“Several people have been fined for late payment of income tax. Ten-dollar fines for Cynthia, Adam, Bob …” This time most of those fined were lower colors. A couple more fines were given, sometimes unjustly, and awards, sometimes without being honestly earned, then Brian said:
“It has come to our attention that the people responsible for putting up the signs on campus are the Oranges. Would those involved please stand up, or else the entire Orange class will have to bear the consequences.”
Everyone turned around to see what the Oranges would do. Adam leaned forward, an intense, angry scowl on his face. Others looked startled, guarded, even scared. Of course no one admitted blame. I felt hot with guilt, shocked that someone else might take blame for what I'd done.
“You all realize, don't you, that the state will not tolerate troublemakers,” Brian said. “You lower colors have as much opportunity to rise in society as anyone else. If you don't make it, you have only yourselves to blame. It's laziness and stupidity that keep you where you are—nothing else. So let's not see you wasting time in rebellion. Nobody's going to give up their good lives just because you're not ambitious enough to get where they are.” His face hardened. “Now, don't hurt your own people, whoever you are. Stand up and admit your guilt and take your punishment. If the guilty person or persons do not stand up—”
I jumped to my feet. With the attention centered on the Oranges in the back of the room, no one noticed me at first. Then Brian said, “Amy, sit down.”
“I'm responsible for the posters and banners,” I said. My face must have turned scarlet from the way it burned and the words came out as if I'd just finished running. The room became so still I could hear Gwen gasp, and all eyes fixed on me. “Sunday night I climbed the fence and put up the signs.”
Brian's lips curled into a curious smile. “You did, did you? If that's true, you're in real trouble, Amy. But I can't believe it. It's too big a job for one person. Who helped you?”
“Nobody. I did it alone.” My face burned and I carefully avoided looking at Juan.
“No, she didn't!” Juan's chair scraped as he leaped to his feet. “I helped her!”
“I see.” Brian's eyebrows rose in surprise. He glanced first at Otero, then at the other G4's. “I'll have to confer with my colleagues for a moment.” I stood before the class like Hester Prynne before the townspeople, while Juan and I gazed uneasily at each other. Brian, Otero, and the other G4's whispered for a while, then Brian stepped back to the front of the room.
“We're very disappointed in you, Amy. Very. Reports have come in that you've been urging others to rebel, that you've been bowing back to lower colors. That you've deliberately left your own color and conspired with lower colors. And now you admit to an even worse crime—insurrection.” Brian shook his head. “Of course you know you've disgraced your color. No one of status will want to have anything to do with you. And because of the severity of your crimes and your unrepentant attitude, we have no choice but to demote you to the lowest status. From now on you are … an Orange. Of course you keep your blue band on under the orange, because it symbolizes your roots.”
I let out my breath, relieved to have it over with. Others had been promoted and demoted, but never more than one level higher or lower. It was so embarrassing. It's what I'd expected to happen, even wanted to happen. But now that it had, I felt so strange. My entire upbringing had taught me to bring respect and honor to the family name and my own, and to do it without bringing attention to myself. Papa would be so ashamed.
Still, I didn't feel disgraced. Embarrassed, yes, even a little scared. I gathered up my books and walked with head high to the G4 holding the color bands. With everyone watching, I proudly wrapped the orange band on top of the blue. As I walked to the back of the room I heard Brian shouting at Juan. “You're so stupid, you might just as well be an Orange, too!”
“Way to go!” someone whispered as I passed the Light Greens. Hands reached out to touch me. Ahead, in the Orange section, sat a solid row of females, or Teks, with the only seat at the end. Without a word the row stood up and Teks moved right and left, leaving a seat in the middle for me. Right in front of Adam.
Adam's eyes glowed with pride and love. I took the seat in front of him and faced front, feeling oddly vulnerable. But I had no doubt that what I'd done was right.
9
“You did it for me, didn't you?” Adam asked, an arm around me as we left the room together for the first time in weeks. “So we could be together. Despite everything you said, you just couldn't stand being away from me, right?”
