“Excellent. Thanks, Lizzy.”
Ryan thought about yesterday, when she came over to Mrs. Haemmerle’s house with those fashion magazines. It had occurred to him that night, after dinner, that maybe Lizzy was trying to joke around with him.
Maybe she just wanted to hang out like they used to. Before her dad left.
“When we talk about folklore,” Mr. Earle continued, “we’re talking about legends or fairy tales that have been passed down through generations.”
“Like Cinderella,” Paige Barnett said. “Or Goldilocks.”
“Exactly. Good.”
“Or Bigfoot,” Jamie Dahl snickered.
“Bigfoot’s real!” Aaron Robinette blurted out, bouncing up and down in his seat. He was always bouncing, always restless. It drove their other teachers crazy, but Mr. Earle just ignored it. “Although, personally, I prefer to call the creature Sasquatch.”
“Creature? Right. It’s a guy. In a suit,” Jamie said. Those two were always going at each other.
“Shut up, Jamie!”
“Actually, Bigfoot raises a very interesting point,” Mr. Earle calmly cut in. “Often folklore can be a confusing blend of truth and fiction.” He was good at that, solving an argument without it looking like he was taking sides. “In fact, one of its main functions was to try to make sense of things people couldn’t understand.”
“And then find someone to blame for it,” Lizzy added.
Mr. Earle perked up. “Yes! Scapegoating. Good, Lizzy. Who here, other than Lizzy, can tell us what a scapegoat is?”
“Someone who takes the blame for something they didn’t do,” Paige said.
“Right,” Mr. Earle said. “Quite a lot of folklore was invented by frightened villagers looking to explain why their crops went bad or their chickens disappeared or people started getting sick. Now, combine that fear with the pre-existing suspicion and xenophobia already aimed at gypsies, outsiders, and other itinerant people in the region and voilà—we’ve just invented witches, werewolves, and vampires.”
The class laughed, even though Ryan guessed Lizzy was the only one of them who knew what xenophobia and itinerant meant. Ryan figured the gist of it, though, was that if you look different from everyone else and bad things start happening, sooner or later you’re going to get run out of town for it.
Mr. Earle clapped his hands together in an okay-moving-on kind of way and said, “Can anyone else think of other situations where communities rely on legends and folklore?”
The class got quiet again. Mr. Earle waited for a moment and then offered up an idea.
“How about entertainment? People had to do something before TV, right?”
The class laughed again. Ryan saw Mr. Earle’s gaze drift over toward Josh Redigger. Like everyone else, Mr. Earle had been giving Josh his space for the last few weeks, in light of things. Ryan could tell his teacher was wondering if it was time to bring Josh back into the fold. But the kid wasn’t ready. It wasn’t time.
“Fear,” Ryan said.
Mr. Earle looked over at Ryan, straightening his glasses. “Continue.”
“They used the stories to scare kids.”
“Why?”
Ryan shrugged. It was obvious. “To make them behave. Hansel and Gretel: Don’t take candy from strangers. The Boy Who Cried Wolf: Don’t lie to grown-ups. Parents always think that kids aren’t ready to be scared of the real things, so they make up monsters for us to practice on.”
“Understandable, don’t you think?” Mr. Earle said.
“Understandable,” Ryan said. “But wrong.”
Mr. Earle gave Ryan a little “go on” nod of the head.
“They think they’re protecting us,” Ryan continued. “But they’re really just protecting themselves. Whether we’re scared of a wicked witch or the creepy guy in the van, we’re no better off. We’re still scared. It just makes them feel better to have us scared of something that isn’t real.”
Mr. Earle looked at Ryan for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “Good stuff. Now, can anyone think of any legends or folklore that we have right here in Cliffs Donnelly?”
“Crybaby Bridge?” Paige offered.
“That’s over in Abbeyville,” said Jamie.
“So? It’s still kind of local.”
“Sasquatch.”
“Give it up, man. Besides, Bigfoot’s Canadian.”
“Sasquatch! And his migratory patterns clearly stretch into Michigan—”
“He doesn’t have any migratory patterns, Aaron, because he doesn’t exist!”
