I switch off the mic, and I start to go off to first period choir. Again I pass Mrs. Haynes’s office. She usually never says a word to me after because she knows I have to get to class, but this time, she says, “Dewey.”
I stop. Does her voice sound ominous? “Yes, ma’am?”
“That was a nice thing you did. There’s only one Butch in this school. And he needs all the friends he can get.”
Little did she know. Well, I dodged that bullet, but how would Butch react?
Choir is fun. Miss Zelko brings out a new piece that is hard. But by the end of the period, we’ve nailed it. Yes, it will take lots more rehearsal. And commitment. The most important ingredient? As Miss Zelko says, “It takes blood, sweat, and tears. You have to put your heart and soul into each piece.” Then she always adds, “And anything else you do. Life deserves work. Make it happen. Don’t just sit back and let life wash over you, whether it’s choir or school or a job or love.” I’ve heard her give that speech over twenty times. She loves to give it at the beginning of every six weeks grading period. She’ll stand in front of the show choir—all of us have been with her for at least two years or more—and she’ll say, “And what time is it?”
In unison, like any good choir, we shout, “Blood, sweat, and tears time.”
And the speech begins. It never varies. And she even beams as we mouth the words along with her.
I love choir as much as I love drama. They say I have talent. Who is “they”? Good question. Miss Zelko, Mr. Waters, my mother, the judges at solo and ensemble contest, the judges at one-act play contest, a lot of people who greet me after every performance. I guess I should believe them all. And I do. But I also believe what Miss Zelko says. Talent is only part of the equation. It’s the blood, the sweat, and the tears that make it all work.
Like every school day, I sail through. I don’t know how I do it, but most days, teachers give us five or ten minutes of their periods to start on homework. I usually don’t just start, I finish. That ten minutes is supposed to be for questions, to get the teacher’s help. But I never need help. It’s been that way since the first day I walked into a classroom. I took to it. I just love school.
Last period is drama class. I adore drama. Our teacher is the greatest ever. Mr. Waters, Rob Waters, came to us from TCU, fresh out of college. That was three years ago, so he’s the only drama teacher I’ve known here. He has the most talent of anyone I’ve ever met, and he has taken us to wins at the District One-Act Play Contest twice. Both times, I think we should have won at State, but at least I was named to All-Star Cast both times, even if the plays didn’t win. Mr. Waters is different, though. He definitely doesn’t fit any mold. The guy sews all the costumes for our shows. Any costumes in elementary or junior high we needed were made by our moms. Well, not my mother. In my lifetime, she’s made one thing—a shirt. She made it for me. She did really good with it, because after I outgrew it, it got passed down to two of my younger cousins. But after that experience, Mother decided any sewing that needed done for me or anybody else would have to be done by my grandma.
But I’ve gotten off track because I was talking about Mr. Waters. He can actually make patterns for costumes. My grandma always buys patterns, and she steers clear of patterns in a book called Vogue, because she says they are too hard. Well, Mr. Waters, I’d bet, could do a Vogue pattern dress without any problem. Last year, we did Cinderella, and he made all those French dresses, like the kind Marie Antoinette wore. He’s amazing.
He also wears eyeliner. I think it’s because he’s from the theater. It’s not very heavy—just a thin line. So I don’t think most people notice it. But I do.
Mr. Waters isn’t married. He lives in an apartment across town with a roommate. It’s a wonder he hasn’t gotten drafted. They’re taking every young guy to fight in Vietnam, and Mr. Waters is just the kind of guy they’d want. He’s tall and muscular. Really good-looking. Not that they’d care about that. But Mr. Waters says he was reclassified. The way he said it, I felt like I shouldn’t ask why. I’m just glad he’s here. He’s a great drama teacher, and too many soldiers are getting killed over there.