Part of me remained tied up in knots at what I'd done and part of me wanted to stay aloof from Adam, not wanting to be hurt after what Bettina had said. But looking up at his handsome, confident face, I couldn't stay angry. Instead, I smiled and said, “Actually, I did it for me.”
Juan fell into step beside us. “Did she tell you how we plastered the school last night? You should have seen her climb that fence, like a commando. Cool as a killer. Man! I never knew you had that side to you, Amy.”
“Oh, come on,” I chided. “If you hadn't agreed to come, I'd never have had the guts. We had fun, though, didn't we?” Our escapade had created a special bond of affection between us. Adam noticed, and turned silent and aloof. I went on chatting with Juan, hoping Adam would get over his rudeness, until Juan left us at the stairs.
For the next moments Adam and I walked together without speaking. Finally, I said, “What's wrong?”
“You tell me!” Adam exclaimed. “What's going on between you and that … macho Mex?”
“Adam!” I couldn't believe what I heard.
“What's with you, Amy? Since when do you call on Juan? How come you didn't phone me to go with you?”
“I don't see where it's your right to tell me who to see or not! Did I say you shouldn't go to the beach because all those girls would be around? And anyway, you were up in the mountains, as I recall!” Pride wouldn't let me add, “With your real friends.”
“You could have waited a day!”
“I'm not even sure you would have gone along with it. You're an Orange. Aspiring to rise in Otero's magic kingdom.’9
“What's gotten into you? What's with all this sarcasm?”
“That's the second time you've asked that! Well, nothing's gotten into me. Maybe this is who I really am. Do you prefer the good old quiet, don't-make-waves me?” My throat ached and my heart pounded in my ears. Somehow I couldn't shut up that mean rush of words.
By now we'd reached my typing class and the warning bell had rung, so Adam should have been leaving for his own class. We stood in the hall staring at each other, glaring at each other really, as the last stragglers hurried by. Suddenly, all my anger drained away and I put a hand on Adam's. “Why are we arguing like this? We can be together now without all those outside pressures. There's enough meanness in the upper colors without hurting each other, too.” I held out my hand with its orange armband. “I'm just a lowly Orange, just like you now. Let's not fight. Let's work together.”
Adam's eyes softened and he took my hands in his. “You're right and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that about Juan. Forgive me?”
“Sure.”
He glanced down the hall. “I better go. But we're having an Orange meeting at my house at four. Can you be there?”
“Sure.”
He nodded, turned, and strode away, blowing me a kiss before disappearing around a corner. I stood for a long moment, staring off at nothing, thinking.
How quickly I'd accepted Adam's apology about Juan, but how hard it would be to forget what he'd said. Did he really think of Juan that way? What would happen, I wondered, when he didn't like something I said or did? Would he view me as a “Jap” then?
As I went into the typing room I thought about his weekend. He'd said nothing about the party, about Eileen and the others, as if he owed me no explanations. Then, what right had he to question me about Juan?
Confused and troubled,
I took my seat and uncovered the electric typewriter. We were having a timed test. Usually, I could forget everything except what magic flowed from my eyes through my head to my fingers. Now, as I rolled a paper into the machine, all I could see was Adam and the cold, superior look he'd had on his face when he spoke about Juan. They were meeting in the game room in back of Adam's home, a maid said as she ushered me through endless corridors to a room Fd not seen before. It was big enough to hold a hundred people comfortably, and the dozen to fifteen kids seemed lost in the huge space. Some were clustered around two large game tables, playing or kibbitzing. Others, including Adam, sat near a stone fireplace, talking and laughing. In the background I heard an old Beatles album playing.
As soon as Adam saw me he rushed forward, taking my hand and drawing me into the room. “Hey, everyone! Look who's here! The Joan of Arc of Ray Otero's class!”
