“Whatever are they doing?” Joyce said.
“Border, come look.”
“Uh, Mrs. Neelon…”
She gave him a paper sheet. Border wrapped it around his waist and joined them at the window.
Two stories down and across the street a group of students had gathered on the lawn of a house. A stream of kids flowed out of the high school, straight below the nurse’s office. A few held hand-lettered signs, and Border saw three girls unroll a long banner: NO GUNS FOR OIL, it said, and was decorated with peace signs and flowers. He frowned. Bad artwork.
“Shameful,” Joyce said, and the nurse agreed.
“Though,” she responded, “they have the right to their opinion.”
“Not in wartime,” Joyce said crisply. “That’s the same as treason. They should be suspended. Walking out and doing this!”
“Did you hear the president last night?”
“He was wonderful!”
They exited to the outer office and Border stood watching alone. Maybe thirty kids out in the cold. Shouting, chanting, smoking, kicking at chunks of snow. A car pulled up and parked. Men got out. Cops?
VET FOR PEACE, their poster said; everybody cheered and high-fived, slapping palms reddened from cold.
One girl lounged against a tree trunk and flashed “V” with her fingers whenever a car drove by. The girl sort of looked like Dana, dressed like Dana. Border shivered. His thighs, bare under the sheet, popped goose pimples. He hoped his sister, wherever she was, was wearing more than paper.
The protest continued for the rest of fifth period and most of sixth. No cops came by, no school officials came out, and finally it broke up. A few kids lingered, smoking.
Border watched until Mrs. Neelon brought his dryer-hot jeans. He slipped them on and headed straight for the library. Study hall next period, why bother with geometry for fifteen minutes?
The library was deserted and he found a carrel next to the sci-fi and fantasy collection. The lurid cover of one book faced out and caught his eye: a voluptuous babe with her hand on the hero’s hunky chest. Canyons of Istabar. Border pulled it off the shelf and began reading.
After-School Activity—
“You have some nerve, Baker, hanging around after that little show. You dumb-ass traitorous son of a bitch, son of a dope-brained coward.”
Border’s books had scattered in the snow. He spotted Canyons soaking up moisture as it lay in a slushy tire track. He’d finished seven chapters in the library, wanted to know the end. Probably unreadable now.
He blew out his nose and watched blood splatter on snow. Then he coughed, a quick succession of sharp gagging hacks, until the bloody phlegm was forced up into his mouth. He spat it out.
“A few punches,” Bryan whined. He turned to his companions. “I didn’t even hit him that hard.” His friends murmured agreement. “I should have known he wouldn’t fight back. Chicken.”
Border pushed up and inched back until he could rest against his car. “You’re too tough for me, Bryan.”
A wad of spit landed on Border’s shoe.
Border closed his eyes, tapped on his thighs. “Why are you doing this? I got your message yesterday. You don’t like me. I understand.”
“I wanted you to know what I think of your little demonstration today.”
“Huh?” he honked. “I wasn’t there.”
Bryan frowned. “I heard you walked out during fifth period, the first one to leave. You weren’t in geometry, I know that.”
Border started to speak, then shut up. He owed the bastard nothing.
Bryan nodded. “Just what I thought.”
“You know, Bryan, until about two minutes ago I didn’t hate you, even after you jumped me yesterday.” He shifted, stifled a moan. Man, his jaw hurt. “After all, your jokes in class aren’t half-bad. Whoa, easy now, don’t kick me. Are you going to kick me?”
Bryan squinted. “I should. I should kick you back to New Mexico.”
Something dripped across Border’s lips. He wiped it with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear on light gray gloves. “Gosh, Bryan, I doubt if even a fine athlete like you could do that.”
The kicks came hard, and Border crumpled over, thinking as his head hit ground, I am so stupid.
“Stop it,” one of Bryan’s friends whispered. There was murmuring, then footsteps in snow, and Border was alone.
He rose slowly and leaned against the car, sorry for himself. Dark sky, dirty snow, sharp wind, foul mood.
