Quaking (20 page)

Jessica orders the same thing for the kid. It is not a wise choice. His face is a sea of white foam with stubbly apple crumb rocks in it.

I look away.

Oh, my God.

It is him.

At a table. With the Wall.

The Rat.

I let out a scream. It is not a long scream. It is not a loud scream. And the diner is noisy. But it is still a scream and Jessica notices.

“What’s wrong, Matt?” She turns around to look where I am staring.

“Turn around!” I whisper, crouching low over the table.

She does, and crouches, too. “What is it?” she whispers back.

“A . . . a . . . dork,” I say.

Jessica and the kid both stare at me.

“From school. He’s just a . . .” I do not understand why I am at such a loss for words.There is so much to say about him. Too much. “Dork,” is all I can come up with. “Dork.”

“I see.” Jessica nods slowly, chewing her lip. “Well, we’re finished, anyway. Shall I go take care of the bill?”

I nod.

As she slides out of the booth, the Rat looks over at us.

“Jessica!” I scream. I did not mean for it to come out like that.

She freezes.

“Um, perhaps you could get some LifeSavers. For Sam. Wintergreen. Please.” In case he needs them.

Jessica straightens up and smiles.“Sure, Matt. Here, let me put Rory next to you while I go pay.”

She places the kid on my bench. I am still staying low, out of the Rat’s radar.

Jessica squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

I hear the Rat and the Wall, laughing. I wrap my arms around myself and mutter, “Shut up, dork.”

The kid watches Jessica leave and looks at me. “Maa? Maa?”

I stare at him. I have no words to comfort him. I cannot even comfort myself.

He starts moaning, “Saaam, Saaa-uh-Saaam.”

“Stop it!” I hiss. I do not want the kid using Sam’s name. I do not want the Rat to make the connection.

The kid picks up a fork and starts banging the table. I try to get it away from him but he is too quick. He grabs some Domino sugar and Sweet’n Low packets and throws them in the air. I reach over him, trying to catch a pink packet, flailing at it, almost hitting the Rat.

Who is standing by our table.

Leering at me.

I gasp.And sink back against the wall.Then I stop breathing. I cannot even scream.

But I do something strange. I reach my arm around the kid. I actually touch him. Even with his sticky apple ice cream face. I pull him up against me and the gack touches my sweater. But that is better than letting the Rat touch him. I know it is. I will not let that happen.

“So, who’s the retard?” He turns to the Wall, smirking.

I am staring at the Rat, clutching the kid, quaking.

The Rat turns back to us. “I mean, who’s the
other
retard?”

I do not know what to do. I want to say,“Shut up, dork,” to his face. But I do not want to die.

The Rat leans his greasy body over our table and sneers in my face. “Hey, moron,” he hisses, “I’m getting suspended because you told Patterson about the booze. You’re going to pay!”

I try to shake my head no because it was not me, but I cannot move. I cannot even raise my voice to summon Jessica.

I am stuck.

“Remember,” the Rat sneers.

I am frozen.

“I’ll get you.”

I can smell his breath.

“When you least expect it.” His spit hits my face.

“Shhh-uuup, dor!”

I jump.

The Rat flinches.

I turn to the kid with ice cream and apple crisp on his face. He is staring at the Rat. His face is red.

“Shhh-uuup, dor! Shhh-uuup, dor!”The kid is pounding the table with his little fist. And he is still staring straight at the Rat. Like he knows exactly what he is doing. I am staring at the kid in awe.

“What the hell is the little retard saying?”

I snap out of my awe and look at the Rat. He looks ready to pounce. I hold on to the kid even tighter.

But Jessica is here now, glaring at the Rat. “Please watch your language! And don’t call my son by that name!” She takes a sharp breath and says, slowly, quivery, “His—name—is—Rory.”

The Rat grunts, sneers at me with a Death Stare, and struts away. He goes back to the Wall, who are all laughing at him. He yells “shut up!” but they are still laughing.

Jessica’s hands are shaking as she puts the kid in the stroller. The kid is still shouting, “Shhh-uuup, dor!”