But Mr. Waters isn’t the only reason I like drama class. Jimmy Miller is in the class. Jimmy is the closest I’ve ever come to having a boy friend—not a boyfriend but a friend who is a boy—in my whole life. Well, before Jeep. Jimmy and I talk sometimes when we should be rehearsing our scenes. I know, rehearsal is important, but having a friend is too. And really, it’s not like Jimmy calls me up, asks me to go the Cox’s with him to buy a shirt, or says, “Let’s go to Clown Burger.” No, the only time we talk is in class, but he treats me like I’m just as normal as any other guy. He also helps me some. One day, when I came in carrying a ton of books up against my chest, Jimmy looked at me. “Get those books down to your side, Dewey. That’s how guys carry their books.” He wasn’t being mean or anything. He just said it. And you know, I started looking at other guys in the halls, and Jimmy was right. So now I carry my books down at my side.
So Jimmy gives me a nod and a smile as I come into the drama classroom, books firmly tucked at my side. I hear, “Dewey, come here.” Mr. Waters wants to see me.
I go to his desk.
“Why’d you go off script this morning?”
“I don’t know. Just seemed like something I wanted to say.” I look into his eyes for disapproval.
“Well, you done good. I’m not saying you need to change up everything all the time, but Mrs. Haynes was very happy this morning. And if Mrs. Haynes is happy, everybody’s happy.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Now, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “Thanks.” I don’t need to say anything, but I never miss a chance to try to make Mr. Waters understand how much I like him and how much I appreciate what he does for me.
“Some friends of mine have a new theater group they’re putting together over in the TCU area. They’re doing a play one of them wrote. I told them about you. We don’t start on the one-act for another month, so you have time to do something else. How’d you like to be in my friends’ show?”
Wow, this is a big vote of confidence. “What’s the show about, sir?”
Mr. Waters pauses before answering. “Well, now, here’s the thing. It’s about a group of teenagers who are putting together a protest of Nam. I know—that’s controversial. I could never get away with doing a show like that here. But if you’re comfortable with doing something like this, it could really stretch you as an actor. What do you say?”
I think a minute. My cousin Danny is in Vietnam. I know how my daddy feels about this war—he was gung ho about anything President Johnson was for. I’d hoped Robert Kennedy would be our next president and end this thing, but that didn’t happen. After Kennedy was shot, I started thinking a little bit more about the Vietnam thing. I don’t know if Nixon is going to do anything to get us out of there—it’s still too soon to tell—but maybe he will, who knows? At any rate, if I do this show and Daddy doesn’t like it, I’ll catch hell. Still, this is a fantastic opportunity. I can always go and see what it’s all about, then decide if I want to do it.
“Well, Mr. Waters, I could go. When are tryouts?”
“No tryouts. My friends trust my judgment. They want you for the part. You game?”
That might be a problem. Maybe I won’t tell Daddy what the show is about. He never asks me about anything anyway. The most he ever asks is, “Why don’t you have any friends?” I can play this up as a chance to make new friends. He’ll like that.
“Sure,” I say.
“Great.” Mr. Waters hands me a slip of paper. “Here’s the address. Show up tomorrow night at seven. Okay?”
“Okay. Are you going to be there?”
“You don’t need me holding your hand, Dewey. I’ll be around some, but not tomorrow. You need to make your own way.”
I wish I had as much confidence in myself as he has.
I can barely con
centrate the rest of the class because all I can think of is this show Mr. Waters wants me to do.
The bell rings to end the day, and I meet Jeep, as agreed, in the foyer.
“Dew!” he shouts as I approach. “What was that thing this morning all about?”
“What thing?”
“You thanked Butch Pollard for being your friend and didn’t mention me.” He sniffs, like he is crying.
“I’ll tell you about it in the car, Jeep.” Why I suddenly want to unburden my humiliating relationship with Butch is beyond me, but telling Jeep seems like something I can do.
We get in the car, and I start the engine.
“Spill.”
I look over at Jeep, trying to collect my thoughts. I’ve kept my battle with Butch a deep, dark secret. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything now.
Jeep cuts his eyes around at me. I sit. Still and silent.
He motions toward me, like he is on the end of a tug-of-war.
It’s now or never.
“So,” I say. “I don’t much like Butch Pollard.”
