Quaking (16 page)

CNN. BREAKING NEWS. A peace demonstration. In Washington, D.C. With pro-war activists. It spiraled out of control. Many are injured. One man is dead. I shudder when I read his name. Sam Hobbs.
Sam
.

It is just a name. And it was in Washington. But it was a peace demonstration. And it could happen anywhere. Like Loopy said,
Be careful—it’s happening all over!

I read the full version of the article. It lists the attacks around the country on churches, nonprofits, peace centers—any group that is trying to bring peace to this country, and all countries. There is much damage. And fear.

I am suddenly freezing cold, shivering, shaking. I run upstairs to put on my shawl. It does not seem to help. I grab my backpack and struggle with the zipper to get out my LifeSavers. Even with them, I do not like being upstairs by myself in this cold, dark house. I run downstairs and flick on every light I can find. I pace. I put my shawl over my head.

And I am still pacing. Up and down the steps now. Not happy in any place. At least I am a moving target.

I am making my turn at the bottom of the stairs to go back up when Sam comes in the front door. I jump.

“Hi, Matt, honey. Where’s Jessica?”

“She is at the legal aid clinic, for God’s sake!”

He slowly closes the door behind him. “Are you okay, Matt?”

“I am fine!” I turn and go into the kitchen, then remember that I cannot go in there because of the BREAKING NEWS, and I step out again. “Have you people never heard of screen savers?”

I go upstairs to my room and sit down on the bed. I am clutching my LifeSavers in my fist.

My door is open a little so I hear Sam when he groans and hits some keys on the keyboard.Then I hear him come up the steps. They creak and sigh under his great weight.

He is standing outside my door.“Hi. It’s me again. Looks like I’m becoming a regular here at Matt’s Place.” He smiles. Obviously, he is trying to be witty. It is not a Quaker talent.

I stare at him through the crack. I do not smile.

He sighs and gently pushes my door open.“Look, honey, the police will offer some protection next First Day so we can all feel secure at worship.”

I stare at him. “You mean, so
you
can feel secure at worship—falsely secure, I might add. I, myself, am never going anywhere near that Meeting House again.”

Sam’s eyes look like I have kicked him. “I guess I can’t blame you. But, if you change your mind—”

“I will not change my mind.”What kind of idiot do you think I am, Sam?

He sits down on the bed next to me and it sinks almost to the floor. I struggle to keep myself from falling sideways into him.

I can hear his breathing and his warm breath comes out softly and steadily.“I was just going to say, I’ll always be there to protect you, Matt.”

“And what if they come with guns next time, Sam? How will you protect me from that?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think that would happen. I think they’re just kids. Or people who are frustrated, upset.”

“I think they are just crazy. You cannot predict what crazy people will do, Sam.” My voice is rising and I can feel the tornado swirling inside of me again. I wonder why the tornado is there when I know that I can avoid the danger. I will simply never go back. I look at Sam and I realize why I am quaking. He is actually planning to be a Sitting Duck of Death on Sunday.“You would stay away from that place, too, if you had any brains.”

His eyes grow wide and his mouth drops open. “The Meeting House? I could never stay away from there. It’s part of my life.”

“It could be part of your death.”

“Matt—” He lays his hand on my arm but my arm convulses so much I throw his hand off.

He folds his hands together in his lap and looks down. His eyes are closed. I am not sure if he is thinking or praying. Or waiting for God’s Voice to tell him what to do.

I stare at him. His MIA bracelet is sticking out from under the sleeve of his sweatshirt.Which has gack on it, from the kid, no doubt. The front of his sweatshirt says “Peace Takes Guts.” There are six photos of people under the slogan. The Sweatshirt People of Peace, who are probably all dead, grow larger and smaller, along with Sam’s belly as he breathes. Then the sweatshirt people twist toward me and I look up at Sam’s face.

He is smiling. “You sound like Jessica. She’s worried, too.”

I exhale loudly. “Because she is not an idiot. It is two against one, and you, Sam, are outvoted.”