Get in the car, drive home. New Mexico. What was stopping him?
Border looked at his bloody glove. Life with mother, that’s what. Life with someone who puts that life on stage. What would she do with this? Hold him and clean the blood?
“Nope,” said Border aloud. “She’d put it in a show. She’d start writing. She’d—”
He wasn’t alone. Another boy stood watching, ten feet away. Border raised his arms. “Go ahead, kick me.”
“Is that what happened? You’re a mess. Who did it?”
Border brushed snow off his jacket. “Pack of little girls, seven or eight of them. Vicious things. Beat me with their Barbie dolls.”
“Think you need to see a doctor? The hospital—”
“No!” Right into his father’s lair? No. “I’m okay. It’s probably just a bloody nose.”
“I live a block over from your house. I could use a ride home.”
Border frowned. Did everyone know who he was?
“I work at the grocery store and I saw you shopping with Mrs. Sanborn. I’ve cut her lawn for years.”
Border tossed his keys to the boy. “I’ve got blood caked on my eye and my head hurts. You drive.”
A cautious driver; Border got impatient. Tapped on his thighs.
“What are you doing?”
“What?”
“With your fingers.”
“Watch the road. Gosh, people drive slowly in this town.”
“No place to go, why go fast?”
“What’s your name?”
“Jacob McQuillan. Not Jake.”
“Border Baker, but you know that. I play recorder. Sometimes I get songs in my head and the fingers move. Habit.”
“My sister’s birthday was yesterday. There’s leftover cake. Want some?”
Border’s stomach responded. “Cake would be good,” he said.
Jacob parked in the driveway of a small house similar to Border’s, but painted white. He gave Border the car keys, then leaned over and looked at the wound on Border’s face. “What a mess.”
“Are the cuts bad?”
“No cuts at all. I think you were right—the blood came from your nose.” He shifted closer, looking.
“Whoa, Jacob. Another inch and I’ll have to kiss you.”
First Friend—
Pandemonium at the door. Seventy pounds of Labrador pounced. Border cringed, the dog leaped, ran in circles, barked, then sat on its haunches and howled: Ah-rooo.
“She’s glad to see us,” said Jacob.
“I guess,” said Border.
Jacob held open the door. “Out, Pooch. Go do your thing.”
They ate cake straight out of the pan, holding it between them, two forks digging in. Pooch returned, put her paws up on the door and licked the glass until Jacob let her in.
They ate and talked. Jacob was a junior. Had played hockey until knee surgery. Worked on the school paper. Parents were teachers. Five younger sisters.
“So I was ready to believe you,” he said, “when you told me about the Barbie dolls.”
Border talked less, holding back. Jacob knew most of the story anyway. After all, he’d cut grass for Connie.
He didn’t know about Dana.
“We’re not too worried,” said Border. “It’s sort of like her to do something like this.”
“But what if she’s been hurt?”
“Then we’ll be sorry.”
They finished the cake and Jacob set the pan down for Pooch. She licked furi
ously, pushing it around the floor, nose stuck in the corners, searching for crumbs.
Three sisters came home, two of them fighting. They carried the fight through the kitchen and into their bedroom. The oldest sister stopped, dumping books on the table.
“What happened to you?” she asked Border.
“Liz, meet Border. Border, meet Liz,” said Jacob.
“He’s in three of my classes. What happened?”
Border needed a moment. Three classes? He couldn’t think of one.
“Geometry, Resources, History. What happened?”
“Some guys jumped me. Really only one guy, I guess, but the others were watching.”
“What guy?” she asked over her shoulder, as she stood at the fridge and poured milk.
“He’s not telling.”
He told. “Bryan someone.”
Liz and Jacob groaned. “Bryan Langtry, I bet,” she said. “Figures. Stupid. Stupid guys. Hey, where’s the cake?” Pooch flicked a paw and the pan skidded across the floor. Liz scowled at her brother and picked up the pan. “This was my cake,” she said.
“Sorry,” said her brother.