“Who does?” he jumps in. “Nobody likes that turd.”
“Yeah, maybe so, but not everybody is bothered by Butch like I am. He turns my name into a hog call. He sidles up to me like he owns me. And this morning, he took a bite out of my apple and put it back into my lunch sack.”
“You want me to beat him up for you?”
I start to laugh, shaking my head at this insane bundle of crazy.
But I realize Jeep is serious. That’s the last thing I need. Jeep would get into trouble, and Butch would probably just take it out on me.
“No, Jeep. This is my battle.”
“If you hate him, why’d you say what you did on the intercom?”
“I don’t know. It just came to me. I thought, I guess, ‘If I say this, it might embarrass Butch and make me feel better. Like I’ve gotten something over him.’” I stop, thinking. “Or maybe I thought he might like me for mentioning him in the morning devotional. After all, I didn’t say anything mean. What I said was nice.”
“Dew, my man, you’re one smart cookie. But if you need a bodyguard tomorrow, look me up. I’ll squash the little pissant.”
And I knew he would. Where was he all those other years? Those years when I had guys razzing me, knocking into me, stealing my stuff? It’s not easy being me. But I endured. Right now, I only have Butch to worry about.
“Now,” he says, “library. Pronto.”
“The library? The one in Riverside?”
“Nah, man. The big one. Downtown.”
“Jeep, you expect me to drive your ass”—I couldn’t believe I’d used that word to his face; I guess he was rubbing off on me—“all the way downtown?”
“It’s not that far, Dew. I got a report due tomorrow, and the big library’s my only hope. Come on. Pretty, please?”
I can’t resist. I’ve heard about peer pressure. At least once a year, we get a lecture about how so-called friends can lead us astray if we let them. I should resist, drop him off at a bus stop.
What else do I have to do? I guess this peer can easily pressure me. Maybe I want him to pressure me, but it doesn’t feel like that’s what he’s doing. Maybe a gentle nudge.
So to downtown we head.
As we cross the Belknap Street Viaduct, I say, “You know, my grandpa built this viaduct.”
“Via-what?”
“Viaduct. It’s a bridge that goes over land, not water. And if you ever meet my grandpa, call it that. You’ll get points for that. He likes accuracy.”
“Okeydokey, smokey. Mr. Bridge Expert.”
I turn past Leonard’s Department Store onto Taylor Street and find a parking spot near the library on Third.
As we walk up the steps, Jeep says, “Meet you back here in an hour.”
I make my way to the periodical room, where I spend a lot of time. I like reading the entertainment section of the New York Times. But today I decide to do research for the show I may be doing. Or rather, the show I am doing. I can’t disappoint Mr. Waters. I gravitate toward Life, Time, and Newsweek magazines. They always have pictures and articles about the war. I rifle through the back issues on the shelf and pick out a few that catch my eye.
I take them to a table and sit. Thumbing through them, I am sickened. I’ve never truly looked at images of the war. I never watch the TV news, and we don’t get any magazines at the house. Everything I know about the war comes from what I overhear when my daddy talks about it with his beer buddies. Or from my aunt, the one whose son is over there. And all that is positive. To hear Daddy, we’re “kickin’ ass” over there. And Aunt Juney is so proud of my cousin. She has no idea what’s really going on over there, halfway around the world.
These pictures tell a different story. This thing is horrific. And it’s only getting worse. Johnson had escalated it so much hundreds of soldiers are dying, it seems like, every day. The photographers have to be risking their own lives to get these shots. Dead bodies, crying little kids, mothers carrying babies, sobbing. Even sobbing soldiers. I am totally engrossed in reading, my eyes glued to every word, every image.
“Well?” I hear. Jeep stands there, hovering over me, about ten books clutched in his hands. “I’ve been looking all over the place for you. You weren’t outside; you weren’t at the car.”
I stand. Inside, I try to shake off the horror. “Sorry. I guess I got carried away, reading.”
“I’m ready to go if you are,” he says. “I got a lotta books here for my report. I gotta get home and write the thing. Can’t believe I waited till the last minute.”