He grins. “But I have God on my side.”

“Oh, please!”

He presses his lips together and the grin goes away. His eyes are boring through me. “If I stay away, if we close the Meeting House, who wins?”

I look away.

“I won’t let that happen, Matt. You understand that, I know, because you wouldn’t, either.”

I flash my eyes at him.

“I mean, if you felt as I do about this issue, you wouldn’t give in. You’re too strong for that. You wouldn’t let them win.”

I think about my battle with Mr.Warhead and how I will not give in. But that is different. I do not expect Mr. Warhead to come to class with a gun and shoot me. If that were a possibility, I would not fight him. I would run away. And I thought Quakers did the same thing. “Sam.You are a Quaker.You are not supposed to fight.”

“Who said anything about fighting? I’m just standing my ground.”

“Could you find a safer piece of ground upon which to stand?”

He shrugs. “I can’t hide. I can’t run away from the things I want to change.”

“Why not? It is a strategy that has always worked for me.”

He looks at me with eyes that are both sad and serious. “I want peace, Matt. I want people to resolve conflicts without resorting to war, to killing.”

“That is very nice, Sam, but just because you are a Quaker does not mean you have the monopoly on peace.”

The Sweatshirt People of Peace jolt. “Of course not. I—I never said that. Peace isn’t even a religious issue. It’s individuals, and groups, like the Resource Center for Nonviolence that I work with, all the way up to the UN. I just happen to be Quaker and believe—”

“Okay, there are many peace organizations in this world, Sam. Why not let the professionals handle it?”

“I—I am. I’m in touch with the Lombard Peace Center, too—they’re a Mennonite group—”

“Has anyone attacked the Mennonite Meeting House?”

“Church. And, no, not that I’m aware of.”

“So why not go to the Mennonite Church? I mean, how different could you people be, really? You all believe in God, right? Who cares about the details?”

“But I’m a Quaker!”

I stare at him like he is an Ignorant Child. “Okay.” I exhale loudly. “What do you have to believe if you are a Quaker? Because I am sure the Mennonites will not mind.”

“I don’t
have
to believe anything.” He smiles. “That’s what I like about my faith.”

“You are very exasperating.”

He gives me a wink. “See, there you go again, acting like Jessica. In fact, it almost sounds like you care about me.”

I roll my eyes, cross my arms, and turn away.“Remember to close the door on your way out, thank you.”

“No,” he says, getting up, “thank
you
.”

I look at him involuntarily. He is standing with his gack-covered arm on the doorknob. His eyes are puppylike under his tousled hair. He is smiling a shy smile at me. I look away. When I look back, he is gone. I stare at the place he stood.

I am squeezing my LifeSavers so hard, I think the foil is cutting into me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 

A
t the end of the day, I am at my locker and I smell it. Beer, again. The Rat, again. And I see the Wall. shut my locker and quickly walk away from the Wall.

But I do not want to ride the bus. I turn down a corridor to think. I decide to walk to Casa Quaker. It is probably a couple of miles, maybe less.The only reason we have a bus is that Route 229 is too narrow and dangerous to make us walk. But today I want to. I cannot handle seeing the Meeting House again. I also would rather avoid certain passengers on the bus.

It is a nice change not to have to rush to the parking lot, so I relish the slow pace and take my time walking through the halls. I look around the school, seeing it, in a way, for the first time. Normally I do not look up, so I am very familiar with the floor, but nothing else. And it is usually too crowded to see the walls, anyway, because I am in so much of a hurry to get to class without being noticed that I never look.

There is actually much on the walls. Notices about senior class picture retakes and senior class rings. A sign for the drama department’s production of
West Side Story
. Posters for Odyssey of the Mind, chess club, cheerleading practice, and my favorite, one on antibullying.

It is mostly quiet as I wander the hallways. I like school much better this way. No people, or very few, at least. The teachers and handful of students ignore me. They have important things to do, and they assume I do, too.