“Happy birthday,” said Border. “A day late.”
“Guys,” said Liz as she left the room, “are such jerks.” The fighting sisters returned to the kitchen. The short one looked at Border. “Gross,” she said. The other one nodded.
“Time to go,” said Border. Jacob and Pooch walked him out to the car. “Do you like hockey?” Jacob asked. “There’s a home game Friday.”
“I’ve never seen a hockey game.”
“Lotta fun. Around here it’s bigger than basketball. Whole town goes.”
Bryan and his buddies? “I don’t know.”
“Think about it.”
In the car, Border rolled down the window and leaned out. “Thanks for helping.”
Jacob flipped his hand. “I needed the ride.”
Home Alone—
He went straight to the phone machine. Nerve center of the family. Light flashed. Word from Dana? No, just Dad. Dinner with friends, then some tennis. Home by ten. Here’s something to think about: Should we join the Y?
Y not?
He called his mother’s machine, spoke to it: Any news? I haven’t heard anything.
Family life, the nineties.
He washed and changed clothes. Checked his wounds. Bruises on a thigh and hip. Face wasn’t too bad, which was good: no cuts, no gashes, no questions. His dirty shirt was blood-stained and he threw it away, shoving it to the bottom of the trash. His hand came up smelling like old spinach. Washed again.
Supper alone, watching the war. Fiery skies, tense reporters, gas masks, sirens.
Border muted the sound and played his recorder. Rolling Stones, an oldie, “Sympathy for the Devil.”
Telephone call for Gumbo. “He’s playing tennis,” said Border.
“The party’s set for Saturday. Let him know.”
Border promised, said good-bye.
Zzzip flash, zzzip flash, missiles over the Middle East. Pyroball, bigtime. Border played Mozart. Too pretty.
Telephone for Gumbo. “Did he hear about the party?”
“He will,” Border promised.
Zzzip flash. Border touched his tender face. Telephone for Gumbo, did he hear about the beating? Telephone for Gumbo, did he hear about the kicking? Telephone for Gumbo, did he hear about the bleeding?
Brahms? No, still too pretty. Border whacked the recorder against his palm. Stupid instrument, really. Drums would be better. A big kettledrum, a bass drum. Nothing pretty, no melody, no song, no oldies. Just hit it and hit it and hit it.
Red, White, and Blue—
Flags everywhere. After just a few days of war, they had sprouted all over town. Front porches, car antennas, picture windows. On Sunday afternoon Border erected a pole for Connie and Paul outside their house. Fifteen feet of aluminum weighted down in a barrel of sand. An hour in the cold—red hands, numb toes, ringing ears—but finally the flag ran up the pole and flapped.
“Looks good,” said Paul.
“Perfect, hon,” said Connie.
“You could’ve worn gloves,” said the old man, who hadn’t helped at all but joined them in time for cocoa.
“Good advice, Gumbo,” said Border. And out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father stiffen. Got the message: Not funny.
Didn’t mean to be.
At school on Monday, more flags. Classrooms and hallways, tables in the lunchroom, backpacks and buttons. Someone had slapped a flag decal on Border’s locker. He spent too much time trying to scrape it off and was late for math class. It didn’t matter; no one noticed. When he walked in, people were crowded around a desk in the back.
Border slipped into his. Dug out his homework.
“Here, here,” barked the teacher. “Order!” People sat down, still talking. “Quiet, or we have a quiz!” That worked.
The teacher clasped his hands. “So that we might all fully appreciate the patriotic effort of your classmate, why don’t we ask Chandra to model her outfit?”
Border twisted in his seat—hard to do, he filled it up—as a girl in the back rose and walked down the aisle, displaying a short skirt and top she’d made out of a flag. The class cheered and whooped, clapped and snapped a rhythm for her walk. Border frowned, puzzled. Thought about the old man’s stories from his days in high school when people were going nuts over the Vietnam War. Back then it was the protesters who wore the flag. And caught hell for it.