“Shut up, Jamie!”
“Thompkins Well,” Ernest Wilmette offered.
“Yes,” Mr. Earle said enthusiastically. “Do you know the story, Ernest?”
“Only that my grandpa told me a long time ago people used to throw coins in it and make wishes.”
“That’s right. The legend dates back to the late 1800s. A local merchant by the name of Ezekiel Thompkins went to the well and threw in a coin. His infant grandson was very sick and wasn’t expected to live through the night. The old man wished for death to take him instead and spare the child. He then went home and died that night in his sleep. The baby recovered and the legend of Thompkins Well was born.”
“Do you believe any of that?” Jamie said.
“Well, Ezekiel Thompkins was a real person; his name is all over the city archives. And he did die shortly after his grandson was born.”
“Yes,” said Ernest Wilmette. “But do you believe the story?”
Mr. Earle thought for a moment. “I don’t know, Ernest. I believe in hope. And I believe in love …” Mr. Earle closed his eyes and spread out his arms and started to sing:
“And I believe that children are the future
Teach them well and let them lead the way …”
The class groaned and the bell rang. Everyone got up from their seats as Mr. Earle dismissed them, still in song:
“Enjoy your lunch and eat your vegetables
Then on to math and learn some decimals …”
TOMMY BRICKS
Sixth grade didn’t have recess anymore, but after lunch Ernest and his classmates were allowed outside for a while before resuming afternoon classes. Some kids, like Ryan Hardy, would play football on the field, but Ernest rarely joined in. Usually, he would just sit under a tree and read. Sometimes, Lizzy MacComber would pass by and ask him what he was reading, just to be polite. Ernest usually responded by mumbling the title as he looked down at the ground or, worse, by giving Lizzy a lengthy, rambling description of the book in question.
Across the yard Winston Patil sat by himself at one of the picnic tables, sketching in a drawing tablet. Ernest had always been curious about what Winston was drawing, and once or twice he thought about going over and asking. But he never did.
Winston’s head was buried in his drawing tablet, so he didn’t notice Tommy Bricks walking over until Tommy reached down and snatched the tablet. Winston grabbed for it, but Tommy was too fast. Tommy started looking through the pages and talking loudly.
“What kind of lame drawing is this?” Tommy laughed.
Kids were starting to crowd around them. It was becoming a thing.
Winston reached for the tablet, the token effort of resistance required by the bullied. “Please,” he said. “Just give it back.”
“Why? So you can draw more lousy pictures? I’d be doing you a favor if I just tore these all up.”
Winston panicked then and lunged for the tablet. Tommy easily shoved him back and gave him a hard look that told him he better not try that again.
“Stop!” a voice said sternly. The voice was loud, commanding, and it belonged to Ernest. Everyone turned, stunned that he was the one who had spoken up. Ernest was pretty stunned, himself. Even more surprising, he was actually walking toward Tommy Bricks, a fellow sixth grader but still the toughest, meanest, and scariest kid in Rod Serling Middle School.
Tommy stared at Ernest, his mouth half-open as if wondering where all his curse words (along w
ith the natural order of things) had just gone. If he were a computer, the center of his face would have a rainbow-colored wheel spinning over it. “What …” he finally managed.
“Just give it back, Tommy. C’mon.”
“C’mon? C’mon?” Tommy repeated the words with growing emphasis, as if they guided him back to how moments like this were supposed to go. “Listen, rich boy. My daddy doesn’t work for your daddy. And that means I don’t have to take any crap from you.” He stepped closer to Ernest, in his face. Well, he would have been if they had matched up face-to-face; it was really more like face-to-bottom-of-the-sternum.
Tommy stood there for a moment and pretended to think. “Huh. I guess it also means there’s no reason not to beat you into the ground right now.”
GAME, INTERRUPTED
Ryan loved playing football. Because when Ryan played football, he forgot about everything else. School, chores, a baby brother who hated him, and Mrs. Haemmerle’s piece-of-junk lawn mower.
The way his mom and dad had been avoiding each other around the house. The way they both got quiet around each other when they couldn’t. That was harder to shake.