“Shhh,” says Jessica, through clenched teeth. She steps hard on the stroller pedals several times before the brakes release, and she pushes off with a lurch. She looks at the Rat through narrowed eyes as she whisks the kid by his table. It is not a look of the Friendly persuasion.

The kid gets in one more, “Shhh-uuup, dor!” and the Wall laughs again.

Outside, Jessica walks very quickly down the sidewalk. I understand. Her adrenaline is still pumping. There is no place for it to go. I want to tell her that it is okay, that it will be better soon, but her face is too pinched to hear, I think.

I walk fast, trying to keep alongside her. Inside of me, a smile is growing. The Rat has just been dissed by the kid. The kid outsmarts the Rat. Maybe the kid is smarter than I thought.

While we are stopped at a street corner waiting for the stoplight to change, I look down at the kid. And I gently squeeze his arm through his parka. He looks up at me and grins. “Ayyy!” He claps his mittened hands.

It is hard not to smile back. At least a little.

By the time we stop at another intersection a few blocks later, the kid is yawning and his eyes are closed. Jessica taps her foot on the sidewalk, waiting for the light to change. When it does, though, she does not cross. Instead, she stares straight ahead. “Matt?”

She says it so softly I have to put my ear close to her to hear. “Yes?”

“Don’t you think we should teach Rory some phrases other than ‘shut up, dork’?”

I steal a look at her and see that her tight lips are spreading and the crinkly wrinkles around her eyes are growing. Then she puts her arm around my shoulders, leans her head against mine, and bursts out laughing.

So do I. I do not remember the last time I laughed. It is a strange echo. It sounds like it is coming from far away, like someone else is laughing, not me. It is a nasal wheezing sound, like an asthmatic trying to catch enough breath but already too far behind. But it is not painful. At all. I think, perhaps, I could even get used to it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

 

I
hear the phone ring downstairs and then Sam comes up to my room. His hands are in his pockets and his shoulders sag. “Matt, what’s going on with you and Mr. Morehead?”

How did he find out? I sigh. “It was just one stupid detention.”

Sam stands up straight. “Detention? For what?”

I stare at him. “I—I thought that was what you were talking about.”

“No, I got a call from the office that you’re failing the class. What’s going on? And what’s this detention about?”

I just shake my head. “He is an idiot.”

“Did you . . . is that something you’ve told him to his face?”

“Oh, come on, Sam! I am not stupid! I do not actually say such things.”

He is staring at me, biting his lip to hide a smirk.

“Okay, except to you. I would not say those things directly to a teacher.”

“Then why—”

“It was Fatima.”

“Who?”

“My term paper. I wrote it from the perspective of a Middle Eastern woman whose country was being invaded.”

“And?”

“It was somewhat critical of the United States.”

He takes his hands out of his pockets and pushes his hair back. “We’re allowed to be critical. It’s in the Constitution.”

“Be careful, Sam, or Mr. Warhead will have you arrested for being a subversive.”

“Mr. Warhead?”

“Actually, it is Mr. Morehead. I just call him that because it captures his personality.”

Sam’s lips twitch and he does a half smile. Then a whole one. “Okay, but let me understand this. He doesn’t like the political views you expressed in your term paper, so he’s failing you?”

I pick at my bedspread. “Well, it is not the only thing I have written that he does not like.”

“What do you mean?”

“The man is a warmonger, Sam. He thinks I am not a patriot because I do not wish to invade other countries and create mayhem and murder. I tend to point out that perhaps we should leave other people alone. They might prefer peace.” I shrug. “And somehow I drew a peace symbol on my desk.”

“Beautiful.” He says it quietly, but I hear him.

I look up.

His voice is still quiet. “I’m going to go see him.”

“No! Sam, he is an idiot. He cannot be reasoned with.”

He looks at me, his eyes piercing. “I will be fair. I will be reasonable. But I need to make my point.”

“Are you insane? What makes you think he will even listen to you, much less change his mind? What do you think he is going to say?” I imitate Mr.Warhead’s nasal voice.“Oh, you are right, Mr. Fox. I have been such an idiot.Thank you so much for showing me the Light.” I give Sam my “you moron” look. “Do not even think of going to see him.”

