by Chris Crowe
head down, arms at his side, and
wept like an old man.
The tension in the
room made us all prisoners
of Mr. Ruby’s
anguish. No one moved.
No one laughed. No one knew what
to do. Suddenly
Angela rushed by
me and went to our teacher.
Gently turning his
back to the class, she
wrapped her long arms around him
and held him while his
shoulders shook. Then she
looked at me, looked at all of
us petrified with
stupidity. “You
all should leave now. Let the man
have some privacy.”
Some kids bolted for
the door, and the stress bled out
of the room like air
from a balloon. I
stayed in my seat, watching the
new girl from L.A.
giving comfort to
a man who was both teacher
and stranger to her.
I ached to know what
it would feel like to have her
long arms around me.
March 1968
Week Twelve: 349
The bodies piled up
over there. Hundreds every
week, with thousands more
wounded. And we had
problems at home. Race riots
last year were caused by
discrimination
that still lingered. Anti-war
rallies stirred people
up, too, and sometimes
it felt like America
was ready to blow.
I was in the midst
of a different war at
home. No one lobbed live
hand grenades or shot
guns, because our conflict was
a war of silence,
not violence. The
demilitarized zone was
up in my bedroom,
where I went to tune
out and where my parents came
to check on me. They
didn’t want me to
be a victim of their war,
but it was too late.
They never came in
together. Instead, it was
a tag-team mission:
Dad walked in, turned off
my stereo, and sat on
my bed like an old
friend. He’d tell me how
integrated circuits were
going to transform
the electronics
industry. I pretended
to listen, but I
was thinking that he
should instead talk about how
another kind of
integration might
transform America. When
it was Mom’s turn, she
talked about all the
stuff she’d done to end the war
in Vietnam. But
I told her that I
wished she’d try to end the war
with Dad instead. She
listened, I had to
give her that; then a sad smile
darkened her face, and
she sighed. “I’m afraid
it’s too late for that, Ashe. Your
father and I got
married because of
you, and we’re still together
because we love you,
and that’s probably
the best we can do.” Then her
smile faded, and my
heart sank. “I’m not sure
how long we’re going to last.”
She looked ready to
confide something but
paused and asked, “You understand
what’s going on, right?”
March 1968
Week Thirteen: 330
Angela Turner
stopped me after class today.
We stood outside the
classroom door, unmoved
by students streaming around
us, and talked about
Mr. Ruby’s class
and Vietnam, civil rights,
and Martin Luther
King, her hero. She
told me about her brother
and her parents, and
herself. “Mom and Dad
adopted me when I was
a baby and saved
me from who knows what
kinds of crap I would have dealt
with in the foster
care merry-go-round.”
She looked at me, hard, like she
was trying to read
my mind. The bell rang
and the hallway emptied, but
neither one of us
moved. She leaned closer—
so close I breathed in her peach
perfume—and said, “So
my real parents dumped
me.” Her eyes stayed on mine, and
I didn’t know what
she wanted me to
say or do. Finally I
shrugged and said, “So what?”
Her glistening lips
formed a smile. “That is a good
question, Ashe, the right
question.” For a few
awkward moments no words passed
between us, and my
heart thudded so hard
I was afraid she’d hear it.
“Someone said there’s a
Sadie Hawkins dance
in two weeks. Are you going?”
“Haven’t been asked,” I
replied. Then her smile
widened, brightened, and she said,
“What about going
with me?” A wave of
heat flowed up my neck, and I
felt my face redden.
“I’d really like that.”
Her eyes narrowed, and with a
nod she said, “A good
answer, Ashe. The right
answer,” and turned and walked to
her next class. As I
watched her leave, I tried
not to think about what Dad
would do if he found
out I was going
to a dance with a gorgeous
hippie from L.A.
April 1968
Week Fourteen: 279
Thursday night, I asked
Dad to take us to Coco’s
for dinner. “You know,
like a regular
family?” He rolled his eyes but
agreed. We sat in
a booth near the bar.
An old black-and-white TV
in the corner had
the news on, talking
about LBJ’s speech last
Sunday, when he said
he would try to get
us out of Vietnam and
that he wouldn’t run
for reelection.
Mom looked nervous, happy, and
pretty, and when she
talked to Dad, he paid
attention. They looked just like
a couple on their
first date: awkward but
interested. I’d never
seen them like that, and
it seemed almost too
good to be true. By the time
the waiter brought my
chocolate shake for
dessert, it looked like Mom and
Dad were softening
up. After shooting
me an awkward smile, Mom looked
at Dad. “Ashe is the
best thing about us,
and we owe it to him to
solve this, no matter
what might be coming
up the hill. He deserves a
better future than
we had.” Dad nodded
slowly, but before he
could
speak, a commotion
interrupted him.