But now, 1991, some girl was sashaying through rows of desks wearing a flag over a black leotard. The class went wild. The teacher beamed. Border checked his homework.
Mrs. Zipoti—
“Hummus!”
Everyone came to attention. But then, as Border had learned his first day in school, everyone was always at attention in Mrs. Zipoti’s class, Resources for Living. One slip, one slight drift toward daydream, and those eyes would zero in and that broad rock of a bosom would hover, extinguishing light and, very possibly, life.
“Does anyone know what hummus is?”
Gulag Zipoti, he’d learned to call the class the first day. And in any other class but the Gulag, Border suspected the usual jokes would have been whispered: Hummus a tune; Hummus is that doggie in the window?
Not a word. She licked her lips in satisfaction, having once again proven that students were dumb, dumber, dumbest.
“Hummus is a staple food of the Mideast. Today we will make hummus.”
They made hummus. There were several Middle Eastern restaurants in Albuquerque, and Border had eaten hummus often, but he could tell the other kids hadn’t. As everyone’s bowls of gloppy beige paste developed, the groans and gagging started. Mrs. Zipoti beamed satisfaction from behind her counter.
“Through food,” she intoned, “we can gain understanding, appreciation, and empathy for other cultures.” Her chest heaved. “Even as we destroy them.”
A whisper from the back: “People who have to eat this crap should beg to be bombed.”
Mrs. Zipoti found the voice. She glided from her counter to where a girl slouched in a seat. Mrs. Z didn’t say a word, just glared, breathed deeply, returned to her mount.
Border and the others could read her mind.
Big fat F.
Escape—
The next day Border ditched school. Between classes he caught Bryan eyeing him a few times, not friendly, and decided, Why wait for trouble?
It felt so good sitting in the car, out of the school, free to go. He drove away fast, headed nowhere.
He cruised Main. Still only morning, and there was no one to see but slow-moving senior citizens crossing the street at a crawl. Border stopped for one who paused in the middle of the street to search his pockets.
Honk, maybe, just to move him along? Better not—might scare ’im to death. Border tapped on the steering wheel, looked around. On the courthouse grounds two men were tying a banner to trees. FUTURE SITE OF… The plastic flapped.
The car behind Border’s honked. The old man quit his pocket search, looked up and scowled at Border, then raised a mittened fist before plodding on.
He drove the Volvo around the courthouse, parked, and got out to read the sign.
FUTURE SITE OF WALTHAM COUNTY WAR MEMORIAL.
GROUNDBREAKING: MEMORIAL DAY, 1991. The banner included a drawing of the future monument—a plain stone wall, with room for names. Someone joined Border. “Sort of copying the Vietnam Memorial,” Border said aloud, not looking at his companion.
“They could do worse than that.”
“True.” He turned to look and was eye to eye with a stern man in a uniform. A sheriff’s deputy, according to the badge.
“Shouldn’t you be in school, son?”
Yes, he should. “Going that way, after…” After what? A nap? A few hours of TV? “…the dentist.”
The deputy smiled. “Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”
“No sir. Two fillings.” Border nodded and walked to his car, sucking back a smile. Sometimes the lies came so easy.
Next morning, he slept until ten and woke up thinking, I should be in school. Fell back asleep.
Habit. Back home it was easy to ditch, they never checked. Two thousand kids in a school, who noticed?
This time, his father.
Discipline—
They called me at work, Border. Three surgeries scheduled, the place is wild, and I have to deal with a school secretary.
Nice lady.
I called three times this morning. Where were you? What did you do all day?
Slept.
I’m busting my butt earning a living for us and you’re home sleeping.
Teenagers need sleep. Lots of it.
Give me your car keys.
What?
Punishment, Border. Consequences. You do not skip school.
Ground me or something, but let me drive.
Keys, please.
How do I get to school? Do you want me to stay home and sleep?
It’s yellow. It stops at the corner. It’s called a bus.
No!
Yes! Keys?
It’s crowded, Dad. It’s got junior high kids on it.
Hometown Page 5