“Weren’t you the one asking if I’d come to your school and talk about the peace testimony?”

“Excuse me?”

“When I was talking to that man in front of the Meeting House, you asked me why I couldn’t—”

“Act like a normal person and go talk about peace at schools? Yes, but not my school, for God’s sake.”

“Why not?”

“Because someone other than you would be preferable.”

“No, I would have to do it because—”

“You do not have to!”

“But this guy can’t be allowed to persecute students for expressing their political beliefs. It’s just wrong.”

“So, it is wrong. Life is not fair, Sam. Get over it.”

He is still shaking his head.

“Let it go, Sam.”

He stares at me. “I can’t let go. Not to things—and people—that matter this much to me.”

I look away because his eyes are so piercing they hurt.

The next morning, Jessica is all teary. “I’m sorry about what you’re going through with that . . . teacher.” She is gritting her teeth, and I am sure she was thinking some un-Friendly curse word in between
that
and
teacher
.

“I wish Sam would just forget about it, for God’s sake.”

She nods. “I know. I’m afraid he can’t.” She is staring at the table, her lips quivering, like she is going to start crying over the fact that the blue napkins do not match the mustard and mold kitchen.

“What?” I say.

She just shakes her head, blinks, and tries to make her quaking lips smile.“Toast?” she whispers, her eyes brimming. “Sorry, it’s pretty burnt.”

Why is she acting like this? She always burns the toast. It is not worth getting that upset about.

When I get on the bus, Sam says, all in one quiet breath, “Good morning, Matt. I’m seeing him after second period today.”

I storm down the aisle and throw my backpack on a seat, then throw myself beside it. Great. Sam knows I cannot argue with him right here on the bus. I wish I had told him last night that, if he must see Mr. Warhead, to at least shut up about the Quaker connection.That will just put a big target on my head. I am not sure that detentions and extra-credit projects will be able to overcome the Quaker taint. Oh, Sam, why can’t you just leave well enough alone?

I cannot help walking to Mr. Warhead’s classroom after second period. Even though I have already had his class first period. The door is closed. I peek through the window.

I see Jessica, her face pinched, her eyes red. What is she doing here? Sam is leaning over with his elbows on his knees, but his head is held high and he is staring directly at Mr. Warhead, whose Hitler mustache is barely hiding his sneer. He looks like he can hardly wait to get rid of these Quaker pests. He gazes out the window, then to the whiteboard, then at the door. And he sees me. Why do I not run away? Oh, God, he is standing up and walking to the door. Sam and Jessica turn their heads to follow him and the door is open.

“You’re part of this,” Mr.Warhead says.“Have a seat!” He makes an exaggerated wave of his arm toward Sam and Jessica.

Sam gets up and lets me sit in his chair. He reaches for another one and his MIA bracelet jangles as he pulls the wobbly chair over.

“I have nothing against Quakers,” Mr. Warhead says to Sam.

I glare at Sam. Why did he feel the need to share that with Mr. Warhead, for God’s sake?

“But,” Mr. Warhead continues, “I’m not sure it’s appropriate for you to be proselytizing your religion to an impressionable young girl.”

I switch my glare to Mr. Warhead. Who is he calling an impressionable young girl? The ass.

I see Sam clench his teeth but still smile.“We don’t proselytize.”

Mr. Warhead laughs his snorty nasal laugh. “Aren’t you the ones who started the antiwar demonstrations? Not exactly supporting our troops, are you?”

“They’re peace vigils,” Jessica says.

Mr. Warhead’s smile is so obviously fake. “Semantics.”

“Semantics are everything,” Jessica says, with no smile.

“Words can be very persuasive,” Sam adds.“For example, ‘You’re either with us or with them’ implies that you can’t support peace and support our soldiers at the same time. But we do. We just want to stop the killing.”

“Of our soldiers?”

“Of everyone.”

Mr. Warhead leans forward in his chair. “So you want to save the enemy.”

“I want to save human life. Why is that un-American?”

Mr. Warhead stares at Sam with his lips pressed together tightly. His eyes are burning into Sam.