Someone turned up the TV
at the bar, and we
all turned to watch a
grim-faced reporter clutching
his microphone. “The
Reverend Martin
Luther King, Jr., has been
gunned down outside a
Memphis motel. He’s
in critical condition . . .”
A hush fell over
the room, and Mom went
pale white and shaky, but that
changed when some guy at
the bar yelled, “About
time!” His buddies burst into
wild laughter, and Mom’s
face turned furious
red. When Dad started laughing,
too, he dropped a bomb
on our night out. Mom
stood, fierce blue eyes blazing. “Come
on, Ashe, we’re done here.”
April 1968
Week Fifteen: 363
As a kid, I dreamed
of becoming a hero.
War movies had taught
me that the hero
saved his buddies by diving
on a live grenade,
so in our childhood
war games I always played that
guy. Someday, I thought,
my valor would earn
me a Medal of Honor.
Things changed when I got
older and learned that
real war is nothing like the
movies. I started
wondering if I
had what it took to be a
hero. Would I have
the guts to cover
a live grenade for my friends?
Would I sacrifice
my life for someone
else? Sometimes that’s exactly
what a guy doesn’t
want to learn about
himself. The thing is, there are
all kinds of grenades
in life; you don’t have
to go to Vietnam to
find them. I knew that.
April 1968
Week Sixteen: 287
Martin Luther King’s
murder knocked the wind out of
Angela. She missed
a few days of school
right after, and when she came
back, she looked like she
might break if she sat
down too hard. Mr. Ruby
welcomed her to class
with a nod, and she
slid into her desk behind
me, leaned forward, and
whispered, “Ashe, I hate
what happened to him, but those
riots in D.C.
and everywhere else
only make it worse. What is
wrong with those people?”
When class ended, she
handed me a note as she
left the room. “Sorry
I’m such a mess,” it
said. “But I still want to go
to Sadie Hawkins
with you Saturday
night. I’m gonna need you to
cheer me up, okay?”
★ ★ ★
When Angela picked
me up that night, Mom was gone
and Dad was watching
Lawrence Welk. He just
waved at me when I told him
I was going out
with some friends. Before
we even got to her car,
Angela stopped, threw
her long arms around
me, and planted a wet kiss
right on my mouth. We
stood in the shadows
of my garage, holding and
kissing like I was
going off to war
the next morning. Then she sighed.
“I needed that, Ashe.
God knows, I really
needed that.” She felt soft and
strong and smelled faintly
of cinnamon. I
struggled to steady my voice—
“Happy to oblige”—
and kissed her again.
We finally drove to the
dance but never left
her car. Instead of
dancing, we talked and talked, not
about Vietnam,
civil rights, riots,
or anything else but us:
Angela and Ashe.
April 1968
Week Seventeen: 302
After our Sadie’s
date, Angela wanted to
meet my family,
but that was the last
thing I wanted. My home life
couldn’t take any
more drama. I told
her that my parents were on
the brink of divorce,
so a meet-up was
not a good idea. “But my
mom would love you,” I
said, and left it at
that. But Angela’s too smart
for that. “What about
your dad?” She smiled. “Would
he love me, too?” Trying to
avoid her eyes, I
shrugged and said, “Well, Dad’s
complicated,” and changed the
subject. How could I
explain my dad’s old-
fashioned attitudes about
war? I didn’t want
to risk losing my
girlfriend and my family
both at the same time.
★ ★ ★
At home, raw tension
entangled our lives. Mom’s and
Dad’s orbits rarely
intersected, and
when they did, they passed in a
silence as cold as
outer space. Most nights,
Dad worked late, Mom attended
protest rallies, and
I’d eat alone, do
my homework, and go to bed
without seeing them.
Sometimes I’d lie in
bed, wondering if things could
have been different.
★ ★ ★
I came home from school
one day and found my mom in
the kitchen, crying
into the phone. Tears
streaked her red cheeks, and when she
saw me, she wiped her
eyes, turned her back to
me, said, “Gotta go,” and hung
up, looking guilty.
I knew she didn’t
want to talk about why she
was crying. It was
probably about
Dad, a rally, or something
heavy. I had planned
to tell her about
Angela, but she didn’t
need anything else
to worry about,
so I headed upstairs to
tune out. Something was
going on with her,
and I didn’t like the tell-
tale signs. She’d shift from
being mellow to
being emotional, and
then ravenously
hungry. Could it be
marijuana? She could buy
it at those rallies
or anywhere on