Last night, he’d heard them through the walls, arguing in their room.
“I don’t want to hear it, Doug. I just want to go to sleep.”
His dad said, “Sure, go ahead. You sleep.”
“No one asked you to spend all evening in the den drinking beer and watching that trash.”
“I had two beers,” his dad said. “Can’t a guy have two beers after—”
“It’s not the beers,” his mom said. “And you know it. It’s those pasty talking heads you love so much, and the vile, hateful things they—”
“You know, if that idiot Bilkes doesn’t come through, Wilmette’s gonna sell the factory,” his dad said, cutting her off. “He won’t have a choice.”
“I know,” his mom said quietly.
Ryan really wished he could forget about that conversation. And on a good day, when the game was really moving, when the teams were evenly matched and every play really counted, he could. For a while.
Today was one of those days. Ryan threw for one touchdown and ran for another. He made an interception and four tackles.
And then the game stopped.
Over by the picnic tables a crowd had started forming in that way that can only mean a fight is breaking out. And no football game, no matter how much fun, can compete with a fight.
He saw Tommy Bricks first, because he was practically a head taller than the crowd of kids surrounding him. No surprise there; he was always getting in fights.
Ryan wondered who the poor chump was this time.
ERNEST STANDS HIS GROUND
Ernest remained rooted to his spot as Tommy stared him down. He didn’t have much choice: His legs were shaking so hard that he didn’t think he could move them.
Adults always say to stand up to bullies. The implication being that if you stand up to a bully, the bully will back down. Ernest thought about this morning’s Council and realized now that this, too, was a fairy tale of a kind. You don’t stand up to a bully to make him back down.
You stand up to him because maybe, if you’re lucky, he’ll decide that beating you up is too much hassle and move on to someone else. You stand up to him because it’s worse not to. Which is a different truth entirely.
Adults also say that deep down all bullies are really scared themselves and that’s why they act like bullies. That may be true, Ernest thought. But it’s just plain useless information.
Because whatever Tommy Bricks might really be afraid of, it sure wasn’t Ernest Wilmette.
RYAN (RELUCTANTLY) DOES THE RIGHT THING
This is bad.
That was all Ryan could think when he saw Ernest Wilmette squaring off with Tommy Bricks in front of the entire sixth grade.
This is really bad.
Because Ernest Wilmette was small and uncoordinated and injury-prone. He had once ridden his bike into a parked car. In his own garage.
Because Ernest was the boss’s son. And he was about to get pulverized. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan saw Lizzy heading inside to get a teacher. But even if she ran, he knew she wouldn’t make it back in time to stop the worst of it.
This is really, really—
“Leave him alone, Tommy.”
I’m an idiot, Ryan thought to himself. A suicidal idiot. On my tombstone it will say, “Here lies Ryan Hardy. Son, brother, dummy with a death wish.”
But he had no choice. Tommy Bricks could seriously hurt Ernest. And Ryan’s dad would want to know why he hadn’t stopped it.
So here he was, stopping it.
“Stay out of this, Hardy.”
Ryan positioned himself between Tommy and Ernest. Ryan wasn’t nearly as big as Tommy. But they came from the same neighborhood—they weren’t sheltered North Side kids. Maybe Tommy would just leave it.
“Fine, then,” Tommy Bricks said. “Let’s throw down.”
Maybe not.
Then Ms. Hackwell, their science teacher, came outside to see what all the trouble was about. Ernest looked like he’d never been so glad to see another person in his entire life.
But Ryan knew the feeling would be short-lived. After all, Tommy Bricks wasn’t the kind of kid who let things go. Ms. Hackwell would only be a temporary reprieve from the predicament that Ernest had brought upon himself and, now, Ryan. Though Tommy backed down for the teacher, he still got in the last word. Well, two words, actually.
After. School.
LIZZY’S DILEMMA
Lizzy spent the afternoon trying to decide what she should do. Or, rather, what she would do. She knew what she should do. She should tell Mr. Earle what had happened at lunch.
