn’t want her tax money spent to glorify sin.”

  I really wanted to let her have it with both barrels. Just yell at her until I was hoarse about what a horrible bigot she and her mama were. But I didn’t have time. Besides, as long as Carmen and I did our jobs and got the petition signed, there was nothing Mrs. Walton could do to stop us.

  “Anything else?” I asked her.

  Cory hugged herself even tighter. “I didn’t want you to hear it from anybody else. I’m seeing somebody new.”

  I felt my ears flush. I knew that I had broken us up, but it still stung to know she’d moved on so fast. Her phone chirped. She took it out and smiled.

  “He’s always texting me cute little things,” she said. “You may be mad at me, Scott, but I do want to be friends, okay? No matter what happens.”

  I looked over her shoulder at the text message:

  SEE U 2 NIGHT? V.

  I grunted. “Who’s V?”

  “It’s just his nickname,” Cory said with a giggle. “He uses it online. Short for VictorEE.”

  I snatched the phone away and checked the inbox.

  VictorEE was Jon Renquist.

  “A

  ll right, everybody! Forks down, eyes up, and listen!”

  I stood on a table in the middle of the cafeteria, my algebra homework rolled up into a megaphone. Two years of drama and this lesbian could project. Instantly, everyone quieted down. All eyes fell on me.

  “Show of hands: how many people here knew Jamie Ballard?”

  I counted about twelve hands. I knew it wasn’t true, but I went with it.

  “For those of you who didn’t know him, Jamie went to this school. He was your classmate. Recently, he killed himself. You see, Jamie was gay. And some people had a problem with that, and they wouldn’t let him forget it.

  “And I bet some of you know what that’s like. I bet a lot of you know what it’s like to be shoved into a wall or called gay, whether it’s true or not. And I’ve got a feeling you’d like it to stop. Well, I’m here to tell you it can stop!”

  “Do it, Carmen!” Somebody yelled. Applause broke out. People whooped.

  I held up the petition. “Southside High needs a Gay–Straight Alliance. You don’t have to be gay to join. You just have to care. You have to want to see everyone treated fairly. And the only way to get this to happen is to speak up. To put your name down on this piece of paper and tell the administration that you want to see the bullying end.”

  A handful of students had already gathered near my table, pens in hand. I slipped the petition down to Ricky, who started lining people up for signing. I pulled my fake megaphone closer and kept at it.

  “Signing this doesn’t mean joining. It could mean that you’re tired of staying silent. It could mean that you won’t stand by anymore when you see someone getting the crap beat out of them because somebody else thinks that person is gay. Or it could mean that you do want to join and work to make Southside safe for everybody: queer, straight, or whatever.”

  The signing line snaked around the nearest tables. People were banging their trays on the tables in support. The aides who monitored the lunch room—retirees with as much authority as a wet mop—were standing below, motioning me to get down. But I was on a roll.

  “I won’t lie to you. Some people don’t want us to start this group. Some people are happy to keep things the way they are. These people are cowards.”

  The crowd grumbled their approval. Ricky gave me the thumbs-up. “We’ve got fifty signatures already. Keep going.”

  “Yeah, I said it. Cowards. They’re the ones who want to keep the power right where it is: with them. They hide behind fake names online, too scared to admit who they really are.”

  I scanned the room. There were three lunch periods, which meant I had a one in three shot of VictorEE being here. I figured if I made him mad enough …

  “Well, I’ll tell you who they really are. You can’t miss them. They’ve got the tiniest dicks in four counties!”

  A roar of laughter rippled through the students. I held up my arms, basking in their attention.


  Splat!

  My head snapped to the side as something hot and wet pelted the side of my face. My vision blurred. As soon as I could see, I looked down to see a slab of meatloaf on the floor. When I turned, I found Jon Renquist standing on the table next to me, murder in his eyes. He clutched another piece of meatloaf in his left hand.

  “What do you know about dicks, you ugly dyke?” Ren shouted. He pitched the meatloaf at me, but this time I ducked.

  I pointed my megaphone at him. “It’s like art: I know one when I see one. And guess where I’m looking right now…”

  Was this really VictorEE? It totally made sense. Somehow, I found it disappointing. It was almost too obvious. Too cliché. But then, I wasn’t about to give Ren points for original thinking.

  When everyone went “oooh,” the veins in Ren’s neck bulged with rage. “The only reason she’s a lesbian is because she hasn’t been with a real man.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m game. Let me know as soon as you see one, Renquist.”

  Ren leaped off the table and charged. The aides were flung aside as the linebacker bore down on me. I braced myself, waiting to get knocked to the ground.

  But a blur swept past me and tackled Ren just before he reached the table. In an instant everyone was out of their seats and standing in a circle, chanting, “Fight! Fight!”

  I moved to the end of the long table and found Ren wrestling on the ground with Scott King. Ren was bigger, but he sucked at ground fighting. In no time, Scott was on top, raining punch after punch down.

  Suddenly, Ren jerked his knee up and slammed Scott in the back. A second later the tables were turned, with Ren pinning Scott’s arms to the ground with his knees and landing blow after blow in Scott’s stomach.

  I tossed my algebra homework aside and jumped, crashing into Ren. All three of us tumbled around in the middle of the circle while the other students cheered us on. I grabbed a handful of Ren’s hair and was about to punch him in the ear when a pair of powerful hands yanked me away. I looked up to find Mr. Winston pulling me back. Two other male teachers broke through the circle and separated Ren and Scott.