I saunter down the hall and the south stairwell toward the front door. Instead of scurrying down the stairs with my head tucked in, I take each step slowly, with my head held high. I am in a fashion show, today sporting a lovely designer Maggie Mahone wool wraparound skirt over my pants.The style is black on black, with black accessories. My hair is enviously big. It has been said that I have beautiful skin and haunting eyes. I pause, giving my imaginary fans a chance to take it all in. It is an elegant look. Occasionally, I nod to the adoring crowd.

I hear real crowd noises coming from a classroom. It is a double-wide classroom, the dividing curtain opened to make a huge room. There is much talking and laughing. I walk toward the open door and see Rob writing “Peace Ideas” on the whiteboard.

The peace club has found a new home. I look around the hallway. They have guts to hold this club in the shadow of the American flag hanging over Principal Patterson’s Patriotic Office. And the posters for the Army, Air Force, Navy, and Marines surrounding the guidance counselor’s broom closet down the hall.

I hover in the doorway, watching Rob draw a peace sign next to his heading on the whiteboard. I actually have some ideas for the peace club.They could bring in speakers to give the other side of the war story. They could set up a debate between Mr. Warhead and someone who is actually sane. That I would like to see. They could put out a newsletter about what is really happening in the “Middle Eastern Theater” because, the truth is, most students are ignorant of world events in general. I bet most would not even know where those countries are, for God’s sake. Until recently, most people would probably have thought that Islam was one of the many “I” countries. There could be articles on what life is like in those other cultures so people could begin to understand them and realize that they are not like us and that, in some ways, not being like us is not such a bad thing. There should be a list of websites so that people could go check for themselves if they do not believe what is in the newsletter. It would be easy. They are already bookmarked on Sam’s computer.

I notice Mrs. Jimenez at a desk in the front of the room talking with a group of kids. She is laughing. Now she is leaning back in a chair, stretching her arms behind her head and flipping her long black hair. It is gorgeous. She does not look very teacherlike. Several students are joking with her, including Rob, as if they are equals. They are all slapping each other on the back, even slapping Mrs. Jimenez’s back. She does not look like she is going to give them a detention, either.

It is like watching a sitcom on TV. Everyone is laughing and happy. I always wonder if real people can have sitcom lives. Apparently, it is possible. My life is the serious docudrama. Or horror flick.

And then I hear the snort of the Rat behind me. My chest tightens. I whip around so as not to be attacked from behind.

He is coming out of the principal’s office.

I am a lone target in the hallway.

“You!” he hisses.

I want to run. Or hide. Step into the peace room. Maybe there are enough people there to stand up to the Rat. Maybe.

But I cannot even turn away. My legs are wobbling and my hands, no, my entire arms are shaking. I can hear my heavy breathing.

He is speaking at me but his Rat face and his Rat words are swimming before my eyes.
Do not look into his eyes
. I am cowering, trying to get away from his Rat eyes.

“I know you’re the one who told Patterson!”

I do not even know what he is talking about.

“Don’t look so innocent. You told him about the booze!”

Now I remember the Rat and his friends drinking at his locker. I shake my head and finally break the tractor beam and I can look away.

“Well, girl, you’re dead.”

“Richard! What are you doing?”

I recognize Principal Patterson’s voice from the morning announcements and realize I have never seen him in person before.

The Rat whips around.

“The late bus is that way.” Patterson points his long bony finger down the hall.

The Rat swaggers off, but not before he stares at me with his black eyes, and mouths the words again: “You’re dead.”

I am quaking so much I think I will either explode or implode, I am not sure which.This is it. I am dead.The Rat’s gray lips tell me, over and over, that I am dead.

“And what are you doing here, young lady?” It is Principal Patterson’s voice again.

I jump. I do not have an answer. I simply stare at his ill-fitting navy blazer and clashing brown shirt. And I see the Rat disappear around the corner to the left at the end of the hall.

“Are you here for a particular activity?”

Slowly, I shake my head.

He looks me up and down, squeezing his lips together, perhaps noticing my dark fashion statement. “Well, there’s no loitering after school. Go on home!” He turns around and disappears into the office.