I grin at him. “I can,” I say.
We leave the building and start home. In the car on the way, Jeep gabbles incessantly about this report he has due. But I don’t hear him. It’s only noise. My mind is fixated on the pictures I’ve seen. I don’t even remember dropping Jeep off at his house.
As I pull into our parking lot, I vow I most definitely am going to do this play I’ve committed to. If it in any way contributes to ending this thing a million miles away that is killing so many people, I want to be a part of it.
Blood.
Sweat.
Tears.
Chapter 3
JEEP ISSUES a car-filling yawn. He’s subdued this morning. Doesn’t say much. Keeps yawning.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“That report kicked my butt. Up half the night. You know how hard it is to sit on your bed, surrounded by a zillion books, thumbing through pages to find what you can use, then trying to put it all together into a report for a class you don’t want or need?” He emits another yawn, a huge, deafening bear roar.
“Serves you right, Jeep. If you’d started a week ago. Got some three-by-fives. Checked out the books and written what you needed on the cards. Shuffled the cards in the order you wanted to say everything. Ten minutes later, you’d have had a written report.”
“Are you nuts? All that work?”
“Okay, tell me this. You stayed up till what? Two? Three?”
“Four is more like it.”
“Here’s the timeline doing it my way. An hour at the library to check out books. Stop at Buddies on the way home to buy cards. Thirty minutes or so each night to take notes. Twenty, thirty minutes last night to write. Bed by nine.”
I smile at him. It’s a smug smile. I can’t help it.
“Okay, okay, Dewey F-ing Booknerd. Next time, maybe I’ll try your way.” He bops me across the shoulder. It smacks, but it kinda feels good. Like Jeep and I are becoming really good friends.
He rushes off to class when we get to school, but only after he tells me one of his band members is picking him up after school. They have an audition this afternoon for a gig. I love it. I’m not the only teacher in this twosome. Jeep’s taught me “gig,” “f-ing” (not that I will probably ever use the word—and certainly not the word the “f” stands for) and “shit,” the feel-good word.
I sit on my usual bench in the foyer to wait f
or devotional time. From my lunch sack, I pull out a plastic sandwich bag of cookies. This morning, when I was making my lunch, I thought of Butch and his demand for cookies. Last night, Mother bought some chocolate chip cookies from Buddies bakery. As I slipped a couple into a bag for me, Butch’s face floated into my brain. And just as quickly, the horrors of those photos I’d seen at the library came into my consciousness. Unless a miracle occurred or President Nixon did something, Butch would likely find himself in the middle of that atrocity. College would keep me out of it—or at least delay my induction, but Butch was never going to college. His family couldn’t afford it. And it wasn’t like Butch was some sort of brain who could get a scholarship. No, pretty much as soon as graduation was over, Butch would be shipped off to Vietnam. No doubt about it. And that thought made me feel sorry for him. So I bagged four cookies, just for Butch.
“Dew-ey!” I knew it. He wouldn’t leave me alone for a day. But today my opinion of Butch has changed a bit. I can only hope that feeling stays.
He does his signature sidle right up against me. “How are ya today, girl?”
I thrust the bag of cookies at him. He’d made that cookie order every day forever, and this was the first time I ever brought him any. And he could tell by looking these weren’t cookies I’d bagged for me and my lunch. Two cookies. That’s all I ever brought for me—and he usually ate one of them. No, this was four cookies, all for him, and he knew it.
I see his face change. Soften a bit. All it took was cookies? I wish I’d known. His eyes glisten. “For me?”
“Yeah, Butch. For you.”
He takes one out. Chomps a giant bite. “These are good. Buddies bakery? We don’t get these at our house. The only time I’ve had one is when they gave out free samples.” He chews and smiles. With his mouth full of gloppy cookie, he says, “What was that all about yesterday?” A wary look overtakes him. “Am I really your friend?” The really is filled with sarcasm, but his face tells another story. Maybe he wants to be my friend.
All You Need Is Love Page 3