“Three cheers for Amy!” someone cried as everyone gathered at the fireplace. The room rang with cheers. I covered my face in embarrassment, but not before noticing something odd. Two of Adam's friends, Troy Crichton and Dana Ellerby, hadn't joined in the cheering. They'd stood there, slightly apart, with strange, aloof, suspicious smiles on their faces.
Adam lit the wood in the stone fireplace and soon a roaring fire burned. We sat on leather chairs and sofas, or on the floor, and ate sandwiches from a silver tray. I sat on the floor, leaning against Adam's legs, and thought how very different it was from being a Blue, how very pleasant.
Juan arrived late, looking around as if he felt uncomfortable. He gestured at the rich surroundings, the Oriental rugs, the wall of books, the paintings. “If this is the life of an Orange, let me at it!”
Adam gave him a strained smile and made a space for him near us. Some of the kids tittered. Troy and Dana exchanged knowing glances.
Juan had always been forthright, but this observation made me uncomfortable. He was right, of course. If this was a gathering of really poor people, we'd be meeting in a church hall, or in a tiny apartment smelling of cooking and loud with the noises of too many people.
To ease the tension I said, “One nice thing about being an Orange is getting together like this. When I was a Blue, we never met after school.”
“Sure, why would you?” Troy asked with the same odd smile he'd had when I first came in. “You already had everything. Why would you give all that up?”
“Because … because …” I stopped, a cold chill running down my back. Would he understand that you condone a system if you don't oppose what you don't like?
“You act like you don't believe we're for real,” Juan said, reaching for another sandwich.
Dana ignored his response. Smiling sweetly, as if she didn't mean a word of harm, she asked, “Did it ever occur to you guys that they might be spies, spies Otero planted to find out what we're up to?” She gazed around at everyone— everyone except me.
I stiffened and Adam squeezed my shoulder comfortingly. “Come on, Dana. You always think the worst of people. Why don't you take what Amy did at face value?”
“Yeah, sure, Dana,” one of the others offered. “We've got enough troubles without you putting doubts in our head about our own people.”
I kept this fixed smile on my face, trembling inside. Even though nobody really believed what Dana had said, she'd planted doubt. I huddled closer to Adam's legs.
“We're here to talk about what's going on with us,” Troy said. “So, tell me how you'd handle this one. I was in the locker room yesterday getting ready for soccer-practice, and this guy Paul—you know who I mean—he's talking to some guy next to him—no one in the Color Game—and he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘If a Light Green were to marry an Orange, what would their kids be like?’ “
“Too dumb to steal,” Juan said grimly.
For a second no one laughed, then everyone did. Juan smiled.
“I don't see what's so funny,” Dana Ellerby said.
“I heard the same joke two months ago,” Juan said, “except it was about a Latino and a Black.”
“Well, what do we do about it? Are we going to stand for these put-downs without putting up a fight? Should we maybe answer with some good jokes of our own?”
“Like what?” someone asked. “Most mean jokes like that are racist or about the poor. Is that what Otero's been trying to show, that jokes say what we really feel?”
“So what are we here for?” Troy asked. “If we can't do anything about the way we're treated, what's the good? No matter how I try, I get fined. I write in my journal every day like a good, obedient Orange and a G4 makes fun of it. I bow and curtsy until my back aches and get fined the next day for what I didn't do! I protest the fine and Otero makes me look stupid! What's the use of trying? They want to keep us down and they're doing it.”
“Yeah,” Dana said. “When Jill began organizing us, what does Otero do? Promote her! And the whole idea fell apart once she left.”
“Maybe what Amy did will change things,” Adam said, stroking my hair.
“How?” Dana asked, dripping sarcasm.
I picked at a thread on my jeans, wishing we could change the subject.
“Bowing to everyone was an act of respect for others. She was saying all colors are equal.”
“So?”
“So when everyone has a chance to think about it, maybe they'll start doing the same thing.”
“Don't bet on it,” Juan said.
“You know what, Martinez?” Troy's voice turned nasty. “All you've done so far is snipe. How come you let yourself be demoted? I'd think you'd want to be a Blue or Dark Green so you could get all that hostility out on us Oranges.”