And if only Ernest and Winston had been involved, that was exactly what she would have done. But Ryan was a different story. Lizzy and Ryan and Tommy all lived in the same neighborhood, and where they were from, you didn’t go crying to adults to fix your problems. And you didn’t tattle, ever.
It was the code of the South Side, and if Ryan found out she went to the teachers on his behalf he’d be furious. He truly might never speak to her again.
Not that he was speaking to her all that much now.
Lizzy knew what her mom would say. Her mom would want her to tell, to do what was best for Ryan even if it meant he stopped talking to her forever. To do the right thing.
Her mom always did the right thing. But her mom was alone. Her mom cried in her bedroom. If that’s what doing the right thing got you, Lizzy couldn’t help but wonder, then what was the point?
RYAN HARDY REFLECTS ON HIS IMPENDING DOOM
For the first hour or so after lunch, Ryan’s mind worked overtime trying to figure out what to do. Math and science were one big blur.
Maybe, he thought, he could try to reason with Tommy. He could tell Tommy that he was just trying to keep him out of trouble, that beating up a North Side kid—especially Ernest Wilmette, the poster boy for North Side kids—would get him suspended, even expelled. It would be a fair point, actually.
But Tommy wouldn’t care. Tommy was the youngest of three boys and they were all mean. Scary mean. Crazy mean. Tommy had one brother in jail and another brother in the Marines, and that’s only because the judge told the other brother it was either that or jail for him, too. Even the parents were mean. The dad drank a lot and nearly went to jail himself for cracking a guy’s head open in the Taco Bell parking lot. The mom, Ryan heard, kept a knife in her boot. People avoided them.
Ryan had, too. Until today.
ERNEST IS RESOLVED
It had occurred to Ernest that he could probably slip away from this mess entirely. And as much as it shamed him to admit it, a big part of him really wanted to do just that.
But he couldn’t. He knew Ryan had only stepped in because Mr. Hardy worked for Ernest’s dad and Ryan felt he had no choice but to stick up for Ernest. He couldn’t let Ryan literally fight his battles for him.
&nbs
p; After the last bell, Ernest stepped outside the school determined to fight Tommy Bricks. Terrified beyond measure, of course, but determined. At least he’d be able to look himself in the mirror in the morning.
Provided Tommy didn’t give him a blinding concussion.
RYAN CALLS AN AUDIBLE
When the last bell rang, Ryan went to his locker, gathered his things, and, without looking at anyone, walked purposefully down the hall and out of the school.
Down the big hill about two blocks from the school campus, a vacant lot sat next to a small corner market. Ryan figured that’s where Tommy would be waiting for him.
He barely got twenty yards past the school entrance when Ernest intercepted him.
Ryan said, “What do you want?”
“You don’t have to fight Tommy,” Ernest replied with trembling conviction. “I started this.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“And I’m sorry you got involved. But I’m going to make it right.”
“Really,” Ryan said, almost amused. “How are you going to do that?”
“I’m … I’m going to fight Tommy Bricks.”
Ryan laughed out loud. “No. You’re not. Go home, Ernest,” he said. “It’s best for everyone if you do.”
Ernest frowned. Ryan could tell he’d hurt the kid’s feelings, but he didn’t really care. “I won’t.”
Ernest wasn’t budging. Stupid little rich kid. Stupid, stubborn, clueless little rich kid.
Ryan had to come up with a new plan, fast. He considered his options. But the only way he could think to stop Ernest from trying to fight Tommy Bricks would be to beat Ernest up himself. Which, at the moment, was kind of tempting …
“Fine,” Ryan said as he grabbed Ernest by the arm and led him back toward the school.
LIZZY’S OWN AFTER-SCHOOL PROBLEMS
Lizzy tried to find Ryan after school. Not that she knew what she would do if she found him. She finally spotted him walking down the hill toward the vacant lot, then saw him arguing with Ernest.
Should she go over to them, find a teacher, maybe—
HONK! HONK, HONK, HONK!
“Lizzy! C’mon!! Geez!” The honking was from Aunt Patty’s super-sized SUV. The impatient caterwauling was from Lizzy’s cousin Chelsea.
A Drop of Hope Page 3