Juan's face flushed and his eyes darted around. In the uncomfortable silence I became aware that he and I were the only minorities in the room. If someone didn't speak up fast, he might just walk out.
“Cut it, Troy,” Adam said quickly. “If we're going to fight among ourselves, we won't get anywhere. We have a lot to discuss.”
“Right,” I piped in, eager to keep our unity and change the subject. “For instance, the papers you No-Teks have to type for us. They're due Friday.” I looked up at Adam, holding my breath. “How would you like to type mine, sweet thing?” I hadn't planned to ask that way, but it just came out. The last time Adam had asked me to type his paper, he'd called me “sweet thing.”
Adam's face flushed. “Come on now, Amy. You know that's just a joke. Nobody really expects the guys to type the girls’ papers.”
“Oh, no?” There was a chorus of protest from the girls.
“Of course not. When would I have time? We've got the midterm in Otero's class Friday, and I've got a bio quiz to study for. I've got soccer practice until five Thursday. I've got—”
“Aaah …” I interrupted, “but you're such a good typist. You got a B-plus in it last year, didn't you, and it shouldn't take long.”
“Amy!” Adam's eyes went dark. Maybe he was recalling that these were almost the same words he'd used on me, and the same tone of voice. I almost backed down, but some stubborn instinct kept me gazing up at him with that same kind of puppy-dog helplessness he used on me when he wanted a paper typed. “It's all right, Adam,” I said, reaching up to touch his face. “I won't make it too long. And I'll give it to you tomorrow, so you'll have two whole days to get it done.” I couldn't believe these words were coming from me.
Adam emitted a resigned groan. “These Teks, “ he exclaimed with exaggerated sarcasm, “are really something. I'll just have to give it to Dad's secretary.”
I opened my mouth to protest, then shut it. I'd gone as far as I dared.
The room rang with the shrill cries of girls and the angry bellows of boys at the injustice of typing the girls’ papers. I thought how rare for us to have this kind of power over males, and how uncomfortable. It just didn't feel natural to “use” the boys the way they so often “used” us.
For the rest of the meeting we talked about all kinds of things. The midterm on Friday and w
hat kind of trick questions Otero might ask. Putting out an underground newspaper. The male beauty contest …
And planning a rally. That's what stirred the most interest and excitement. If we could somehow show the whole school how we often practice prejudice and injustice without even realizing it … and do it without G4's finding out and stopping us … we'd have done something really important. We figured we could hand out petitions, hang up posters, have speakers … but what we needed was some symbol that would bring us all together as one.
“You know,” I mused, “I read that during World War Two the Germans made the Dutch Jews sew stars on their sleeves to set them apart as inferior, so the rest of the Dutch people sewed stars on their sleeves, too. What do you think about us making four-color armbands for everyone to wear, not just the Color Game players?”
Everyone loved the idea, but it meant work, lots of it. We needed materials and sewing machines and plenty of help.
Juan came up with a plan. “My mom does piecework for a dress manufacturer,” he said. “We've got boxes and boxes of scrap material at home.” A little self-conscious, he added, “If you want, we could all meet at my house next time and work there.”
10
I was just getting ready to leave for school the next day when the phone rang. Papa had already left and Mama was pulling out of the driveway. She likes to get to Uncle's shop early to help unpack the fresh fish and set it out in the display cases. Uncle says Mama's an artist, that she makes the fish look twice as fresh as it really is, and so beautiful that people enjoy looking as much as buying.
“Hideo?” I asked, immediately sensing something urgent in his voice. “Is anything wrong?”
“It's Sue,” he said. “She's not feeling right. Kind of nauseous and crampy. Says it's probably the lobster bisque we ate out last night, but I had it, too, and it didn't bother me. I'm worried. If it weren't for this meeting in San Francisco today, I'd stay home.”
“What about her mother?”
The War Between the Classes (Laurel-Leaf Contemporary Fiction) Page 8
